“I don’t know very much [when I start.] I write my way into my knowledge. Then, if I’m lucky, I get a break. That’s why it’s so important to get started. Because however awful starting is—and it is absolutely awful—when you get into it, when you’ve got ten pages, which may take two weeks, then you can build.” – Philip Roth
I took this quote from Steven Pressfield’s post, “Be Brave or Be Stupid”.
If you don’t know Mr Pressfield’s work, you could do worse than read his book, “The War of Art”.
The quote resonated with me on a number of levels not least because when I sit down to write on Substack, I’ve really no idea what’s going to emerge, and at best have a title or a few words that serve as a prompt.
And yet, come hell or high water, something always emerges.
And I feel blessed.
Truly blessed.
Of late, and don’t ask me why this thought came to me, I’ve been trying to see my writing as a work of art. Don’t guffaw. Or poetry – now what would be something!
But I recognise that quite often my words are obscure, random and certainly not plain English.
(I can’t think of many people who love words such as: adumbrate, prolix, propinquity or quisling.)
And it’s not just the words or their meaning, it’s how they sound as they roll off the tongue.
I pause to reflect on some of the great writers who have come into my life: Tim Lilburn, Nelson Algren, Leo Tolstoy and Stephen Jenkinson. (I realise there are no women in that list and that’s to my deep shame.) And then there are the poets. Where do I even start? Bukowski (of course), Mary Oliver, Robert Bly, Anne Sexton and Don Domanski.
The point is: language has immense portent and changes EVERYTHING, and especially the written word.
Speaking for myself, I don’t think we take the genre seriously enough given all the online paraphernalia that proliferates on the web. (Don’t get me started on effing memes. I heard someone from Bath University yesterday who, as part of her doctoral thesis, was studying memes and was talking about the US Election and their use. God save my soul.)
And then there’s music.
I can think of some wonderful lyrics.
Anthem
by Leonard Cohen
[Verse 1]
The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don't dwell on what
Has passed away
Or what is yet to be
[Verse 2]
Yeah, the wars
They will be fought again
The holy dove
She will be caught again
Bought and sold
And bought again
The dove is never free
[Chorus]
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
[Verse 3]
We asked for signs
The signs were sent
The birth betrayed
The marriage spent
Yeah, the widowhood
Of every government
Signs for all to see
[Verse 4]
I can't run no more
With that lawless crowd
While the killers in high places
Say their prayers out loud
But they've summoned
They've summoned up a thundercloud
They're gonna hear from me
[Chorus]
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
[Verse 5]
You can add up the parts
You won't have the sum
You can strike up the march
There is no drum
Every heart
Every heart to love will come
But like a refugee
[Chorus]
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
That's how the light gets in
Of course, not everyone is into words – my kind or any other. They want to be entertained. And that’s fine. But in the end, I need to ask myself what might endure or hold its own in the melee of voices and a narrative that abhors any challenge to the status quo.
And one thing I’m not afraid to do with my writing is to push the envelope and challenge what it means to be human with all its solipsistic, narcissistic, nihilistic tendencies.
Do I expect a lot of takers?
No.
But that’s not why I write.
And I will keep writing as long as I’ve a body that can withstand the storm clouds brewing.
Much love, Julian
Photo by George Kedenburg III on Unsplash
Lovely mate. Why am I so reticent to read Mr Pressfield's work? I think I know, is too he popular, maybe that's why I love Lilburn so much! (btw have you read Tim Lilburn's essay 'Poetry as Pneumatic Force'? If not I'll see about sending it your way...