Author Archives: theworddoodler

29

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Woman covering her head with blue plaid scarf

steps down. purple painted wall and dim lighting. couches in a lime with tables between. two guys bet cigarettes on pool. he goes to the bar. student prices for students. a pint of speckled hen. he nods to those he knows. goes to join then spots her. curling dark hair with a single hair brand. dressed in black and browns. alone. Sitting. he goes and says hello. she looks up. brown eyes consuming. a smile. they talk of the place, books and art. then photography. he admits his weakness. another drink and more talk. music. homes. laughter. the bar becomes small. a sofa, a table, and those two. the rest dwindles to nothing. the friends forgotten. there is only them now. and nothing. she combs back her hair and smiles. lifts her glass and sips. he watches it all. taking the whole of her in. the moment broken by a voice from the bar. time to go. no time now. she leads him to her room. a whisper of lips at the door. a promise to meet again.

sometimes

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sometimes you are gripped with imposter syndrome and the feeling you are wasting your time in the futile gesture of putting words to a page in the hope that someday you will be happy with it that it was all worthwhile the evenings of doubt frustration regret hope the unending feeling that you are so close that it is just over there that knots your stomach at night as you try to sleep but your mind won’t rest as it is full of nagging questions about the viability of the project you are working on whether it was all just a foolhardy endeavour in the first place that you rushed in not heeding the warnings that you were overreaching you should try something simpler a haiku maybe no a single sentence start there but you foolish you decided to rush straight in and try and write a novel again with characters not fully formed just going through the paces in unformed scenes like shadows in an early 80’s video game with all line drawings and the only colour is green and you don’;t even like that so you are left with the realisation that your story is missing a big something a great big something and you are a failure you’ve let yourself down and the people you told you were writing a novel and ask how the progress is going but they have now learnt not to ask anymore as the answer is always the same it’s coming along slowly so you are lying there fretting about the blank page in your book that needs words and exhausted your eyes droop then close but just before they close the idea the solution pops in and you write it down on the page by your bed satisfied that the solution has been found you can rest easy now so you sleep happy only to wake the next day and look at that paper and wonder what the fuck that word means and you are right back where you were the day before with mr imposter syndrome.

anyway. it is sometimes good to remind ourselves why we got into this writing malarkey anyway. the best way i find for me is to pick up a book by a writer i like and read their words and be transported and enjoy the sensation of being carried somewhere and then i remember it is making others feel this way through my work is why i do it. the smiles on faces. the appreciative words. the collective joy. that’s why i do it.

in praise of the futile

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a lot of my time recently has revolved around the issue of copyright and ai. if you’re wondering, i’m against allowing big tech to scrape the work of creatives to train ai without permission. it is theft plain and simple.

there are some who confuse having an idea with creativity. they mistakingly think it is the idea that trumps all. they disregard that creativity is a process. it is the process of flinging an idea into the open, developing it, refining it, abandoning parts, developing others. it is not the click of a button to generate a text or image or song. there is no human process there.

ai will never become creativity or be creative. ai solely seeks a quick fix profit. there will always be a profit margin for ai generated ideas. it will never explore the futile. the time spent on a creation that may not go anywhere. may not sell. is created just for the process and the act of creation. where there is no profit.

humans do not just create for profit. they create to experience a fuller understanding of their imaginative soul. to explore the connection between the sub-conscious and conscious. to play between the cracks. a flick of a button denies that. denies the fulfilment of the creative soul. the human needs to do the futile. to do something just because. it is what leads to advances and revelation. not the regurgitation of what has been.

embrace your futile self while you can. demand the right to be futile. to create without success or reward. to be human.

107

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this is not about love. the way you walk into a room. filling it with light in a moment. words spoken to reassure. praise. warmth radiating from a word. a touch. no. this is not about love. the sweet moments together. exchanging glances across the room. laughing over a glass of wine. the touch of hands. the touch of lips. this is not about love. sweet caresses in the night. hot skin to touch. a warm embrace. silky. breath whispering. no. this is not about love. i’m not that sentimental.

paper vomit

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i always struggle with writing. i battle to put words on the page. splatter them on the whiteness. i guess it’s the combination of anxiety and the need for perfection. i worry if the words are not perfect. i physically need them to be perfect. heart beating. mind racing. hands tense.

if they’re not perfect i can’t move on. i can’t write another word. all i can think about is the imperfection. there is something wrong and i need to fix it. even if i can’t identify the flaw there is something that knows it is there. that it requires refining. tearing up and doing again. a single thousand word chapter can take me anything from two weeks to three months. before exhausted by the battle i move on. slow. glancing back at the previous words. the ugly.

i know the first draft is meant to be vomit on the page. i have read it said by wiser and more successful writers than i. just get it down. the edit will fix it. it is what the edit is for. the redraft. the first draft is just for getting the story down. it is only when it is finished you know what your story is really about. where to go next.

i guess it stems from childhood this affliction. my schooling. being told to get my story done ready to present to the teacher and the red pen. it had be perfect first time. we only had one shot at it. later, the schools recognise some redrafting had to be done. so it became a pattern of first draft, edit, final draft. but still that wasn’t enough time. the teacher still had a red pen. and there still were flaws. cracks in the works. why didn’t they allow more time?

i think it was to be kind to us. not to delusion us. writing is bloody hard. it takes hours of toil in a room with a blank page. battling to choose the right words. craft the story. create realistic characters that really speak. not recite. hour upon hour spent on getting it right. only for it to be finally ignored. left unread by our intended audience. who would let children see that? experience that? better to leave them with the dream that putting words to a page was possible by all. without that lie where would our writers come from?

the trouble with tinkering

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maybe it started with the sink. we used to have plugs and chains. it was a simple and effective system. you would put the rubber plug in the sink hole. fill the sink with water job done. then a bright spark got to tinkering. what if instead of a plug you had something you could turn and the plug would go down and block the hole? no. not good enough. what about if the plug was just a push and pop up? you just push down on the plug then fill the basin. marvellous. life is simpler.
except…
you now have to replace the whole sink if the plug stops working. just replace the plug. don’t be daft. it’s a more complicated system. what? you used to just get a new plug and chain? oh. that was the old days. things are better now.

or there is the tap. the tap starts dripping. you need a new washer. except that isn’t the solution anymore. you can’t just buy a new washer and stop the dripping. not now. not now with these new taps. we’ve been tinkering. you now have to buy a whole new tap unit if it starts to drip. nothing for it. it’s all inbuilt you see.

that website you like. the one easy to use where you can find everything you like? well, we’ve made a few improvements. we’ve added a pop up help system so you don’t have to look for help. it will pop up every few minutes to remind you we’re there to help. and we’ve tinkered with the menu. we’ve made some features that used to be optional add ons. you now have to pay for them but they are new and improved. better.

that’s the problem with tinkering. it’s infectious.you’ve finished your first draft and edits. and you get to wondering. what if i just add a little bit to the scene here. that will improve. it. oh. now i have a plot hole. i’ll just fix that with adding a bit about the character here. oh. now that character’s actions don’t make sense. i’ll add a new piece about them here. oh. a new plot hole. i just…

don’t tinker. if it works leave it. don’t be tempted. not everything added is an improvement. sometimes things are best left as they are.

moment 28

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typewriter image. black and white.

he sat down typed a sentence then stopped. where another once followed there was nothing. just blank. not a thought. not a murmur. not a whisper. just nothing. he crossed the sentence out, moved the paper up. clean. blank. he typed a sentence, different this time. a start of a thought. but the thought remained hidden. elusive. he stopped. where another would follow there was nothing. he pulled the offending paper from the typewriter and tore it to pieces. he threw them about the room. they landed amongst others. he put a new sheet in the machine. stared at the page. once they had been friends. now they were enemies. an invisible barrier lay between them. a breath’s thickness but it was enough. perhaps today was the day. he stood up and made his way to the cellar. took a key off a nail and unlocked the gun cabinet. he took out the shotgun and two shells. he returned to the writing room. he lent the gun in the corner and placed the shells on the windowsill. upright. proud. he looked at them a moment and sat down. he rubbed the scar on his brow. perhaps today. he typed a sentence. a thought. a moment. and waited.

moment 27

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big red stood in the yard. broad shouldered and tall. taller than most there. he could easily carry more than a hundred. once. now, not so sure. time had transformed him. no longer days wandering the streets of the city, saying hello to new folk. folk local to the place and visitors from far off lands he would never see. tales of gleaming buildings, monorails and cars that walked themselves. tales of streets filled with people, almost unable to move, fighting to get home. home to their small boxes with small rooms and small children. in his city not so busy. instead narrow roads, grime-covered bricks, litter dancing on pavements, and sleeping drunks at bus stops. most were nice to him, grateful of his help, happy he was there. others swore at him, hit him as he passed or scrawled obscenities on him as he slept. no, he was old and travelled the city streets no more. instead, he sat in the yard, changed. some days were good. people would come to him, get a drink at a table in sun, or study vibrant art. other times, laughter filled the air. they sat on him listening, waiting for the punchline to come. and the lonely times, he would just sit there, in the yard, in the dark, waiting for day to break. waiting for the company of people. he did not mind his end times. there was nothing he could do. but sit. wait. big red.

a psychogeography of turnpike lane

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in the summer of 2023, during the haringey arts festival, i got involved with a writing project. the idea was to map the psychological reaction to local area in turnpike lane, london through pieces of poetry and prose. we spent an afternoon exploring and writing about the local area.

writers ventured out. made notes. then sat and scribbled a piece or pieces of writing. what resulted was a collection of work that spoke of different roads, shops, buildings, or journeys.

after some editing and compiling by clever people, a book was born. some abstract illustrations were added to accompany the work, and a year late the book was launched in london.

i attended a launch in the all good bookshop which is right in the heart of turnpike lane. extracts were read, discussion took place, plans were made, and whiskey dunk.

friday 20th september sees us at the magnificent st mary’s tower in hornsey to promote the book. it promises to an atmospheric evening of celebration, laughter, and possibly intrigue.

new york

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a guy plays sax for coin on the corner of 6th avenue and 55 street. mechanical rabbits and cats dance to the beat. a few walkers tap their feet to the rhythm, sway to the sound. but give no dime. they’re too busy waiting to cross. pass the manhole covers venting steam in the 31 heat. they cross. on their way to meet. sit in a bar. sip a cool beer.
outside barnes & noble on 5th avenue a grey old man sleeps. head on a box. slumbered. he holds a sign in one hand. black marker pen: please help i am homeless, oh god save us all, oh god save us all. he makes no dollar. he doesn’t notice.
the street sellers set up their plastic crates with goods for the night crowds. genuine rolexes and gucci bags for a ten. they give their patter to the tourists. everything is for sale. even souls.
the queue builds outside the rock. the red carpet awaits. cool efficiency bundles the bodies in for a view like no other. come enjoy the ride. sorry the tops closed. lightning expected.
the wise seek shelter in the air-cooled diner. iced lattes and milk shakes with candy floss. all day breakfast. delivered with a smile. they work hard for their tip. the manager smiles.
in dillon’s the locals drink ice-cool beer and watch the sports on the many screens. how we doing in paris? there is the crack of the pool table as the screen light gleams off the copper jars hanging from the ceiling.
in the bar of the renwick hotel loud music plays. you have to sell a kidney to pay for a beer. they take your money with a smile. a drunk new yorker tells you about his wall street deals and visit to london. he’s scathing of both. but it is no better here.
the strand bookstore. the lost wander the shelves looking for loved ones. they find them hardbound. there is the smell of coffee by the graphic novels and teenage girls browse the romance novels. not that one – my mum would kill me!
lafayette is a place of chilled wine and flaky pastry. pistachio cream filled croissants are devoured eagerly as talk turns to the best shops for sneakers. have you tried macy’s?
in the white horse tavern in west village tourists drink cocktails and tell stories of dylan thomas. you can’t help thinking the place was better then.
empty boutique stores in greenwich village display designer goods without the price tag. no one goes in. the locals instead walk their dogs and talk of the best place to get coffee.
in washington square the young play for the crowds. street sellers have handcrafted trinkets. you can play chess for a fee. a bare chested man practices his dance moves. too vigorous. his shorts fall down. unperturbed. he dances on.
times square you get bundles by mickey and his friend mickey. with mickey. their mouse features are fixed grinned. menacing. the screens pop ads encouraging you to spend. come on! embrace the american dream.