He’s boring
Why is he boring?
What can I do to make it not boring?
More feeling, more thoughts
perhaps a look back every now and again
More what he sees, smell, feel at the sight of all that blood
all the death.
It’s all new to him
He feels they are shouting ‘at’ him because he isn’t shouting ‘with’ them
even though that’s certainly not true.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
Once in a small village far to the north, there were three young men walking across a path from their home to the forest. They had axes resting on their shoulders and they were in a good mood because the sun warmed their faces and spring was finally hitting off. Johan was the fairest of the three and the youngest; baby face, they called him. But despite his childish appearance, he took the lead. Behind him were Jospeh and Hans who were older but also eager to get back to work. “Right where we left off,” Joseph said and gestured at a half cut tree.
“Thank god,” said Hans. “I couldn’t stand another week cooped up in the cottage.”
Johan nodded in agreement but remained silent. The other two noticed this and wondered what was on his mind. “Ah, it’s nothing,” Johan said.
But the two friends insisted and Johan said. “I don’t like the new priest, is all. Why can we only ring the church bell on Sundays?”
“I know what you mean, my misses is scared to death about trolls, but come to think of it, I’ve never seen any,” Hans said.
“That doesn’t mean they don’t exist! Besides, I don’t like the feel of the woods lately,” Johan looked around again.
“I’m sure you’re overthinking it. He’s from the city, after all, taught at University abroad! I’m sure he knows best,” Joseph said.
“Maybe, or maybe city folk don’t have to worry about elves and trolls and god knows what else.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about elves. We give them porridge ever so often, like any sensible person should.”
“But haven’t you heard? Father Magnus isn’t even doing that! I worry for the church…”
Hans and Jospeh gasped. “Well, maybe the church is different, protected, you know?” Hans said.
“Maybe, but I sure don’t like it.”
They started cutting the logs. After finishing off last seasons work, they started cutting down new trees. “Do you remember, Agnar?” Johan said.
“Your crazy grandpa? Sure.”
“Well, when he was young, he used to go to all sorts of places. Once, he climbed the mountain over there,” Johan said and pointed at the highlands in the distance. “He said that he saw nothing but wilderness as far as the eye could see.”
“Yeah, so?”
“The next village is far off and the city is even further. It’s a different world out there, but Agnar wasn’t discouraged by the distance and he walked for a whole week without seeing anybody. With immense luck he reached the city unmolested, all the way to the coast. He saw many different kinds of people. He was excited at first but after spending a month he found that the city wasn’t interesting. It was all about money and nobody cared about the creatures and peoples living in the forest, though he saw people place coins on the keel of their ship to the boat elf.”
“Boat elf? Never heard about that,” Hans said.
“If there are house elves…,” Joseph said.
“Right, anyway, Agnar went back home and never saw any reason to leave his home again. Point is, we are very different from the city folk, I don’t see how father Magnus knows what’s best for us.”
The two friends sat silently for a moment to let the story sink in, then, Hans said. “How do you he wasn’t making things up?”
Johan dug into his pocket and showed them a smoking pipe that was decorated with thin strings of gold and silver that looked like waves. The two friends gawked at it. “Do you think anyone around here could make such a thing? He spent all his money on it and I inherited it. I don’t smoke it though, it’s a memento of him, after all.”
All three went quiet again just looking at the pretty thing, but soon they got back to work. They worked until dusk and they felt good, they were looking forward to coming home and relaxing after a hard days work. On the way home, they heard some women giggling somewhere in the woods. They looked at each other and the curiosity got the better of them and they followed the noise deeper into the forest until they hit the meadow. To their astonishment, they saw three lovely maidens dancing naked in the grass. Joseph gasped, suddenly, and stopped the others from going closer.
“What’s the matter?” Hans said.
“It’s Lisa! We can’t look.”
Hans and Johan smiled and crept closer, to the edge of the undergrowth and watched the lovely girls dance, the dusk hitting their pale skin. Joseph refused to look, however and looked the other way.
As they gawked, The bushes suddenly rustled beside them. “Change your mind, eh?” Johan said, thinking it was his friend, instead, it was a large creature with leathery skin and a big fat nose looking stupidly at the ladies with them. The two friends froze, scared stiff. The creature had long braided hair that dragged on the ground and a thick tail with a puff of hair at the end like a broom. They were too scared to enjoy the ladies and kept glancing at the troll when they saw he was upset about something.
From the bushes, across to them, the priest emerged. The girls shrieked and quickly covered while the priest scolded them. The troll growled and with two flicks of his fingers, the priest turned into a rat and the girls ran away in fear. The two friends ran too and they grabbed Joseph, who wasn’t aware of any of this, back to the village without looking back.
They never saw the priest again, although there was a rat that skittered near the church. They didn’t dare kill it but they made it a point to keep ringing that bell everyday no matter who came and told them otherwise.
© Christopher Stamfors
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.
The Horrors of Writing 