But I mention that because my reason for starting — and, crucially, eventually concluding — the project was, in no particular order’ to ‘learn to write’ and ‘to learn discipline’ and to learn how to complete an undertaking’. So it could have been anything about anyone. And I feel so far it has been successful.
My point about ‘learning to write’ needs explication: ‘writing’ can mean many different things. We can write a shopping list, a letter, a news story, a feature, a piece of verse, a short story, a novel, an essay, a thesis or dissertation, and all those and much more that we can ‘write’ have different demands and require different skills and abilities.
Once, when I was still living in Cardiff (between 1986 and 1990 working as a sub-editor for the South Wales Echo), I screwed up my courage and went along to a poetry group due to meet ‘upstairs’ at to some pub or other (probably in Cathays, though I couldn’t tell you why I suggest that). I was feeling rather shy and self-conscious (which is why I had to screw up my courage) and when I got there at about 7p, I had no idea who was who.
Sitting downstairs with a drink and waiting for whatever time the group was due to meet to come around, a middle-aged woman on the table next to me suddenly lent over and asked: ‘Are you a poet?’
Well, it’s a straightforward question, of course, and writing this now I can’t think why I disliked and dislike it, only to say that oddly — and I shall repeat my point about my own hang-ups and still lingering inferiority complex possibly coming into play — thinking of oneself as ‘a poet’ strikes me as a tad self-regarding. I feel the same when (usually on Radio 4) folk call themselves ‘a creative’. Yes, I know what they mean, but . . .
Well, it’s a straightforward question, of course, and writing this now I can’t think why I disliked and dislike it, only to say that oddly — and I shall repeat my point about my own hang-ups and still lingering inferiority complex possibly coming into play — thinking of oneself as ‘a poet’ strikes me as a tad self-regarding. I feel the same when (usually on Radio 4) folk call themselves ‘a creative’. Yes, I know what they mean, but . . .
I shall never refer to myself as ‘a creative’, although I can’t deny that I wouldn’t at all be displeased if someone else did.
Although I have written one or two poems since (and now have a fair idea of what I am trying to do, which is pretty straightforward) and you can read them here and a few more here. I hadn’t then written anything, and I don’t doubt my verse would have been shite if I had. But several people had — there were about seven or eight of us and as often happens I can still see the scene in my mind’s eye — but I remember only two pieces, though not in detail.
The first was a long, rambling piece by some artistic herbert or other who would undoubtedly have referred to himself as ‘a poet’ and ‘a creative’, and it was distressing and dull me, me, me self-indulgent bollocks. The second piece of verse I remember was from a black African, quite possibly a post-grad student at Cardiff University, and I distinctly remember thinking ‘well, this is interesting’. It certainly wasn’t at all me, me, me, but about his country and its people.
Manchester United against Manchester City is on in a minute and if you think there is any sort of contest between going upstairs to watch the game or blethering one here . . .
Although I have written one or two poems since (and now have a fair idea of what I am trying to do, which is pretty straightforward) and you can read them here and a few more here. I hadn’t then written anything, and I don’t doubt my verse would have been shite if I had. But several people had — there were about seven or eight of us and as often happens I can still see the scene in my mind’s eye — but I remember only two pieces, though not in detail.
The first was a long, rambling piece by some artistic herbert or other who would undoubtedly have referred to himself as ‘a poet’ and ‘a creative’, and it was distressing and dull me, me, me self-indulgent bollocks. The second piece of verse I remember was from a black African, quite possibly a post-grad student at Cardiff University, and I distinctly remember thinking ‘well, this is interesting’. It certainly wasn’t at all me, me, me, but about his country and its people.
But most of all I remember the rather stunned silence which greeted it after he had finished and the distinct impression I got from the other — white — ‘poets’ in our circle. Their attitude to it — as I say a piece of verse which stood out was and please forgive me, I don’t mean to be offensive, but I can only put it this way — was ‘Good Lord, the black sambo can write bloody well’. Sorry, but that was the impression I got, and the rather offensive term I use is pertinent. But that’s all by the by. Back to more mainstream bollocks.
What I mean about ‘learning to write’ (and I’m sure my good mate Pete, who I think still reads this blog now and then will understand) is making damn sure ‘what is written’ ‘hangs together’. And to achieve that, thought is involved. So when I say ‘learning to write’, I also mean ‘learning to think’: ‘thought’ usually comes before ‘writing’, even if it’s just a shopping list. If you find you can’t ‘write’, the reason is almost always that you haven’t actually thought through what you want to write.
Thought need not be particularly detailed. It could, for example, be ‘thinking about what kind of tone you want to strike’, ‘what impression you want to give’.
A second facet (for me) of ‘learning to write’ is to ensure that — at least in what I want to do — what is written ‘follows on’, is ‘of a piece’. That’s especially true in this Hemingway bollocks, though practising keeping on top of what you write will, I hope, pay off in the future (which is why I’m doing it. Fuck Hemingway, the self-important, conceited toad). That’s why I re-write so much, because going over what I have written, I realise ‘this doesn’t quite follow that’.
Naturally, there are no rules in writing, except those you set f0r yourself. In fact, as far as I am concerned, there are no rules, either at all when you paint, play an instrument, sculpt, compose — you can do just what he hell you want. It is one of our last freedoms.
However, when finally you present ‘your work’, what you have created’, to the outside world, you might find that not as many are engaged by your 1,000-word ‘poem’ which consists of the word ‘it’ written 999 times and the word ‘was’ as you hoped. You might also find that not too many folk are engaged by your four by four canvas of nothing but black paint with a single red circle in the top left corner, however much you talk it up in the exhibition catalogue. (‘Patrick Powell’s “Black with red circle” wittily sums up and succinctly explicates the dilemma of a self isolated in a non-existent community of bleak absence’). Remember, we might like the smell of our own farts, but others are usually not quite as delighted.
I suppose it comes down to why we are ‘creating’. If you wan to ‘make a name for yourself’, ‘earn you living from your work’ etc, fair enough. Many might do it ‘for themselves’. To be honest, I have reached that point in that, at 71 (sob, sob, but there’s no getting away from it) I am simply writing because I enjoy it and to prove to myself that I’m not quite the bullshitter I have long feared I was. And that is another reason for actually eventually concluding this Hemingway project. And not just concluding it, but doing it as best I can.
I am learning along the way. And I have to say: thank the bloody Lord for word processing apps, such as Word and Bean, the two I use. They make re-rewriting (and I do a lot of re-writing) a doddle. The more I used Word, the more respect I get for all those bods who wrote longhand with pen/quill and paper. Think of bloody Middlemarch: it is a big book and I’m sure Eliot did re-write parts of it. But to save herself too much re-writing she thought before she put pen to paper (or quill — I have no idea when nibbed pens and inkwells came in). Still.
. . .
Thought need not be particularly detailed. It could, for example, be ‘thinking about what kind of tone you want to strike’, ‘what impression you want to give’.
A second facet (for me) of ‘learning to write’ is to ensure that — at least in what I want to do — what is written ‘follows on’, is ‘of a piece’. That’s especially true in this Hemingway bollocks, though practising keeping on top of what you write will, I hope, pay off in the future (which is why I’m doing it. Fuck Hemingway, the self-important, conceited toad). That’s why I re-write so much, because going over what I have written, I realise ‘this doesn’t quite follow that’.
Naturally, there are no rules in writing, except those you set f0r yourself. In fact, as far as I am concerned, there are no rules, either at all when you paint, play an instrument, sculpt, compose — you can do just what he hell you want. It is one of our last freedoms.
However, when finally you present ‘your work’, what you have created’, to the outside world, you might find that not as many are engaged by your 1,000-word ‘poem’ which consists of the word ‘it’ written 999 times and the word ‘was’ as you hoped. You might also find that not too many folk are engaged by your four by four canvas of nothing but black paint with a single red circle in the top left corner, however much you talk it up in the exhibition catalogue. (‘Patrick Powell’s “Black with red circle” wittily sums up and succinctly explicates the dilemma of a self isolated in a non-existent community of bleak absence’). Remember, we might like the smell of our own farts, but others are usually not quite as delighted.
I suppose it comes down to why we are ‘creating’. If you wan to ‘make a name for yourself’, ‘earn you living from your work’ etc, fair enough. Many might do it ‘for themselves’. To be honest, I have reached that point in that, at 71 (sob, sob, but there’s no getting away from it) I am simply writing because I enjoy it and to prove to myself that I’m not quite the bullshitter I have long feared I was. And that is another reason for actually eventually concluding this Hemingway project. And not just concluding it, but doing it as best I can.
I am learning along the way. And I have to say: thank the bloody Lord for word processing apps, such as Word and Bean, the two I use. They make re-rewriting (and I do a lot of re-writing) a doddle. The more I used Word, the more respect I get for all those bods who wrote longhand with pen/quill and paper. Think of bloody Middlemarch: it is a big book and I’m sure Eliot did re-write parts of it. But to save herself too much re-writing she thought before she put pen to paper (or quill — I have no idea when nibbed pens and inkwells came in). Still.
. . .
Manchester United against Manchester City is on in a minute and if you think there is any sort of contest between going upstairs to watch the game or blethering one here . . .
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