naked writing & Vitamin-Read: I dare you to write a something-stream without editing?

Sunday morning and this fell out my head and is copied and pasted below as it fell  – are there thoughts in here that help or chime or grate you? tweet me with your something-stream, a facebook challenge with words instead of video. Please RT and FB

“a new name to lie behind which will allow me to tell the truth, but that chance has already gone. For i hold in each step responsibility towards the nexties, and so how can i fall apart on the camera of the page, the page like a camera watching every word i think, revealing everything i am, how can i say what cannot be said when each sentence is an arrow accusing me, saying he wrote this, she wrote this, they together think this, don’t let them off or out of your sight. We trusted them with our lives, we allowed them to be part of a generation, and they have left nothing except stains and remains of trusted thoughts gone wrong, slipped the noose. These sentences slipped the noose, how can there be an amnesty for dangerous words, words are worse than a nuclear war, if everything is flattened then all we have is nothing, but words, they change the thinker, words infect reach reader with visions and desires and regrets and promises and change the fabric of the universe with each phrase, each gathered flock, each gathered harem, each gathered round of words making each reader drunk with a new version of reality, making each reader hallucinate ideas and feelings and values which each reader did not have until they swallowed and chewed and bit into the word clusters hanging like dangerous grapes. The killer nutrient is vitamin – Read. Anyone ingesting vitamin read is changed forever and there is nothing we can do to make them as they were, no antidote, no reversal of fate for the reader of words for the reader of words becomes fate itself, shatters stars in their arrogant constellations and replaces them with pole-star showers, sentences send up a thousand new guides to ten thousand new futures suspended in the conductive liquid space-fluid of the present moment, new universes made possible, new universes of the possible i am no different, this morning I opened pages and am gone”

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bloggy pages: before blogcess comes foreplay

A big and slightly nervous, spotty, teenage handshake to you, Scotblogger reader. Two lies straight away that come with the turf:

  1. I don’t know you and you don’t know me, so we have to pretend we’re saying hello for real. I hope you’re good at it, it’s all we’ve got.
  2. The big and slightly nervous, spotty, teenage handshake is metaphor – I was born in the 70s.

You might remember it, you might be in the middle of it, you might be terrified of it, but it’s there as the only universal truth Buddha left out: foreplay.

Without it, nothing comes. I’ve spent 9 years writing the debut – can you call a 9 year novel a debut? Sounds a bit artsy. A bit of me just calls it a miracle. It’s a miracle the bloody thing got finished with the rips life decided to spring along the way. Maybe, when we know each other better, I’ll fill you in on the rips. But not yet. I don’t trust you. No hard feelings.

But blogging. It’s the most exciting, fumbling, bound-to-get-it-wrong-I’ve-gone-in-too-quick-I-think-it’s-over pulse-quaking terrorbuzz there is, but we have no choice – unless we try, we’re never going to learn what each other likes. Maybe even loves.

It’s my first ‘guestblog’ since completing the fiction. It’s a weird name, guestblog; far too formal for what is, in reality, an up-close, knuckly-gut, skin on skin first snog-with-words experience. I like it so far. But I have no idea what to do. I’m doing what I do when I write – one word at a time, feel the feelings, go with it, hoping you’re enjoying it and loving every minute.

It’s a faith-fumble.

Making a mess in the knowledge we’re both going to get a lot better.

We all want great cess.  Success for our lives, blogcess for our blogs,  whether we’re reading or writing them.We’ll get there. We’re getting there. Many of you already are there, I’m sure. It’s about not being scared to come away with a few bloggy pages in your hand now and then.

Writing’s weird, eh? And reading? Don’t get me started. I don’t think any writer wants a ‘reader, or a reader a ‘writer’. At least, I don’t think I do. We want people, you, me, contact, a banter, the mini-contract of two ‘Alright?’s in the staff-room or pub or cafe or bus stop or tube. The introducey stuff. Then, when we’re ready, the meaningful mindy stuff that never leaves your head, that burns and concerns and inspires and confuses and incites and falls away and grows again.

Do you think we should stop? Before the hear us in the next room?  I was supposed to be writing a couple of sentences to lead into the blog, but it turns out the first sentences, the first faith-fumbles, are the complete experience. And what’s the rush? The book can wait – maybe next time. As we said, the truth – foreplay – has to be conquered first. So you might not want to click on this yet. I don’t blame you, take your time. Don’t give your clicks out to just anyone. how-to-kill-your-dad