Tuesday, 8 September 2009

If I say I am...

If I say I am a writer, this suggests that everything I write has, beneath the written word, some deeper significance. That is, I may use devices such as allegory, irony and pun to illustrate the things I mean to say. A story or poem, article or essay can be read as just that, or the reader can look between the lines to understand me as a person; as a writer. Which is not to say that a piece is worthless if taken purely on face-value: the words themselves should be readable, the language, beautiful or even, moving.

This statement, with a small amount of tinkering over time, was written many years ago, when I set on my journey as a writer. I still hold to it, a ‘motto’ if you like. Even more so, now that many folk will want to read into my work elements that may or may not explain what has brought me to the position I am in. What position? Having to retain anonymity, although thinly disguised. Yet, in doing so, I welcome any understanding, interpretation or engagement with my work, on whatever level you see fit.

You may be a fellow-blogger, a random surfer, friend; or perhaps some other strange twist has led you to these words. I once said that if I reached forty and had not been published, I might as well give up. Whether I meant, give up writing, or give up living is open to debate. Unfortunately, I began the rapid descent towards the latter a few years before I hit the big 4-0; the rest is history. Now I’m back.

This could be seen as a form of publishing – vanity, you could say – and since it is not the first, I could claim to have ‘published’ before my given deadline. Also, my work has been performed in public, and printed through other forms, recorded and broadcast, and released into the great wide world of cyber-space. Now, there is nothing remaining of that oeuvre; the Grey Ribbon has faded, there is nothing in Black and White, and my Facebook wall has fallen to dust like a crumbled tower. Only a Group of Devotees remains in Limbo, where I – like the urban spaceman – do not even exist. What a strange twist.

But I am still alive, still ensconced in my turret, putting the pieces together again, having been knocked off the wall by all the Queen’s men. I may be hiding behind my words, languishing in my Ivory Tower; a Tin Angel sitting alone in the dark, with darker moods; wallowing, struggling, suffering for my art.

But, as I have said before, not everything in Black and White…

The ellipsis remains.

Even so: the window is open. Come in and have a look around.

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