A course on writing
The song Pony is stuck in my head, driving me into nothingness like weaves of silver. I trust that I trust the process. Let the words fly by in stream of consciousness. If I need to doodle, I’ll doodle, if I need to write, I’ll go on.
This is what Cave does and may be what I need to do: just write. Just type. Someone said that all prose is poetry, can poetry be prose? Different writers have different methods, but I can’t see how any could involve not doing what needs to be done. Writing.
So, let’s do this thing.
Because this is about a lot of things. This conversation you and I are having now, it’s about Consider the Lobster, is about the child I was in 2002, it’s about my mother not seeing me perform at my school’s little theatre play on a family of tigers, it’s about how I stink right now. It’s about a lot of things. It’s about what you were doing before, five minutes before you entered this space. Drinking coffee? Typing for work? Watching a movie?
It’s a bit about Melbourne too, and the smell of salt and algae on Taranto’s Lungomare.
I can’t tell you what to think about, but maybe you thought about some of the things I have ‘said’, maybe, like me, you’re thinking about what to steal next. For example, I was reading a poem, and now I have changed the rythm of my writing. Could it still be considered stream of consciousness, if the waters flowing started from another source? Maybe it can, maybe it is, as it would seem from the fast pace of my fingers typing on the keyboard watching words appear in this Medium draft.
I just wanted to write something different; and I wanted to raise the question of how I could get better at writing. Reading more, perhaps. Stealing like an artist, maybe.
The next question would be, how do I write better about art? And for that I have many and no answers. Because art is itself elusive and concrete. And after all, what makes better better? Let’s not even talk about best…
Something I never do is describing things. For instance, the blanket is blue indigo and rolled up in a way that reminds me of the remains of an hermit crab…the sheets under are of a silvery white, milky and alluminium-like at the same time. I don’t say things like that, but I am impressed when other writers fit those descriptions so effortlessly in their pieces.
Maybe I should take a course on writing.