all your reading has been training you for this

The book you drown in, the book you are wrapped in right now. How you lose track of the world, lose track of all the other books, lose track of tomorrow, lose track of yourself, and yet find yourself on every page. In the astonishing book,  A Beautiful Question (the book I am totally submerged in right now, when before that I was totally hypnotised by Patrick Ness’  Chaos Walking trilogy), Frank Wilczek asks:  is God an artist? Was the starting principle an artist who wanted to make something beautiful? The appearance of number everywhere supports him.

Is there another theory? That the starting principle of the universe was a writer? Think not only of all the words in the world, but all the worlds in the words.

Anywhere. Anytime. Anything. With words.

If not, then perhaps it started when someone opened a pretty big, new book, and became immersed. Maybe the book is still being read. Maybe we are the book, we are the story. The universe, God, the big bang, whatever, is a reader.

How else do we explain the effect of not just one book, but every book, on our lives or just our moments, our feelings and imagination, our involvement with the world, our living?

Think about it. We don’t just get tricked once, we get tricked every time, every book. Every book is where we are, when where we were was the last book. Utterly inexplicable. Although there’s probably a book about it.

All your reading has been training you for this, the book you’re reading now, the words you’re reading now.

For your next profound, hypnotising, sick-grinning, value-shredding hundred mile-an-hour experience, may I at least offer you this 2016 ultra-tragedy as your next book?  i am hate – lee goldground

this is not a blog part 2

This is not a blog.

I’m trying to figure out the way, the straightest path, to help Maxi h8r Muir drag his wounded, grinning ultra-tragedy through your door-step and into your life.

So this is not a blog.

This is a partly  violent, partly melting, sobbing knock on your wood-work. The anti-hero of the 21st century needs you to make sense of a sick quest to achieve the worst number one goal in the world. A broken Scottish village life has pushed him out to the edges of the universe. Why?

So no blog. This is a story trying to find a way to tell itself –

in the UK: i am hate kindle

and in America and the world: i am hate kindle



What are you utterly attached to?

Ever fumbled with book covers, leaky roofs, a family storm, poverty, learning to tell not sell the incredibly horrible-beautiful lives being lived inside your novel? Put your marketing boat into so many oceans at once that you’re a bit clueless about where and how – tweet, face, e, network (could be renamed hardwork)?

Yesterday, my battered toyota took me on a drive that matched my inside exactly – I had no idea, took random turns (easy in a city) made a decision then back tracked, empty cafes were full, favourite cafes were shuttered, and on.

I found one seat next to a toilet five miles from home, struggled with wifi, then came the anti-flash of un-inspiration. Blank screen, blank day, blank blank. But then I saw this tweet quote –


And it resonated, chimed, sang and danced an opera. Yes. This was me. Is it you? Not just writers, whatever the thing is for you. And so instead of marketing or adding a chapter to my next book, I wrote this blog title on a blank page and asked myself

What am I utterly attached to? 

Here’s what came up – it’s rough, and unedited. It was thinking. Everything that follows I’ve pasted as it was, hopefully as a stir to making yours. Please share when you do.

To create.

To create things that last longer than me or the moment

To live for creativity.

To smash a thousand violins if it makes one symphony

To be myself

To resist culture

To write

To think

To sing

To have peace


To live big picture, not small.  Rather a small home and time to create than have to upkeep and be concerned with up-keeping and cleaning a big one.

I believe in making all the mess required to make a masterpiece. (Yes, I live in hope and hard work that masterpiece will come in my lifetime.) No, that’s not true, it’s not that I believe in making mess. But I accept the mess that making a creative masterpiece makes, I believe in allowing that mess to build up while creating is taking place, then cleaning when the work of the work is done for the moment. I would rather build my life around creating, than build my creating around a non-creating life.

And I’m understanding what I mean by creating, it’s not the same as being creative, like when you invent new ways to use a paper clip. It’s creating artefacts of art, something that lasts, it’s making something that lasts longer than it took to make purely because I have the idea to. It’s creative artefacts. Stories, paragraphs, poems, songs, pieces of art that I make (I’m a lousy artist but I love making it and always will), piano sketches or song sketches that I record, so someone may dig them up. I am utterly attached to a creative life, allowing all drops of creativity out, keeping nothing in. It is, I know, impossible on two levels.

  1. There is never enough create time. I have to work. I have to sleep. I have to pay bills and conform to roles and be in a family that doesn’t live to create. I get that. They don’t have to. I love who they are.
  2. And I will die with one creative idea or a library of them inside me. But those I can get out in the years in between now and then, I am utterly attached to.

I’m even writing this down so it becomes in a tiny skin-thin way one of those artefacts of art, by which I mean the product, the bit that comes at the end of an artistic inquiry into emotion or fact or feeling or an idea that pops into your head, or an imagination that continues to swell, fat with story. I mean meeting life artistically, daring to have or following a gut instinct to make something artistic from life.

What is your artistic manifesto?

I live for time to live. I want no small talk. I would rather silence. I want to live through the creative process.

My question today is a short one – have I created something? Have I  worked on something with at least some of my heart that has made inroads into creating something that will outlast me?

Have I managed my roles so as not be drowned in them or believe that they define me, but to liberate those that steward me to be myself?

Part of me doubts if we need to even make a manifesto for creativity – isn’t it anti-creative?

But if I’m honest, a lot of my life is anti-creative, at least at the level of the time it takes to do everything else, and the way in which everything else multiplies. When was the last time a novel knocked on the door, and you had to say, ‘Please leave me alone, I’m trying to live?’



No this is not a blog

At last they come, the final two minutes of morning before work, the crush, sudden, as if the day ahead were a boot and these last few free seconds butterfly wings. And as sudden comes the urge to write, to capture the moments inside the minutes, the picture in the frame.

It’s become harder to write morning pages, and I wonder why. I wonder if it’s a physical thing, I can’t sit at a desk for as long as I could;  I  wonder (I am terrified) if I have less to say. Does that mean I am more at peace?

What use is a writer without questions?

A writer who doesn’t question is a propaganda-ist, I think. I  don’t know, perhaps I should Hamletise and  write about my indecision. But that’s navel gazing fart gas and who wants to read that? I don’t even want to think it. Perhaps it’s because I’m not having an affair, not in a swirl of tormented bliss, or in the middle or in the recovery of a major illness. Perhaps it’s that my wife and I have retired from our sport of fighting, retired from hate,  and so turmoil stays on the touchline,  the unneeded substitute.

When did everything abandon  words?

And what is it about our modern world that says we should write a blog. So be it, but be warned, this time information is all you’ll find,  not real writing – the real writing as always shows up in books, tucks itself between the folds of a plot, hisses out between the embraces of made up characters who are not very made up at all.

We are supposed to run riot on the face of reality with our questions. Ha. Shit. I’ve done a morning page without realising it, and gone past the two minutes and now my kids are late getting up.

This is not a blog. A blog is to help someone, and who is this going to help?  How the hell do I know?  It’s what I needed to write. Maybe it’ll help someone who needed to do the same, write what they wanted to write, and who was looking for the nudge over the blogless cliff. No this is not a blog. And that’s all you need to say to write one.