Sunday, August 19, 2012


I totally shouldn't be blogging right now... It's 2:50am on a Sunday, I've gotta get to church in like, 7 hours, which means I should be 'up' in at least 6, BUT I JUST CAN'T SLEEP.

So, I turn to you, dear readers for the succour of an audience to bombard (like man-flu, my affliction is comforted by sharing the pain as much as possible with the strong and healthy around me, leeching their joy in an effort to bolster my delusion that I suffer more than you all).

I wonder if Will ever found himself like this, at 3am, hunched over a manuscript, criss-crossing, re-scanning and screwing up parchment. Or did the words just pour from him like coke from a can that's been shaken repeatedly and then kicked around the floor.

For that is what I feel like on the inside as a writer. Effervescent, ephemeral words, buzzing constantly through my mind, combining, collapsing, sparking, a never-ending fountain of sweet, sticky, 'devil's urine', as the Black Death of Coca Cola Amatil is fondly known in my household.

Where Billy and I differ strongly is in the ability to externalise this fountain, allow the gases to escape, and explode into searing verse.

I've definitely got it covered on the 'shaken up and kicked around' front. That feels like the theme of my life at the moment, which is what inevitably leads to the heinously self-indulgent practise of a writer writing about writing (so 1st yr Uni!).

But I'm not so strong in the "pour words onto the page" area at the moment... Slash ever.

I can dribble to my hearts content when the point is meaningless (cue the drivel you're saturated with on this blog!), but as soon as I am striving to get a serious message across in a way that will be evaluated and judged by others... Eek!! You can't see me for the dust!

Maybe Wills developed a serious case of medieval writer's block when asked to confront the political or social issues of his day. Maybe the idea of moving from comedy to politics was a leetle scary for him as well... Or maybe not! Maybe he'd been biding his time, manoeuvring into a perfect position from which to honour some rulers and blast others...

One lesson I have learned well from Billy boy though is, "say it slant". You want to address the hot-bed of Elizabethan politics in one of the most influential cities of Western civilisation? Write a play about a long-dead hunchback with a a thirst for blood. Or the one about a bunch of Scottish lords who get drunk and stab each other.

Slide your message into the periphery while you're entertaining them in the bullseye.

I did finally make the big leap forward a few months ago in my book project when I realised I should just say it slant. The form I was trying to speak in was strangling me even further than my already debilitated sense of self had done the job, and I was too mentally suffocated to accomplish anything.

So I sat down and wrote it all as letters to my sister instead, and that seemed to work.

Now if only I could get to sleep so that someday soon I can get to work!!

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