The Sound of Silence

I am currently reading "Quiet" by Susan Cain, a book that explores the prevalence of the extrovert ideal and how the noisy have stamped on the right of the individual to sit back and reflect rather than engage at volume.  It is, and I detest myself for using the word, somewhat 'empowering', underlining what I have been trying to explain to my family, and their friends for years. 

I enjoy being quiet.  I often yearn for solitude.  I get pleasure from daydreaming, having a quiet ponder.  I prefer to look in at a crowd rather than feel a need to be part of it and I have even managed to stop feeling obligated to interact with people out of mere social convention.  I just don't do small talk, and if I were to attempt it, the result would be much worse than the silence.  

But despite all this, despite what others may think, I am not odd.  I am not shy.  I am not miserable.  I am not unsociable. (I am NOT having a rant!)  I am simply reflective.  I prefer to consider my words, at length, before throwing them out.  This is probably why I am doomed never to finish writing my great novel.

And because I write, I do have a keen interest in other people's lives, their quirks and foibles, their values and failings, their loves and losses, but I do not feel the need to concoct an empty conversation with them to drag out these details.  Behind the writer's eye, and in the writer's imagination,  their story really blooms.

But today everyone is expected to be outgoing.  If you go to a wedding, you are told that you 'just HAVE to dance'.  No you don't.  Personally, I detest dancing.  That does not make me a 'misery' anymore than it would make you 'ignorant' if you refused my insistence that you sit down and read a book.  

Years ago, I worked in a bank, and was doing quite well there, progressing on my merit and hard work, when, a new structure was announced, and a selection process brought in that everyone would have to go through.  It was basically a half day in a grotty hotel conference room, sitting within a large circle, having a debate about something no-one had any real interest in, and you were judged on your ability to work within the group.  However, most were so keen to inflict their personalities on the rest, that it turned into a shouting match in which I took no part, thinking it was all at least laughable, if not completely ridiculous.  I was judged to be rather submissive and not a 'team player'.  I left soon after and have never regretted it.

Similarly, a friend's son is currently in secondary school, where he is excelling.  He has a large circle of friends, many outside interests, and is remarkably bright, with a true gift for creativity. He possesses an eye for drawing, and an easy flair with the written word that leaves me agog. But his mother has been told he will struggle in English because his oral skills let him down.  He is seen as a little shy, a little 'too' quiet.  Pfftt!  FFS.  WTF.  (And other such acronyms.)

Everyone is different and, in truth, introvert / extrovert is a crude measure; but we would all be able to put ourselves somewhere along that scale.

It just strikes me as a little dis-spiriting that we do not view the reticent with the same charm as we do the out-going.  We are all constantly being told to 'think outside the box'.  I live 'outside the box'.  It's nice. Come on out.

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Guilt, Goals and Early Mornings.

Am I alone in finding the time I set aside to write, somewhat of an indulgence.  At the moment,(HAHA, at the moment? Deluded idiot!) as it is not my 'job', ie, I make no money from it, I feel that I must justify any time I spend on it.  I view it as a treat.  I'm sure to others, it appears I am just sitting at the laptop, plugging away, enjoying myself.  I look up often to see the endless stuff that needs doing looking back at me, eyebrows raised, and tapping the watch.
Must be a man thing, I suppose, guilt. You women wouldn't understand.

In  a similar vein, I went to Ireland for a long weekend, where my WIP is set, to visit uncles and to get some decent, atmospheric writing done.  Instead, I spent most of the time cleaning, feeding or moving around either said uncles or their recalcitrant cattle.  In a brief moment of respite, I parked up in the middle of the sleepy town, (where I have a couple of scenes set, pivotal conversations against the backdrop of bucolic ease), whereupon the guards immediately set up a roadblock on the crossroads in front of me, (it being a nice day and all, better i suppose than chasing the drunks around the county town down the road), and the electricity board starting tearing up the tarmac behind me.  I would have had more peace in the middle-lane of the M25.

But, guilt can also be a motivator.  Recently, I've stopped setting myself tangible goals, the constant missing of which was starting to grate and weigh on the mind.  As a part-time, when-I-can writer, I have only one aim now: to be able to enjoy a guilt free bottle of beer on a Friday night, riding the high stool.  So now, I ensure that the novel has moved along, or even backwards, every week, and this momentum, glacial though it may be, will eventually get me over the line.

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P.S. A lot of writers suggest getting up 'a little earlier' in the morning 'when we are at our most creative' to get some work done before the day starts in earnest.  I normally leave for work just after 5am.  I am certainly not very creative in the morning.  I struggle to create enough energy to turn off the bleeping, insistent alarm clock.  Instead, can I start a new movement and suggest that we have more arguments with our children so that we can write in the peaceful interlude that follows, whilst they fume behind their bedroom doors, and my witty ripostes to their turgid arguments have inspired me to be
' at my most creative'.

Days off, day out.

Days off, day out.

A busy week.  Still working nights, leaving me all day to sit and stare at the telly write or watch youtube videos on home-improvement do some work around the house.  To break the stifling boredom further improve myself, I visited the Royal Academy summer exhibition, the biggest open submission art show in the world.  Was agog at some of the yet-to-be-lauded-appropriately talent on display: sketches, portraits, landscapes, all beautifully crafted.  I went around without a catalogue as I didn't want to be distracted by fantasy shopping, so remain oblivious to the artists in most cases.  But one that stood out for me was a piece where an artist had used a paint chart as a background and had drawn a little vignette on each coloured square.  It was simple, and inspired.

I thought the technique might also be a good aid to writing.  using an old paint chart to throw down ideas, the background colours might inspire a particular emotion or feeling.  I'm going to try it anyway.....

Also, whilst sat in the temporary 'Friends' cafe, which has been moved during a refurb, I was surrounded by walls stripped bare, uncovered back to the original timber cladding, which was peppered with a history of small nail-holes left by the hangings over the last two centuries.  It was like the DNA of the building on display, a time-line etched on the bare limbs of the house. It was as fascinating as any of the art in the other rooms.

S'funny how often visual art inspires me write.

The Good Book.

I have a notebook.  It goes everywhere with me.  I carry it around like a little black-bound conscience, and I'm sure is often mistaken for a bible, causing people to give me a wide-berth, fearful that I may be about to preach at them.  (A blessing in itself.)  It snarls at me, it nudges me, it comforts me.  It is a symbol of my good intentions.  It is my sanctuary.

It contains over-heard conversations, family anecdotes, snippets of poetry, drawings, maps, timelines, sudden bursts of inspiration, plots, plot-holes, miraculous answers to all my plot holes, character sketches, and many more questions than answers.  But, everything is thrown into this crucible, to fester, to mature, to form connections and grow.

It contains all of my best work.  Artistically, it is what I am most proud of.  No-one will ever read it.

And I have read many opinions that keeping such a notebook may actually stop me ever writing anything else.  I can't agree.  I couldn't give up my notebook.  I view it like a sourdough starter, something that needs to be fed everyday, and which, in turn, leavens and nourishes my writing, producing a lighter, more individual style.

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Writing Playlist.

I have a playlist that I always listen to when I am writing.  It is an important part of my routine, to shut out real life.  There's only sixteen songs on there, but it lasts just under two hours, which is just about the limit of my concentration, and the rest of the family's forbearance.
Usually, if I'm on good form, I don't remember hearing anything after the first song (Lippy Kids - Elbow), but often, when I'm re-reading, I can spot an over-long sentence that has been carried along by a floating air from Vaughan Williams.  Mostly the music is slow, classical, and if I'm honest, more than a little maudlin.  My wife once said that she would insist it was played non-stop if I ever fell into a coma, to ensure that I did not wake up. (Cheerful woman, my wife.)
But, to me, the music is simply like an old net curtain, in dire need of a soak, that obscures the world just enough to leave my mind to wander free and unobserved.

This week, I've started writing in earnest again, and I think it's going well because I don't hear the music.

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PS - Have been writing some poetry lately.  Here's a question - How do you know when you're actually writing poetry, and not just having a complete, self-pitying,  nervous collapse?

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Try turning life off and on again.

Work (ie boring day-job work) has completely taken over at the moment, and, despite the best of intentions, have not written anything for over a month. (You A-Zers? How do you do that?)  The first draft has been rattling at the drawer, demanding attention, but I have simply been too busy and / or too tired, lost in a rut of my own making.  Without making light of it, I think S.A.D. may have had us all in it's melancholy grip lately whilst we await the return of spring.

However, Spring finally put it's foot in the door. and I got an unexpected day off this week, my first in ages, and took myself 'up-town' for a mooch around the galleries.  Hell, it's free, the only benefit to civilisation modern democracy has brought.
The background noise that is real life only ever goes away if I'm writing, or standing rapt in front of a work that really reaches into me. On this occasion, it was 'Turf Cutters' by Thomas Wade, a rather discreet, dark work, almost lost on a wall full of Pre-Raphaelite colour and fantasy.  But it whispered to me, reminding me of the tales of hardship and toil that my parent's generation still tell with such pride.  And it shone a light on the ease of my life now.
Anyway, I was happily lost for half an hour sketching, remembering, re-connecting.  Reset button pressed.

And, as a result of this meditation, the Swiss-cheese that was the plot to novel one, is slowly maturing into a firmer, more robust cheddar. (To continue the cheese analogy, I'm sure that by next week the mice of doubt will have nibbled it back into a holy mess.)

But the drawer is open.  I'm going in.....................

'If you want something done, ask someone busy.'

Been a busy couple of weeks, despite being in virtual interwebnet exile.  Just changed broadband provider, the new company letting me sign an eighteen month contract whilst neglecting to inform me that there was a fault in my box that would not be fixed until August (not a typo).  I'll give them a fault in the box.

Anyways, back to the good stuff.

Psychologies magazine writer's workshop.
Firstly, a tip.  If attending such events, spurred on by wife, hosted by a woman's magazine, don't be surprised if you find that you are one of two men in a room full of women, wondering if you have intruded, and looking for an excuse to leave.  Thankfully, the other fella latched on and anchored me in the room because I found the all too brief evening very encouraging.
The first exercise was a bout of random speed writing / stream of consciousness-stuff, which I have not had the confidence to do in a long time, and which may have actually given me a draft of the opening of my next drawer-sitter.
Surprisingly, I really enjoyed the evening, my first foray into the literary world, 'outing' myself as a writer in a room full of strange women.  I'd recommend it.
Was actually congratulated on the way out for 'having the courage to attend' and that 'it was great to see some blokes, for a change.'  Was not sure if that made me feel better or worse.  Decided that the lady in question was obviously just hitting on me.  Manliness restored.

Weekend in Ireland.
Immediately after workshop, I had a glorious weekend in Ireland, the first dry weekend they have seen in six months according to my sage-like uncles.  It was great to get out into the middle of the country and be truly alone for a few hours atop a hill that was bathed in warm spring sunlight, with a view that was restricted only by the stretch of my eyesight.
Sound like bliss?  It was.  Did I do any writing?  Not one word.

Manet.
Went to see the 'Manet' exhibition at the Royal Academy.  Despite the hype, or maybe because of, I must say I was disappointed.  The various portraits said little to me, leaving me feeling a little lost amidst a room full of disinterested strangers.
It was great, however, to swan past the queues with a flash of my 'Friends' card.  Best £100 you can spend, if you ask me, and worth it just for the Hockney exhibition last year.
(No one hit on me, peculiar arty types...)

You know, this blog is a lot easier to write if I go out and give myself something to write about rather than sit and home and wonder what I am going to write about.........

So, here's to keeping busy.

And happy St, Patrick's day......

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