Tag: writerslife

My Space – Essay

My place is my pleasure dome, I don’t know when it became like that because I used to get a lot done when I moved in. I was scared back then, I quit my job, got fired from another after a month and I lived on unemployment benefit – I was losing money every month. I wrote because I knew I wanted to write and I wrote furiously, all day, I think. Then I got comfortable and all that stopped. I guess I managed to do some writing at work which maybe is the reason why my place became the pleasure dome. I needed some place to unvine from work.

All creatives need a place to work. My day job became that place so I guess I should consider myself fortunate. That’s not the case anymore, though. The good times are over and I’m back into uncertainty. It’s hard work and I got no writing place anymore.

I guess the bar became my new writing place for a while. I got a lot done down there because the place was mostly empty in the afternoon. And I drank slowly so I didn’t get smashed. I’m in the midst of trying to make my place my work place again. I tucked a chair in the corner – really stretching the limits what I can do in my small apartment.

It’s working, I think. I’m writing there now and at the very least I read. I crave to sit down on that chair and read on my free days, which is a good feeling, and when I read I get inspired to write so it’s working out well so far. As long as I write I don’t drink or smoke. I sometimes take out the pipe while I read and pretend that I’m Gandalf of Tolkien or something, it just feels right doing. I have a beer sometimes too but it’s different from doing it at a bar. I got a romanticized picture about drinking and writing after reading everything from Bukowski and it is nice, doing the thing he mostly writes about.

by Stamphers

Old man’s rambling – Essay

I’ve traveled around and seen a little bit of the world and I’ve come to realise a few things, the first is that the world is beautiful as long as you experience it alone. Other people poison your experience, you see, unless it’s a very special sort of person that likes the same things you do. As you might’ve guessed, doing things my way is very important to me. I don’t regret ever attaching myself to someone else (so far), not that I’m a catch or anything, I’m selfish and probably hopeless but I don’t want to feel bad about being useless, so I’m alone, feeling good.

The second thing I’ve come to realise is that the only thing anyone ever cares about is what you do for a living, unless they are a parent, then they only care about children. This logic can be applied to many things, of course, but those two are the two main ones, I think. If you say you’re and artist or a writer, they’ll ask, with 99% certainty, if you’re making a living doing it, because that’s what’s interesting about it! I’m making it sound like this really bugs me but it is what it is, it isn’t even that offensive to be honest, everyone is trying to make it, it’s what everyone can relate to and art is the thing that keeps burning in everyone, no matter how stone cold you might seem or dead inside. Why wouldn’t that be interesting?

Art is more than making it, though, art is a way to express beauty in anything, in the most sad or disturbing ways. It does even have to be good art to strike a core, though, if it’s bad, it’s pretentious and nothing is worse than being pretentious. What do I mean by that? Well, think of it this way; a kid start drawing, right? It’s not good but that doesn’t mean it’s not honest. Bad art is a way to cheat the system and it speaks to other non-artists that didn’t make it but seeing bad art selling for millions… maybe they could in the end?

Being able to do good art is proof that you understand the thing that you’re trying to convey. The only thing I’ve always ever wanted was to understand the things around me, though I had a period where I just avoided the world because it was easier. Most people do what’s easier. Accomplishment comes when you have something tangible that you’re good at A sold painting or a published book, it has to be sold in some capacity though, otherwise the accomplishment feels hollow. But that doesn’t mean the small things can’t make you feel accomplished. I feel accomplished when I finish reading a book, make another blog post, or finish a drawing. It’s small and doesn’t last very long but it’s a step in the right direction.

The good thing about art is that it’s a companion that will last forever. You’ll never get bored about making art, as long as you’re not complacent and as long as you’re curious. You’ll never be as good as you want to be because you’ll be dead before then. Not that I have to prove anything to myself, I’ll always do what feels right and if doing art is another way of observing existence, I’m alright with that, and maybe, If one observe the flow of time long enough, you don’t get caught up in it.

by Stamphers

Being Observed – Poem

The typewriter gleam darkly in the moonlight on the kitchen floor

typewriter keys scattered under the oven and some in the sink

The metal piece that hold the letter ‘M’ twisted

Before me is a window and on the windshield is a toaster

The toaster have flakes of crusted bread on top

A plant stand next to it that never dies

The leaves wither and bloom again

I never looked up what kind of plant it was.

The drapes are wet with spittle and spots of dirt from another time

The window is always clear at night

On the outside a shadow walks, stops, then walks again

Did he see me?

A faint light come from the hallway

He might’ve seen me.

Where do people go at night?

I wonder if the bottle I left in the bushes outside is still there

I wonder why I left it there

The papers scatter as I try to lift myself up

a pen rolls away.

What now?

As I lay there, I notice the ink ribbon was torn right off

That hurt me worse than the impact

It’s sunny out and its blaring at me from the window

I rolled under the table so no one would see me

Not that it mattered

I’m pretty sure somebody have been watching from across the road.

Another man stopped outside my window

His head is hidden by the curtain

I wonder what he’s looking at, what he’s doing

He’s been still for a while

being completely still.

The small people finally emerge from the outlet

It’s always a party when they arrive

The keys are put on regular now

and words appear on paper

The little people come closer, fascinated by the tinks and tanks

If it’s good they will continue to party

If it’s bad they’ll bite my fingers

and I’ll end up on the floor again.

I wish those little bastards would just leave me alone.

by Stamphers

Getting the story straight – Essay

Getting the story started is easy, keeping it going, in a sensible way, is not. I don’t agree with the idea that one should just write no matter what comes out. Shit is shit. It’s better to take a step back and come back later or the next day. It’s far harder to fix shit than it is writing something new. Of course, everything turns to shit anyway until it’s done. Beginnings are easy because they don’t have to make a lot of sense. At least I try not to think too much about it. At some point I gotta stop and consider where I’m heading with the story but I try to stay free for as long as I can. It’s far more exciting to discover what happens when I don’t have a structure yet. Tidying up later is, as I said, the hard part because of that.

Sense thinking and non thinking have such different approaches I think it’s a good idea to keep these state of minds far apart and don’t try to mix them. Finish the first draft freely then maybe consider start tidying up. It’s all about divided attention. Then there’s another state of mind that I often get confused with is the editing part. It’s damn near impossible not to edit as I go but that means a lot of unnecessary work because I edit bits that won’t even make the cut or get changed. It’s very intrusive.

To relinquish control is always a good idea as an artist so maybe writing long hand or on a typewriter is a good idea, at least on the first draft because I won’t get the opportunity to edit. I want to streamline my process as far as I can so that I don’t waste any more time and I don’t mean it so I can finish something faster, I mean literally cutting out doing something useless and unnecessary. I’ll always take my time to make a good story, though.

Don’t look back and don’t look ahead, that’s the way to write unhinged. I got plenty of time to consider what I’ve done afterwards.

by Stamphers

Opens at four

The bar was closed. I could’ve swore they opened at noon. Maybe it was wishful thinking.

I had a beer at another place instead. The beer wasn’t very good; they didn’t have the kind I liked, and the seats were uncomfortable. It’s the leave after you’re done eating kind of place, even though it’s never busy.

The children cry in the background and clueless adults stumble over their words and they have no idea what they are going to order… The confusion at the register is painful to watch. But I don’t blame them, Swedes don’t usually eat out, we forget how to act in public, sometimes. We do know how to work, though.

Not I.

The waiter dropped a tray of cups at my feet and the shards scattered everywhere like cluster munition, shredding my pants and shoes. Blood splattered in a half circle around me. They apologise but I didn’t care. I’m not going anywhere and the bleeding stopped eventually.

There’s still beer left in the glass and it take a while still to write a story.

by Stamphers

don’t be scared – essay

Dave had an affliction. People talked to him, out of the blue. He figured he must be very approachable, perhaps he had a kind face?

People said that they felt safe around him, like he knew what he was doing, reliable even. But that’s not true, he’s just very good at pretending. Even in new places, that he’s never been before, even as he gawked and observed his new surroundings, people came up to him asking for the way. He didn’t even speak their language but they still thought he was one of them.

What about his gawking at the buildings, his stumbling around along the streets, occasionally looking at the map for direction, translated to ‘this guy knows what’s up!’ Did he look that confident? And if so, did that confidence stem from ignorance? Probably. Life is not all that serious, he’s not afraid of death. Maybe that’s it, the ultimate end doesn’t scare him.

You can breeze through life pretty easily if you aren’t scared. He’s probably not scared enough! He’s not an idiot, though, he just spend too much time thinking, forgetting what’s around him, losing himself and smiling. Yeah, that’s it, it’s the smile. Only idiots smile when they got no apparent reason to.

In reality, Dave was the one with the least control in the world. He let whatever happen happen and accepted it. He put faith in something he couldn’t comprehend or explain. An idiot.

Perhaps all of us would feel better if we accepted things that were out of our control?

by Stamphers

being productive – essay

There’s something so unimaginably strange about being an adult. You have responsibility not only to yourself but to society at large. I didn’t ask for that kind of pressure. Everything about society becomes your problem too, somehow, whether it is the train running late or someone’s car breaking down on the highway – a family member dying. The worst part is that you have to contribute to be allowed to exist in it. Everyday I try to find my way back to when this wasn’t the case, instead of filling the void in my head with more stuff that I don’t care about. When I’m bored I feel like a criminal…

I care about things, small things. I don’t care for the future, though, it’s not that I don’t believe in it, there’s much to be optimistic about and I’m sure things will turn out all right. It’s just that adults ‘only’ think about the future, a happier future when all the shit they’ve gone through will be worth it. It doesn’t sit right with me. I want to be happy now and I want to keep marveling at things I didn’t know before. Perhaps it’s society’s way to get me off my ass and do something?

I’ve always done what’s best for me, whether I get fired or yelled at, it doesn’t matter. I trust that something good will come of it if I stay honest. The problem is, I don’t know what I am just yet. Those discoveries happen when you are alone and you have to figure everything out on your own. It’s a hassle, when you think about it.

Everything you do must be a means to an end, montised or a stepping stone. Even videogames feels like a chore; you gotta finish them, finish reading that book – accomplish something… What’s wrong with just having fun? How do I detach myself as an adult? It happens sometimes but not for long, I’m painfully aware about the present, the past and to a lesser extent the future. I can’t even enjoy the present because I have to stop and confirm that I’m having fun. Why do I need to do that? Whose validation am I after? Why do I have to make that conclusion?

If I look back at all the fun times I’ve had then I know the child is truly dead.

by Stamphers

If you’re anything like me – Essay

I have a very grim out look on writing, not defeatist, mind you, but my aim is to understand what I do which is probably part of the problem. It’s an impossibility, you can’t understand how your mind works, you can only analyse other’s work and hope that their work will rub off on you somehow.

Writing gives you a plethora of problems if you think of it as problems. And really, all you can do is ask the questions and hope they’ll have answers eventually, you can’t figure it out, not if you’re like me.

And that’s not even the end of it. The answers will evolve and merge and be consumed by other questions until you have a grey brownish blob instead of the colorful puzzle that you had in your mind. And you know what? It’s beautiful because it’s real, it’s not a fantasy in your head.

It’s important that you keep trying but also know when to stop. There are pitfalls, unfortunately, and although you can dig yourself out of them, it’s probably better to just climb out, but what’s the fun in that? We like challenges, that’s part of the reason why we became writers, right? 

All these ‘problems’ are compounded a thousandfold when you try to tackle longer works. It still boggles my mind that anyone could casually approach a story and believe they’ll have a finished book by the end of it, because of course the book is never good enough. The amount of editing is staggering! It’s not fun, at least it’s exhausting and you’ll run out of steam eventually, if you’re anything like me, you enjoy the discovery, editing for others to enjoy is secondary.

Is it satisfying finishing a manuscript? I wouldn’t know, I’m just looking forward to get it off my hands and start the new project, naively heading into the mist hoping the results will be different next time and you know what? I’m sure they will, because writing hardness you, you do understand more but every new project is a different beast and you better handle it with care unless you want to come out of it with half a mind. 

by Stamphers

I live with a snake

The pen is such an abusive tool

it demands so much of me

all my attention

and my cognitive thought

It’s a snake!

and it slithers out of my hand,

scares my half to death,

yet I continue to go back to get bitten.

The poison, it fills my veins:

Instoxicating

Hallucinating

It’s scary but I keep wrting

because not writing is even more scary

and I would rather hold the snake

then let it slither away and hurt

somebody else.

by Stamphers

Everything is escapism – Essay

No matter what I do, I want to be somewhere else.

It doesn’t matter if I watch a movie, write or draw, my mind like to take me to places. Even in my sleep I just want the quiet part to happen. I’m drained when I wake up and can’t write – won’t write! I take a walk instead, a long one. The mind begins to empty and fill up again with funny stories because I’m bored. It’s the best to be bored. Sometimes I amuse myself by going down a strange path, into an alley and find a quirky looking tower from the last century or something or a driveway with a lot of junk on it that tickles my imagination and a story takes form about the person that lives there. The stories are endless but making them understandable for you guys is the biggest drag in the world!

It’s only in books that I find some sort of peace. My head keeps shouting but the words I read drown them out, partly, sometimes totally. They just won’t shut up and I’m too scared to tell them to. The things in my head might be better than real life, after all, otherwise I wouldn’t be bored to begin with.

by Stamphers