Thursday, July 28, 2005
Guts
I'm currently "reading" (ie. listening) to Ruth Cracknell's memoirs "Journey from Venice". She bloody well spills her guts- it's all about her husband dying, ffs. How do writers do it? Reveal so much and not be paralysed by fear that people are just going to rip into them?Paradoxical that I say this, sharing my journal with passing strangers, but it's not the same- I'm anonymous to all but one (you know who you are, deary :P). Writers, proper writers, bare their neuroses and dreams and flaws for all to see. It's terrifying. Musicians hide behind their music, it's abstract, extraneous. Artists, behind their media. Actors can hide behind the playwright's words. Though actually, acting is a pretty terrifying job as well. Your body, your speech, your every movement is up for scrutiny. Exposed, much?
Once upon a time I somehow overcame this squeamishness to write (admittedly shithouse poetry). Can't think how I managed it. Everything fictional I write now is acutely embarassing or complete arse. Actually, haven't tried writing for yonks. This blog was meant to help improve my writing, but I think it's actually made it worse since I have absolutely no discipline.
Well, nothing to lose except my dignity. I shall try again.
# posted at 11:24 pm
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