…and by that I mean The Cure variety, not the Shawn Mullins kind (although, catchy song). No I am not a self-proclaimed emo, and please do not stir me into some form of justification that will be thinly disguised as non-sensical rambling. For your information Robert Smith is a musician, and not all musicians angst away with their borrowed guitars.
I have decided that my writing does not possess a voice. It is the type of prose which attempts to carve its own path of distinction, of originality and ‘flair’ (frackin’ wanky assessment criteria), yet ends up in a spluttering heap of stolen expressions, feeble emulations and spluttering impressions of all writers I’ve idolised and loved.
Which I think is part of the reason why I find myself sifting through the photos of said writers (or rather, just the one) via their Facebook profiles like a voyeur of sorts; peering into the unknown world, which on the outskirts seems to mirror my own and yet beneath the surface, scratches the realities of a different world. Different, not wrong.
I’m not sure what I’m looking for. I look at his pictures (ooh ahh, it’s a he!), see the remnants of his childhood upbringings laced in Chinese tradition, visible in the Poloroid-imbued faces of his family. I study his siblings, whom are no doubt equally intelligent, articulate, and perhaps more perceptive than he is. It amazes me how much human beings can accomplish when forcefully removed from their immediate surroundings. Coerced into making a new life, and for this particular one, making the choice of pursuing the arts world in order to discover the perfect way to express himself and find truth. To quote Flaubert: ‘Of all lies, art is the least untrue’.
But of course, I am making presumptions. And I am neck-deep in airy fairy post-modern wank (damn stream-of-consciousness prose!) as a result of my insomnia, so I will try to get to the point.
The question, I suppose, is: how much do you need to be a writer? How much time, how much emotion, euphoria, determination, creativity (if any at all), focused observation without lacking the ability to think broadly, criticism, and most importantly, how much life do you need? What makes a writer? What makes the self-indulgent art that they immerse themselves in so important to others? And is it truly self-indulgent? Do writers scramble for their audience’s approval? Do expressionists?
Obviously these are all questions I should be answering myself, but I am in a thick state mind now (yes, have dense head), so I shall settle for pondering.
– Met the lead singer Kele of Bloc Party. Photo, signed ticket stub, and evidence of a so-ecstatic-I-feel-trippy moi is accessible via my Facebook photos. Have now concluded that myself and my close-knit gig posse are all connected to Kele. Me and another friend met him, one hugged him right before she was pushed out from the front of the barrier at Splendour In The Grass, and the other saw him on a Sydney Bus. It’s fate!
– Also saw The Cure about a fortnight ago: came out of the Sydney Entertainment Centre deaf for four days a.k.a. titinnus freak out and it is a SHIT venue. But worry not – my ears are still good!
– Masters in Media Practice is 70% international students from China which has me seriously pondering the usefulness of a degree to such students (journalism does not exist in China full stop, bold, underlined, capitals, neon flashing lights, spruiker), as well as my own usefulness.
– Arctic Monkeys are still serious GOLD.
– Have started my Girlfriend internship. Am now a gung-ho online content producer for the next year or so (for one day a week! It was initially a three week trial, but I must’ve done something astounding because I am now signed on for the next 365 days. JOY!! Ooh sexy CV, uh-huh)
– 21st Birthdays have become frighteningly abundant. Am now engrossed in my own multi-paged (and multi-dimensional) proposal for my pending 21st shindig
– Never underestimate the power of multiple half hours indulging in productive time consumption via Dictionary.Com and Thesaurus.Com.
– Dawson’s Creek is gold for expanding vocabulary