Writing

I cannot accept the doctrine that in poetry there is a »suspension of belief.« A poet must never make a statement simply because it is sounds poetically exciting; he must also believe it to be true.

W. H. Auden (1907 – 1973)

Writing is like getting married. One should never commit oneself until one is amazed at one's luck.

Murdoch, Iris (1919)
Irish-born British novelist. The Black Prince, `Bradley Pearson's Foreword', 1974

Writing is weird.

You make these scratches on paper and they mean something to you. Maybe something very profound. Maybe a shopping list.

But to some, they would be just symbols, squiggles. Nothing. Meaningless.

When I write down my thoughts, they become much clearer to me. I can understand better what I am actually thinking and feeling when I write it all down.

People would argue much less if they had to stop and put their thoughts down, coherently, on paper before they opened their mouths.

Introverts prefer to write out their feelings, while extroverts prefer to talk them out. Considering that many couples are intro/extrovert pairs, it's a wonder that any of us communicate effectively at all!

Novels are to literature what panoramas are to art.

Consider and appreciate that the reader will respond according to their base of experience. As a writer, I don't try to force the reader to see my vision. For every reader there ia a different story. Part mine, part theirs – part truth, part fiction. I like to leave plots, themes and characters open for many examinations and associations, allowing and encouraging the reader to make the writing personal to them. The reader is an active participant in my work. The reader of good writing feels part of an invitation to create what they are reading. The writer of good writing presents combinations of images and thoughts designed to arrive, oddly familiar, as triggers into the idiosyncratic sub-terrain of a reader's thinking. Good writing is like trying to remember what the smell of onions frying reminds you of. Good writing, for me, is reading on the brink of deja vu, page after page.

I kiss him as he writes.

Slowly, on his neck.

His breathing changes slowly.

I know he is aroused.

We do not keep going, when we do this, it is about the writing, not about the sex.

My body fuels him.

He writes in his lust, in his pleasure.

Once I heard him groan outloud,

just sitting at his computer.

One day he will work out how we can fuck as he writes – a balance of concentration.

The most precious sentence...

written as we come.