Writing on Writing on…

I am writing this at 11pm. It’s been a long day. I don’t like to write about myself. Maybe it’s a question of vulnerability, but the way I see it, I just like to prove to myself I have a hell of an  imagination by writing about things I’ve never even remotely come into contact with. Still, it’s 11pm, and I’m tired, and the self is an endless expanse, stars, galaxies to wring and scrape and pillage inspiration from. 

More than writing about myself, I hate writing about writing. It’s a cop-out. Writers’ block firewall access code. 

The writer’s mind is an associative one. Sit down at your laptop, and think - what should I write about? The eyes are swallowed by the blank page, a word ringing out behind them - write, write, write. When there is only one word to start from, how is it possible to write about anything other than writing? The lazy writer grabs that first chain hung out from the bell of the mind and clings on to it like a kid with separation anxiety. The lazy writer succumbs to the call to write about writing. 

I’m not lazy, of course. I’ve never slacked off on anything in my life and my heart is a metal device my AI butler turns on every morning when I wake up and turns off when I go to sleep. So, this blog isn’t gonna be writing about writing, this blog is gonna be me writing about writing about writing. 

So, you ask yourself, what can I do about my inexorable urge to write about writing? 

One: add another note to the bell of your mind so it’s not just repeating “write”. Start with any word. “Eucalyptus”. “Cracker”. “Leprechaun”. Start with a phrase even. This lets your mind cling onto something different, which starts an associative chain in a completely other direction. Since January, I’ve been writing a short story a day. They’re very short short stories, written on one or two pages in a tiny notebook with Fabritius’ Goldfinch on its softcover. Do I think up a whole short story before I sit down to write? Barely ever. I usually start with a word, a phrase. I then turn the word into a concept. I allow the writing to naturally flow. From the first sentence, I think what would make sense to add next, instead of thinking if the first sentence makes sense in a broader context. Often the stories veer in completely different directions than what is indicated by their start. One story (one of the less deranged ones, even) started with the phrase “Shakira never aged”, then devolved into a narrative about a robbery. Every day I sit down with that little notebook and feel its blank pages calling me to write about them, those egotistical flatnesses. Every day I resist, by grasping at the first random phrase that comes to mind, and not being judgemental. By not being discriminatory. Whatever floats up, grab it, tackle it, milk it for all its worth and more. Be insane. 

Two: forget everything I’ve said. I’m not your prophet or your saviour. “I” isn’t even the author here, exactly. This is a narrative voice “I’ve” constructed for the purposes of this blog. Writing about writing CAN be cool, actually, says the second suddenly emerging narrative voice. I certainly like reading writing about writing, don’t I? One of my favorite short story collections ever (ugh here they go on about short stories again) is Eley Williams’ “Attrib. and Other Stories” which is wholly dedicated to stories about language. Some of them are about writing as it pertains to language. It’s so much fun! It uses dictionary definitions, and characters speaking about writing - all standard drab things - and transforms them into inventive, playful things. I’d add a condition here, though. I think you can write about writing as long as the writing element of the writing isn’t the only thing, and is used to give playful, cool structures to the writing. At the end of this exhausting, rainy day, as my many “I”s always do, “I” come to the conclusion that writing should be fun, and there’s no other rules. 

Three: write about writing about writing about writing. And so forth.