There’s been some downtime in my writing world recently, partly due to work and life commitments and partly because I’ve been letting a story stew awhile. Now the time has come for me to get back into it and I’m very glad about it.
Not writing seems to mean that I have too much time to become introspective, and not in a good way. Writing, on the other hand, allows me to be pretty damn self indulgent but in a constructive (ha) way. It lets me bleat on and on about the things that are important to me, but it forces me to make the telling entertaining. I feel sorry for my real life friends who tend to get the unedited – and very vocal – versions.
This has all been making me think about that old chestnut, how much of what a writer writes is actually the writers’ self oozing out on the page?
I haven’t got an answer, but I reckon all my stories are made up of the dust, blood and hair my body can survive without.
It can be easy to bury yourself deep in the fiction though, even make it near impossible for the reader to really appreciate what essence of you is hidden away in it’s core. And with that thought in mind, I thought I’d chuck in an unfinished self portrait.
This doesn’t look much like me at all, it’s more like me trying to make myself look more attractive and being let down by my drawing skills.
Maybe the same thing can be said for my stories: they are meant to show the me I’d like to be, but the really show my clumsiness and inability to transcend everything that makes me, me.