Dear Planet Blog,
Forgive me, for I have sinned. It has been fourteen days since my last confession. I have been busy with living this average life of mine for the last few days. That is my excuse and I'm sticking with it.
I must confess that 'average' is too diminutive for the weeks I experienced. Okay, I have not had a whirlwind romance or gone to the moon recently, but during my blog silence I have hardly been twiddling my thumbs. Although, if you asked my family what I'd been doing, I must confess that I have not been taking part in my artistic occupations within their view. This is of course natural for me - I'm of the view that much like a watched pot never boils, a watched artist can not create. Any writers reading this blog, I would point to the lectures of Virginia Woolf, and her assertion that a writer requires a room of their own with a lock on the door. Being the only family member with a lockless door, I feel that I must find the true privacy of a public area to write my short stories. After all, where else can you find a space where nobody pays attention to you, where the individual is unimportant, where the people are unapproachable and distant, but in suburbia? I do not consider myself a sociopath, but the local chain of a coffee shop in my suburban hell is the perfect environment for me to be allowed to work. The only time I shall be bothered is if I need to buy a coffee to justify my continued haunting of the corner tables.
However, I shall come to my writing practices later. I hope to tell you this story in some mockery of chronological order, as dull as that may be.
First, a little piece about my current reading habits. Since my parents have gifted me with Amazon's little black box, I have been consuming words at a rate I am currently pleased with. Thanks to the Kindle, I am now in some small ways cool and mainstream - since my last post I have finished the Game of Thrones and am currently working through the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo before that is out of vogue as well. I am also now able to dip into the philosophies that have defined how people think - currently reading the Communist Manifesto, a piece that is becoming more powerful in light of the recent articles published with regards to youth employment and the exploitation of a generation through unpaid internships. I hope to read something lighter in the coming month. I have set myself the project of reading the works of the western philosophers - naturally, in the order of the Monty Python Philosophers Song.
Okay, now the dry subject of reading is over and done with, I can begin to talk of the interesting events of this week.
This week saw one of the last events of my Warwick MA in Writing. I attended The Draft event that was part of the Warwick Words literary festival, and I can certainly say that it was an experience. Folk singers, story tellers and an actress worked to reinterpret a selection of stories featured in this year's anthology. While I believe that the evening only touched the surface of all the great work that featured in The Draft, I was glad for the opportunity to hear the tales afresh. Furthermore, I was glad that others had the opportunities to hear these tales, including the next year's MA students (two of whom are dear friends of mine).
Of course, I enjoyed the opportunity to return to the Warwick area after what seemed like a small age, even though my rational self knows that it has been less than a month since I returned to my suburbia. It says a lot about the writing program that I now consider Coventry and Leamington to be my home; it says a lot about the people who I met during the year, with whom I forged friendships that I feel will last for a long time (not eternity - eternity is cheap). It was these friendships that I revisited when I returned for the event. There were far too few people for my liking - I felt the absence of the wonderful international students who were unable to attend. However, I briefly enjoyed the embrace of those who were able to - made all the briefer by a bus schedule, unfortunately, but I did spend the rest of the night with SJ, a dear woman who put me up and puts up with me. She is very deep, and the world does not give her enough credit. I will always be one of her biggest fans.
Before I break the internet with gushing, I will stop. Next subject.
This week also saw a very interesting meeting with several interesting individuals. I have made a number of friends through the National Autistic Society - vivid people, all of them, and I would say underappreciated by the majority of polite society. This Friday, we took a couple of hours to forget the rest of the world and sit in a pub off Westminster. There, we shared a copious number of pints (with particular bias to Tanglefoot, a wonderful real ale), and discussed literature and writing. We had barely enough time to speak, but speak we did, and in various pissed voices, about how we are trying to create fiction. One is working on a piece of Alternate History Fantasy that would rival the efforts of Victor Hugo; another is hard at work on a meticulously detailed piece of crime fiction that shows a lot of potential; and our numbers also included a journalist and a creator of indie comics and graphic art - also worthy artists. I feel honoured to be counted among their numbers, artists working to create new genres and modes for expression. I feel like I'm part of a larger collaboration - even if that is simply producing a new voice.
Okay, now that was way too deep. I can no longer write about complex things, or I shall break Planet Blog irreperably. I shall save my comments on my writing experiences for another day. I already feel like I have been writing for hours. Now signing off. Enjoy the next week, those who listen.
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