Perhaps one day I'd like to write.
This is a bit of a tragedy as I'm sure you can understand if you've ever read my previous posts. I am a bit all over the place. I use too many punctuation marks that don't need to be there and too many words that don't need to be there either. Or sometimes I don't use enough..
I think the main thing that's stopped me trying to write in the past was patience. I'm not a patient guy. I like to think I am, but then I look at the facts and realise that any time I've been patient was actually just because I didn't have a choice. I'm a hedonist, I want it now and I won't wait unless you force me to.
That said. If I try and write, I want to get to the crux fast. I don't have time to elaborate on the scene, or the mood, or the history of a character, or even to really portray a conversation.
I'm very scared of writing a conversation.
Seriously have you ever actually analysed the words, punctuation, spacing and descriptives in a written conversation? I have briefly. But then I got scared and covered my eyes. It wasn't a very illuminated experience.
I'm not ready to try that yet. I mean, I probably am, but I'm not going to. So I guess in a self for filling prophecy kind of way I'm not ready. But what I am ready to do is try and get better at my descriptive language. I think I might have done it at school, but the finny thing about school is, while I was there, I wasn't really too worried about what pieces of knowledge or information I was learning. I don't think school was really for me.
So here I go…
Sprawled across around 4 seating positions on his living room's L shaped lounge, Bob sat with his laptop in it's place of naming origin and his empty tea mug balanced askew next to him on his left. The room was a large rectangular space with an entire wall sacrificed to the God of glass and a massive sliding door left ajar letting in the squawks of at least 3 different species of rather annoying birdsong and the occasional shaving of a gust of wind which rushed in only to stop awkwardly when it realised it had reached a dead end. A candle burned on the coffee table out of Bob's reach filling the room with a sweet aroma that he couldn't describe and the reflection of the flame flashed and spasmed towards him across the cracked varnish of the table's surface giving the place a strangely homely feel. He didn't know why it should feel strange, it was after all his home. But Bob hadn't felt particularly comfortable here for a long time. The candle wasn't his, the lounge wasn't his, the massive sliding door was a part of the house which was also not his. He just occupied it.
Ok to give you an idea of how naturally that didn't come to me, it took me about 10 minutes to write that last paragraph and about 1 minute to write everything before it.
Also upon re-reading it I don't think it was even that good. Seemed too wordy. Actually to be perfectly honest it seems like I just tried too hard.
Maybe I'll start more simple.
In the corner of a large room a brown lounge snaked around the corner and Bob, reclined across the corner of the lounge like the cross beam of a houses roof interior. An empty tea mug sat to his left in the protected and unused corner of the lounge and a coffee table burning a scented candle sat on his right just out of reach in front of him. A cold wind blew gusts outside, accompanied by the tweets of birds and occasionally turned visible in the flickering of the candle as it crept inside.
That was another description of exactly the same scene. It is the scene in which I find myself right now. I'm Bob in this scene. Though that's not my name.
Also it does actually feel pretty homely, I'm not sure why I got all emo in the first version there…
I feel like the second version was better, but if you have an opinion please share it. I'm obviously writing to nobody at this time, but maybe people still stumble across these things from time to time.
Two blog posts in as many days… That's how you know you're spiralling I guess… I feel as if there will be more but I'll end this here.
