Two beginnings lie together in a sea of oil. White and yellow they stare. No hope of resurrection.
He walked away from the door and took a bite of the apple.
I wept at his funeral.
She had no interest in her work. She took a gun to work. She never went back.
I’m fed up having to watch every word I say. The PC police are the cadavers of Orwell’s 1984, infiltrating our precious language in the names of equality, nondiscrimination, and anti-racism. All of which is laudable, but ultimately they are trying to introduce newspeak and doubletalk by the backdoor and stop us from being free thinkers.
The politicians ply us with euphemisms and dissembling and they try a variation on the Nuremberg defense of, “We were only following the rules.” But those rules were immoral and unethical and should not be allowed to be a defense.
We are so prissy about other peoples’ sensibilities but who looks after our sensibilities. No more failure, only non-achievement; give them a second chance, “that is send them to a warehousing facility but call it an FE college,” said by a politician on the BBC Radio 4, October 2009.
The West have created an educated and thinking populace who have all the tools to challenge or even bypass the status quo. How long will it take the establishment to realise that the effective movers and shakers and leading thinkers are on the Internet, building their constituencies, making the changes that will come to matter over the coming years, winning the minds and hearts of people and engaging in dialogue.
Long live Cyberland. Long live Liberty.
The die is cast, my mind is made up. For the sake of sanity i’m doing nanowrimo, but will I do it online?
I’m thinking about it. It’s more to take on, on top of all the other writing that I’m doing. But as someone, probably an idiot said, “If you want something done, give it to the busy person.”
I’m following the lure of online writing. It’s so attractive having work up on the Internet that could be read by other people. There’s nothing forcing them to come and read, but I’m writing. And in writing I’m doing my practice. As George Leonard writes in his excellent book Mastery, “What is mastery? At the heart of it, mastery is practice. Mastery is staying on the path.”
All writing that you do should receive attention, though often urgency is a writer’s enemy and we make do. Sometimes the white heat of urgency can deliver some of our best and most complete writing. Poems, I find, come out nearly fully, formed needing only the smallest of tweaks.
Flow. Such an well coined meaning to an old word. In that place of mind where things become timeless and the work you do pours out like a river in full bore. Some feel Zone is a better kind of the place they find themselves, when all goes well with their works.
But it’s the practice, coming back, day after day, to write, that offers the best chance of getting to the zone or entering flow.
It used to annoy me when people like Stephen King said that they never wrote for the money. “Yeah, that’s fine for you with your millions,” I would think. But of late I believe that I now agree with that statement. I don’t write for the money any more. It taints all that you do if you let it. Write because that’s what you do. Because you need to get it off you chest or you have to let others know or you have a story to tell. Do it for sanity sake. Do it to explore your thinking. Do it because it a very human thing to do.