Late night typing: all I can hear is the loud clacking of keys and the odd hissing noise from behind me. I am surrounded by Charlie the cockatoo and the budgies (Fluoro and Ranga). Bird poop permeates the humid air, but meh. You get used to the smell.
There was a time when I would literally write myself to the point of exhaustion. Some of my most profound and creative work was born from a weary and uninhibited mind (what a load of pretentious Bovril!). I haven’t written much over the past few months as evidenced by the inconsistent blog posts. I attempted NaNoWriMo last year and failed again. Pushing yourself to churn out a novel in 30 days is stressful for those who like to edit as they write. Obviously, compromises must be made to succeed in such an epic race against time. Next time someone might have to drop me on an island so that I can write without distraction and pick up some awesome bow and arrow skills …
Speaking of arrows, Arrow is my current guilty pleasure. Green Arrow/the Hood, as my work colleagues say: is a shitty combination of Batman and Gossip Girl. And Queen’s security dude’s name is Diggle! Yeah.
So … To complicate the novel writing, the world and the characters who populate it evolve radically with every page. Each time I slip into the mind of my female abomination (imagine Wolverine but replace adamantium for sharp and shiny crystals) the narrative meanders to a brooding and nasty place. Samantha (working name) went from being an unimportant henchwoman who kidnaps royalty to being the main focuse of my science fiction disaster.
For those who follow my prose I have written bits and pieces not really suitable for general consumption. By that I mean the form is like chapter fragements. They do not stand alone as short stories. In time I might salvage some material and develop a series of short fiction to get the novel ball rolling again. This is my way of procrastinating.
The good news is that I have been contributing to WeekendNotes. If you have time have a look at the articles people post.
Lately I have been revisiting my uni experience by reading my academic essays. Sure, they’re technical and almost robotic in formula but there is a poetic quality to the subject matter. Specifially, transnational indigenous studies. I can tell I was passionate about the novels I read because I dwelled so heavily on key concepts from the importance of oral tradition to subverting the form of the coloniser (the novel). While I recall struggling to get into Potiki and Benang, I’m glad I perservered. There is also a reverance to seeing orality shown in novel form. Postcolonial literature is truly beautiful and tragic.
This mortal coil needs recharging so off to bed I go.
Take care fellow reader.