I’m sooooo glad I’m able to write this Blog. This little journal of sorts. I’ve no idea why or what I’m going to put in this entry, the penultimate before the tenth, so bear with as I prepare my thoughts. Much creative stuff has happened so I’ll need to chop this all into bite size portions for easy digestion.
There was once a wall I stared at that had nothing on it. Then, after boredom of staring at nothing, the wall became decorated with a simple poster.
The image was an ocean meeting land, in the night, with moonlight reflecting off all the little details in ways to hint to the viewer of a hidden world. At the top, in an eye-friendly font, was the word ‘INSPIRATION’. At the bottom was written, ‘CAN COME FROM THE DARKEST OF PLACES’.
Now this is an old, old picture I recall, and my tastes have somewhat matured since then, but I did have it in mind when writing the last story I’ve just finished and sent off to a publisher.
But this story was more fascinating to me than previous ones, as this story was inspired not from a wanton, free-roaming obtrusive thought, as is typical with my head, but from a real life person! Not only that, but this story also didn’t involve lasers and aliens, or hyper-velocity kinetic missiles aimed at rampaging robots piloted by a genetically modified Sloth* army – no.
This story involved nothing more than a mere human. In fact, it even touched upon human emotions in a way I’ve never dealt with before.
So, what had this person done to inspire in my Sci-Fi fussy head a relatively normal story about a normal, everyday person? That person had painted a picture, quite simply. But it was no simple picture.
I’m allowed to do what I will with the picture, so have taken the liberty of showing you lovely folk.
A Serene Frame For Madness
I had no idea my new friend painted. That they liked art, yes, but not created it. I vividly remember the moment when I first saw this picture. It came as a text, a picture message even. I was mesmerised as I am now still. Proof being that just after I wrote mesmerised in that sentence just gone, I started day dreaming again. Only a few seconds have passed you by whilst you’ve been reading, but take it from me that this paragraph has actually taken about ten minutes to write. I have it pretty bad in swift-retrospect.
So anyway, I stared at this picture, and suddenly this entire story just whams into my head. No idea why, how or the like, but it was just there. Even the title. These things came to me like they were just memories, so rapid was their unfolding within me. It was late in the day when I saw the picture, but I knew it would remain fresh for the next day. I just knew it.
After work, I rushed home, did the usual pieces, and then sat down to write. In less than an hour, I was looking at 1600 words of my finest work to date (meaning I was really really happy with it). I was utterly, utterly enthralled and amazed at what affect a painting had on me. sure, I’ve stared at hundreds of pictures, and each has inspired stories, but with the gravity of actually knowing the person who painted this one, I felt drawn to it more than I can ever recall. To give you some insight into how this picture is still rippling in me thoughts – this all happened on the 16th May. It’s June, now. June the 1st.
This short story is called A Serene Frame For Madness (because the artist hadn’t even named her painting!).
I intend to sell it and feel quite prepared to send to publishers I normally wouldn’t consider. All I have to do is wait and wait.
Yet it wasn’t just a story the painting inspired. I even felt like I had to actually read it out to the artist themselves in some kind of homage to them. it went badly, as I really don’t have a voice for public speaking – think Simon Amstell getting kicked in the nuts. Actually, don’t do that – it will ruin the blog. My voice is really like molten chocolate being poured onto ice-cream. Yes. It’s very tasty. That’s all you need to know.
True to form, you may also know I often put little personal bits of my life into this blog so I’ve no shame in admitting during the time I spent with the artist, I found I actually fancied her a bit so kind of clammed up. I can write that as I know she won’t get time to read this. She’s off being awesome elsewhere. Also moving away from home town so I was a little sad about the timing there. Yet if she did read this little blog, she’d reach this sentence in which I’m going to say I think you are the most interesting and beautiful person I’ve met so far.
Readers, I wish I had what it took to be by her side. Let’s all laugh at the irony of that, as I think I lack the necessary qualities so it’s quite funny really.
Oh, and not only did the painting inspire a story, but the story and everything revolving around it inspired a composition that you can listen to here:-
If life is a book, then I close this chapter and move on. Damn. Ah well.
Life is busy, and I’ve been holding true to that.
I started working on getting a plan together for the actual novel. And if I can just remember to take my damned USB stick to work to print all my writing, I can finish putting what’s in my head onto the wall.
PERSONAL NOTE: To get thoughts in the head onto the wall, don’t smack said head against the wall repeatedly. It does little for the creation process, but a lot to your consciousness.
Here is the wall:
The pages are hiding the blood stains.
This is a character profile, and on the right of this sprawl will go the chapter sequence and events timeline. I’ve decided to put all this right over my bed so I wake up and think “novel ideas”. I’m here all night for crap puns. It’s time to get organised like never before and this time… this time I mean it!
Yes! This method will yield results for sure. I won’t get distracted. I’m aware it doesn’t look much now, but just you wait, Mr and Mrs Reader, you shall – nay, you’ll HAVE NO CHOICE but to be impressed with what I’m cooking up here! Writing a novel take time – months in fact. Many months. I’d need to focus hard to ensure it get’s done in time and oh fudge I’ve joined a band and am now playing gigs. I’m very lucky in that aspect, but maybe this novel publication goal is going to take some time…
I’ll not harp about the band stuff here – that’s another project entirely, but it is exciting. Though, I do worry that this obvious procrastination is going to just kill off my publication dream… This will be interesting to find out, I’m sure. There are stories out there of writers learning the most cut-away and abstract hobbies just to avoid writing. They have no idea why of course, they just don’t want to do what they want to do, which is silly! I’ll never understand that.
The creative process is always an enigma, as I truly feel it’s not a needed part of life, so thus nature never really nurtured it into all the beings it has given rise to. I’m talking about true, reckless and passionate art – the kind that, like above, stops you in your tracks and inspires you.
Now, in the time I spent with the artist – who I shall now call from here-on-in The Woman – she raised a point of interest that I couldn’t answer right away as I was battling my own feelings like I inwardly do – but I’ve cracked it.
The Woman produced a picture drawn in a pad by a young chap she is involved with professionally. She then pointed to the picture I had taken inspiration from and was quite energetic in trying to discern the meaning behind each of the pictures. In the notepad, we had a picture of a woman, drawn by an unskilled hand, an immature and conflicted mind – basically a doodling made with no thought, and on the canvas, we had a skilled hand, a mature, focused mind – in essence, a work of art.
The Woman saw no distinction between the two, however – giving artistic merit to both pieces. She told me the nature of the doodling, and after hearing this, the source of the child’s drawing actually came from a deep place.
She had a valid point being that even though the child could not quite so express themselves in an as artistic form as she was able to, nevertheless, the energy behind the doodle was in equal measure to The Woman’s art.
It frustrated her that the meaning behind the doodle was in part as meaningful as her own work, but not recognised as such. And it confused me for some time as I felt an answer was there, but hadn’t formulated itself. So I left without answering – but now I have a simple one… All art is useless – that’s well known. But now I deem that completely void.
Art is energy. Pure energy, focused then into meaning. Therefore, when a piece of art is made, the emotional energy of the artist is embedded into it. When someone observes this art, the energy contained leaks out, and a meaning is then derived. Thus, meaning is meaningless – it is only the energy of the work that matters. And the thing about energy is that it doesn’t run out, it doesn’t fade or disappear – it just takes on new forms. And that is what inspiration is; the transfer of emotional energy from one piece to another. There is no meaning. It’s raw passion that has been handed down through eons of artistic creation. The Woman had already mentioned this as to why she painted – that sometimes she just had to, that it was like releasing, almost like sexual energy that overcomes and consumes you – but then I would hear that, wouldn’t I. Yet she was right on the dollar with that realisation.
Sorry for rambling, readers.
Maybe I should move to London…
See you next week/month, readers!
*Sloth. Why I wrote that I cannot say, as it makes little sense to send Sloths to war, let alone modify their genes for such purposes. Such brilliant and insightful thinking is probably exactly why I’m not published.