Like most bloggers, I aspire to be some kind of writer or other. Tra-la-lah.
I have actual evidence of this thwarted daydream (thwarted entirely by my own laziness, I assure you). I took one of the local creative writing classes lastyear. It was extremely interesting! Having spent three years at University deconstructing the sweated and teared (and often torn) efforts of others*, slowly having the ability to just read a bloody book whittled out of me, it had been a long time since I actually considered the mechanics and methods behind writing a bit of fiction. Although the endless, self-appreciating white middle-class worthiness behind the whole endeavour creeps me out a bit.
The best bit about the class was the deaf and partially sighted octagenarian who intimidated the crap out of the rest of the class and the girl who only joined because the guitar class was full. Genius.
Anyway. I digress. The point being that inspiration comes at the most random times. Creativity is the love-child of crisis and pandemonium.
Family implosion? Have a triptych of novellas based on an amusing Chelsea family.
Health crisis? I'm just jotting down some casual haikus in the style of Walt Whitman.
Roof fallen in? Darling I can't talk I'm finishing this slim volume of goatskin bound verse.
Which of course would be lovely. But it's so unfair that the best ideas seem to come when there's bugger all time to do anything with them. Writing always looks so eaaaaasy. It's not. It's frickin hard work.
But all this is nonsense. As The Grauniad*** pointed out a few weeks ago, Ernest Hemingway had the right notion when he claimed his greastest story was made up of just six words: 'For sale: baby shoes, never worn.'
The Grauniad challenged a set of contemporary writers to use the same format. The results are really good.I think my favourite is from AS Byatt: 'They awaited sunrise. It never came.' Oooooo that's a bit good.
I think my flatmates has just coined a new word: fluckering.
* I can't remember what programme it was, but there was a programme on telly years ago in which Imelda Staunton played an Oxbridge lecturer. I remember the snorted laugh my mother let rip when Imelda turned to her youthful group of students and intoned 'Right, you name it and I'll deconstruct it'.**
** It was Don't Leave Me This Way with the fabulous Janet McTeer. I heart IMDB.
*** I am quite literally not cool enough for Myspace. It shows.