I am sometimes afraid of my own writing. I fear that I will reveal too much of myself to the wrong people and this (my crazy head tells me) is guaranteed to result in an event of apocalyptic proportions, of exactly what I have no idea. Except that it will be monumentally bad.
I allow this fear to prevent me from writing. This course has been a catalyst for ‘blootering’ it and giving me the freedom to just write, but in non-class situations fear can still rear its ugly mug and laugh in my face, becoming a block once more.
I was interviewing today in what I like to describe as my main job, the one that pays the bills, my bread and butter so to speak. My ‘other’ job is not exactly work since it consists largely of watching people, shows and gigs, with a bit of ice-cream selling in the middle.
This is Thomas Truax. He is an American musician, but I’d add performance artist and sound artist to that description. I am also a little in love with this Victorian Gothic vibe he has going on, playing instruments he has made himself from a range of materials. The Hornicator is made from a gramophone speaker, a mass of wires and (at a wild guess) the mike from a megaphone, whilst Mother Superior is a programmable drum machine made from what appears to be bicycle wheel parts. Truax’s material shape-shifts from the hysterically funny to the oddly spellbinding to credible post punk riffs – all delivered with an infectious familiarity that you feel compelled to pay rapt attention to. Despite being paid, I do not view this as work. It was an absolute joy of a shift.
However, I digress. As much as I would like to fritter my word count away on Thomas Truax, and yet another obsessive musical journey, I was talking about my main job, which I hardly consider work either because I truly love it.
We were interviewing for a support writer for one of the projects I manage. A section of the interview was a writing activity, so we could get a taster of how the candidates would deliver a session with our participants. This is where the fear kicked in. Cue lots of inner monologue expletives. We did three separate activities from the interviews, so to fulfil my blog commitment, and to avoid typing up the five pages we are meant to write for Kirsty for a little longer, I will share what came out.
dark day colours
masquerading as her true self
midnight black and muddy white
The autumn leaves dance around her face as she gazes up in wonder at the man who seemed like a giant. He shows her how to make a sycamore seed into a helicopter, his diamond blue eyes twinkling with mischief. Rubbing the stalk between his palms, the seed spirals off into the rain grey sky.
Don’t give me the whole truth
But don’t feed me no lies
Don’t give me flickered glances
I want to remember your eyes
Don’t fill me with heavy sorrow
And don’t you dare cry
Don’t give me a wave, love
When you say goodbye
I have no control over what comes out, but I’m learning that isn’t a bad thing. I’m starting to get what Kirsty is trying to teach us about not discarding the scored out lines and words. I’m learning to let go. I’ve even used a little bit of what came out today for my five pages. It isn’t finished or polished but it is becoming something. I think. I need to let myself colour outside the lines for a bit so that I can get the best picture and remind myself that sometimes, the best picture is outside the lines.