How do you know if you’re a “serious” writer? I think if you answer “yes” to any of these questions, you probably are.
1 You “need” to write. Stories are just filling you up, demanding to be released.
2 You can’t sleep because the stories won’t let you
3 Your eyes fill with tears as you write the sad bits
4 There are no happy bits.
5 There are definitely no funny bits.
6 You have something that you think the world needs to hear.
7 That something is totally unique.
8 No, really; it just sort of came to you, like out of nowhere.
9 You have a pen name that has an initial in it.
10You can read beyond the next paragraph without saying “what a dick” and going back to Facebook.
It’s like actors. Everyone knows full well that in order to honour a clause in an expensively engineered and lucrative contract, they have to parade themselves in front of microphones and feeble TV presenters and pretend that a) it was all great fun but “real hard work” (Substituting “real” for “really” is one of those Americanisms I find particularly hard to take, since it changes the meaning of the sentence. Another one, whilst I’m at it, is the substitution of “alternate” for “alternative” as in “universe” or “dimension”. It always seems such a pity that those who visit “alternate” universes” are missing out on fifty percent of the universes available to everyone else. However, I digress…)
Where was I…? Ah yes: b) what an enormous privilege it was to work with such a tremendously talented group of people. They couldn’t believe they were getting to play opposite someone who had been such a major influence on their career; their whole life, for Godssakes!… c) that their role demanded them to dig real deep into their reserves to truly find what was motivating this character and how playing her/him took so much out of them and has really changed their lives…
I remember James Cagney being interviewed by Michael Parkinson many years ago. To every question his reply was, often in so many words, “…well, it was just a job. They told me what to do; I did it; they shot it.”
Now that’s my kind of artist. (And so is Jackson Pollock who, when asked by the great art critic, Clement Greenberg about what motivated him replied that he“…figured it was a good way to get girls.”)
It flatters us to believe that what we do is challenging and it justifies the inordinate amount of time we spend doing it and I might go so far as to suggest that if anyone uses writing as a form of catharsis, that’s fine so long as they keep it locked away and don’t expect anyone to pay £8:99 for the paperback.
The only thing I invest in writing is time and bit of electricity. Oh and possibly a bit of bile when it’s not going the way I want it to. If you read my stuff, you’ll find nothing about my repressed sexuality, my hatred of my father, the manic depression that has blighted my life since college, the abuse that I suffered at the hands of a satanic cult to which I was introduced by a family friend who, it turns out was sleeping with my mother… and my father.
For that, you’ll have to wait for my autobiography and even then, I wouldn’t believe a word of it if I were you.
2 You can’t sleep because the stories won’t let you
3 Your eyes fill with tears as you write the sad bits
4 There are no happy bits.
5 There are definitely no funny bits.
6 You have something that you think the world needs to hear.
7 That something is totally unique.
8 No, really; it just sort of came to you, like out of nowhere.
9 You have a pen name that has an initial in it.
10You can read beyond the next paragraph without saying “what a dick” and going back to Facebook.
It’s like actors. Everyone knows full well that in order to honour a clause in an expensively engineered and lucrative contract, they have to parade themselves in front of microphones and feeble TV presenters and pretend that a) it was all great fun but “real hard work” (Substituting “real” for “really” is one of those Americanisms I find particularly hard to take, since it changes the meaning of the sentence. Another one, whilst I’m at it, is the substitution of “alternate” for “alternative” as in “universe” or “dimension”. It always seems such a pity that those who visit “alternate” universes” are missing out on fifty percent of the universes available to everyone else. However, I digress…)
Where was I…? Ah yes: b) what an enormous privilege it was to work with such a tremendously talented group of people. They couldn’t believe they were getting to play opposite someone who had been such a major influence on their career; their whole life, for Godssakes!… c) that their role demanded them to dig real deep into their reserves to truly find what was motivating this character and how playing her/him took so much out of them and has really changed their lives…
I remember James Cagney being interviewed by Michael Parkinson many years ago. To every question his reply was, often in so many words, “…well, it was just a job. They told me what to do; I did it; they shot it.”
Now that’s my kind of artist. (And so is Jackson Pollock who, when asked by the great art critic, Clement Greenberg about what motivated him replied that he“…figured it was a good way to get girls.”)
It flatters us to believe that what we do is challenging and it justifies the inordinate amount of time we spend doing it and I might go so far as to suggest that if anyone uses writing as a form of catharsis, that’s fine so long as they keep it locked away and don’t expect anyone to pay £8:99 for the paperback.
The only thing I invest in writing is time and bit of electricity. Oh and possibly a bit of bile when it’s not going the way I want it to. If you read my stuff, you’ll find nothing about my repressed sexuality, my hatred of my father, the manic depression that has blighted my life since college, the abuse that I suffered at the hands of a satanic cult to which I was introduced by a family friend who, it turns out was sleeping with my mother… and my father.
For that, you’ll have to wait for my autobiography and even then, I wouldn’t believe a word of it if I were you.
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