We revisit another morning in the life of One Writer and his Blog.
As is commonplace in their household, they are bickering about writing another post to keep Blog alive and fulfil his role in Writer’s existence. However, roles such as they are, seem to have reversed. Whereas Writer should be doing the writing, Blog has now taken on the demi-god role of the Muse and Writer is but the parched poet who, despite life around him, cannot find a drop of inspiration anywhere. Facing a dry spell of Saharan proportions, he is forced to look to Blog, his alter-ego, for inspiration. Blog, an erudite and whimsical creation is a tough nut to crack.
Or so it seems.
Blog: It’s a hot day isn’t it? Shouldn’t we go out and have a beer or something – my mouth is parched and my eyeballs feel like prunes.
Writer: Sounds like a good plan… though I can’t decide where…
Blog: Here we go again, decisions, decisions, decisions. What is it with you and decisions?
Writer: There is nothing with me and decisions… nothing wrong at all. What is it with you and criticizing me?
Blog: Listen. We are one and the same right?
Writer: Hmmmmm. Are we?
Blog: Oh God – here we go again with the existential theories. Look, we have this conversation every day and every day, my answer is the exactly same. We are one and the same!
Writer: You are not doing a great job of convincing me… talking down to me is not going to make me submit to your reasoning. Nor is it going to achieve anything mildly positive. You know what your problem is?
Writer: Your problem is that you are a lazy so and so. Look at that writer’s recent post – ah! I can’t remember his name. He has forty thousand followers and words come out of his Blog like there’s no tomorrow. And you? You are a just lazy so and so.
Blog: I know. But why are you blaming me for your failings? You are the writer, remember?
Writer: Is that all you have to say for yourself? Oh listen… I completely forgot to tell you something.
Writer: You know I wrote those two poems yesterday…
Blog: No I didn’t, but carry on…
Writer: Well I came back from a coffee with a friend and wrote a couple of poems.
Blog: Was she cute?
Writer: Look… just concentrate on what I am saying and stop going off onto another subject.
Blog: So she was cute then.
Writer: Yes. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. I wrote those two poems because I wanted to write something. I think she inspired me. But when I read them back, they were too trite, too contrived. It was as if I was writing poetry to a prescribed format. Rhyme and meter were there, the thoughts were juxtaposed…
Blog: That’s a big word.
Writer: I am ignoring that – juxtaposed in a martial, cavalry charge-like way, but it was like I had been rehearsing writing. The ingredients were there, organic, fresh and beautiful but making the dish was too hard to do. Do you know what I mean?
Blog: I like the metaphor. By ingredients, I assume you are referring to words?
Writer: Well yes and no.
Blog: Look my confused friend, what’s really the matter? You are all over the place. First the indecision, then the beginnings of a rant about followers and now some tripe about writing poems that are martial-like in their word order combined with making a recipe book or something. I know you are being artful, but wouldn’t it just be a whole lot easier if we were to stick to the basics?
Writer: Basics in what sense?
Blog: Okay, this is writing 101, my style. Call it free form, call it whatever you want. It is not as contrived as one finds these days – this is writing for your soul. Are you in?
Writer: When was I never?
Blog: See, that’s what I mean. There is nothing simple with you and your thought processes. Even a clear yes and no answer has to be a drawn out question that sounds wrong but is actually right when spoken with your particular brand of nasal intonation.
Anyway, let me begin:
Writing is picturing a thought and
Letting it move on the Wind of Words.
Writing is smiling at the sun knowing it will set
And admiring the moon, knowing it will wane.
Writing is the look on a lover’s face
Basking in the glow of her emotions.
Writing is finding the shade on a searing day,
Dark and cool on muslin covered skin.
It is love and it is jealousy
And it is all the colours between the two.
It is formed of thought and
Like thought holds no form.
Writer: I am flabbergasted at your fluidity… did you just come up with that?
Blog: Yes. And it feels good, creation is a drug and I am high on it.