Moutain Climbing In High Heels

Should I be dull all the time and just bemoan my artistic struggle? Or should I impart some information pertaining to myself as a person?

Ahh, dunno. Am I that interesting?

How about writing?

My love of writing is much like anyone’s love of anything recreational – escapism.

Although I enjoy reading and do try and broaden what I read (although I cannot bring myself to read chick-lit or tabloid newspapers), I do end up finding myself impatient to attack a piece of paper with a story.

But I’m a bugger for finishing them.

I get into a story and write it feverishly – but as soon as I’ve had my way with it, I lose interest and fob it off with excuses about how busy I am and how it’s not them, it’s me.

My stories rarely get as far as the crescendo, let alone the end, which is a bit of a shame really. The pieces of my writing to see the light of day as complete are my poems. They just demand so little from me.

I’ve written forever, or rather, for as long as I’ve been able to hold a pencil in my hand.

I used to be given assignments in Infant School and to write about a day out with my family. Five badly spelt and grammar free pages later and I was still going. No-one could doubt my ability to hammer out a word count, that was for sure.

I struggle to organise my thoughts. I was shown the ‘planning’ technique of writing during my education, where you carefully and neatly align your characters and then decide what to do with them in the middle and the end. Then you write.

I don’t write that way.

A character will amble into my head one day and tell me a bit of their story, it’s then all I can do to snatch up a pad and a biro and trot along behind them, recording their misadventures.

I have no doubt that my random, throw-your-self-in approach to my ‘art’ is perhaps haphazard at best, but it gives me an awful sense of purpose. I have found myself confident in the belief that my ideas are worth something, at least to me, to the point where I can tentatively get them down on a page.

My poetry is certainly the most organic of my writing processes. A word or an image will appear before my mind’s eye and I am entranced by it. I must grab hold of this small seed of an idea and grow it – raise it out of the fertile earth of my imagination and see what it turns into. I have little regard for convention or form – the words tumble free and who am I to stand there with the fishing net of formality? Free verses run rampant in my work and I enjoy letting them wriggle about in head until they have made a continuous string of emotional truth, if not sense.

The prose work requires more careful thought.

My approach to my current prose project can be likened to climbing a mountain in a particularly fetching pair of red stiletto’s: Impractical, ridiculous, ambitious perhaps but completely bonkers. That is certainly me in general, I find. Mad as a bag of snakes.

I mean, has this blog even made sense to you?


One route for getting into prose that I have found rather useful is writing fanfiction. You know, writing a sequel to a movie you really liked or book or TV show, that old chestnut. It’s not because it’s easier, not at all, but it does help you stop flapping about, wondering about character and situation. It’s like being a kid on at the seaside having a donkey ride – you don’t need to know how to ride the damn thing because someone else is leading you along. You just have to sit there and enjoy the ride. It’s a wee bit like that. Sort of.

I think that is an interesting way of getting into writing.

I hope to continue making my mad uphill dash with my novel. Let’s see how we get on. 21,500 words into the redraft so it’s not doing too badly. I am just going to end up with such a scary word count aren’t I, writing one of those novels that people would term ‘verbose, meandering and takes forever to get going’! Oh the joy and splendour of an having an imagination.


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