We all have a clear picture in our imaginations of what it is to be the suffering writer. We envisage a manic depressive grinding out words in between planet-class drinking sessions. If you were at university with me I probably shouldn’t remind you of that.
Sampled and copied and covered and coveted, Sinnerman was used by Nina Simone to finish her performances. Incidentally I almost wrote ‘gig’ instead of ‘performances’. When referring to Simone, I’m not sure ‘gig’ quite gives her the cultural docking space she needs.
The more days that pass into my indie writing adventure, the more it becomes normality. Acclimatising to something is, I think, the beginning of becoming good at that thing. My normal is now typing, as I am now, in my spare time. Sometimes it’s while I’m out at work, waiting for a client to land or eat or meet or simply exit their house. Habits are forming.
I am a white, middle-classish, cisgender male living in a western democracy. You could, quite successfully, I think, argue that there is no other more privileged position in regular global society.
It’s raining today. I haven’t been for a walk. I’ve been brushing past the walls of the house, going from room to room.
What do you do when you run out of ideas? I used to go to the pub, or try to talk it out with someone. These days, with a driving job, limited finances, and having not been in Bristol long enough to have developed an accessible support network I tend to go for a walk. In fact, to get these very words out, I went for a walk into town to find the pace of prose I was looking for.
Often the incongruity of an event/person/piece of art within a certain context that can help us see them for what they are.