Exercise 3.
UNRELIABLE THIRD. Write a fragment of a story from the POV of an unreliable narrator – third-person limited (or attached) narration.
700 words
“I need to just say this. It’s been eating me up inside. I know that it could ruin everything we’ve been through over the past few years. I know that you’ve said you hate this kind of grand gestures of romanticism, and I know it is somewhat selfish of me to stand here, after everything you’ve told me and to risk it, risk it all for nothing more than what is most likely a lusting I’ve been unable to contain. But, well.
And with that, she slapped him. She didn’t need to hear what he had to say. He could feel the eyes of the rest of the room burning into his back.
She looks at him, a tear beginning to slalom down her perfectly formed cheek bones, stopping briefly on her jawbone before dropping into oblivion. This one action is a very efficient metaphor for the end of their relationship. A brief tear, and then gone.
With that She turned on her heels and made for the exit.
He just stood there.
On a barometer of worst case scenarios, this hadn’t even entered his head. He had not even made his confession. Although He would never describe it as a confession. For him it was a declaration. A moment which would solidify within him a belief. He had never had the courage to step up to such a moment. Had never once even contemplated being so honest. So open. So foolish. Yet here he was the great idiot of his age.
He staggered.
Stopped.
Stood up straight. Straighter than he had ever before. His chin was practically vertical. He pushed his chest out, surveyed the room. The eyes continued to glare, but burn no more.
He smiled.
And with this action the entire room averted its gaze, as if all at once, a bright sunbeam had flowed from him. For the first time in his life He felt content, confident even. He may have bared his soul, or not bared his soul, but certainly tried to, for the first time in his life, and he may have been rebuked in the most savagely callous way imaginable, but he was not going to let that stop him from savouring this defining moment. You could say that in that moment he became a man, but it would be a lie.
“YAAAAARRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!” He whispered. And yet, despite whispering, everyone seemed to turn and listen, as if their very ear drums had vibrated their head to turn and look.
He slumped to the flow. Was he crying? It’s unclear; no one could see his face, so let’s just assume he was. Only he knows for sure. From the crowd John slowly, tentatively stepped forward.
Then, as if from the mind of a madman She walked back into the room. The revellers turned. As if things couldn’t get any more unexpected or unpredictable. In her hand she carried a gun. No not a gun, something less dramatic, but at the same time more dramatic. A chain saw. Yeah, that’ll do. A chain saw. In fact, before she entered, the crowd turned their head toward to entrance from which moments later she had exited, on hearing what to most of them sounded like a chain saw. As for the rest, one can only imagine what they thought upon hearing the sound, but one can assume they had never had the privilege of hearing a chain saw.
Anyway – she darted over to Him, who still had his head on the floor, and was presumably still crying, and if he wasn’t he no doubt would be if he took the energy to arch he head to see the demented chain saw wielder making her way toward him.
John at this point realised he had probably overstepped the mark in venturing forward to comfort the man. He may have ventured forward because on some level he emphasised with Him on the floor, but there is no doubt in my mind, that upon seeing, and hearing first, obviously, the chain saw, all empathy evaporated, and may have, at the very last been replaced by sympathy, but he most likely failed to discern any sympathy, so racked with fear was he.
At this juncture I would like to make it clear, that not being there I am unsure of exactly how the whole affair ended, but suffice to say, I believe it ended happily ever after...
THE END
Tuesday, 19 January 2010
Monday, 18 January 2010
She Never Smiles - A Short Story
For two weeks after, I’d had the same dream over and over. I read once that having the same dream over and over makes the dream seem worse. But I may have just dreamt it. I call it a dream, but in reality, it was more like a nightmare. I always awoke at the same point. The doctor didn’t seem interested when I told him. When do they? He only looked at me when I left the room. I guess he wanted to make sure I’d left. Another hypochondriac busying up his already hectic day. The more I dreamt about the event, the less slept. In a few more weeks I’d be a clinical insomniac. And I loved sleep. Or at least I used to. I’ve been thinking about that last sentence. The word event doesn’t seem right. It insufficiently describes the.... what word is suitable. Are words suitable to describe such a thing? At this stage in a story most readers are wondering what happened. Why it’s being written about. That’s the key with writing something down, or filming it, or singing about it, or painting it. It has to be significant enough. Maybe you’re wondering if someone died. Maybe you’re hoping someone did die. If you, that says more about you than it does me. I work in sales. Cold calling, but not normal people at home. That’s where I draw the line. We all have a line and that’s where mine is. I’m ok with calling businesses, its part of their job to take cold calls. They might not like it, but that’s part of life. After each call I’d fantasise about what the voice on the end of the phone looked like. What they smelt like. Whether they were attractive or not. I usually judge by their voice. However, when a voice sounds attractive it usually means they’re not. That’s the rule. She was the exception that proved the rule. She was the one. At least that’s what I convinced myself. I have a problem. It’s a confidence thing. Most people have a confidence problem. Most people don’t deal with them the way I do. I ogle people in the office. Picturing them in compromising positions. Convincing myself they liked me. She didn’t like me. It was about a month before the event. I’m still not happy with that word, but cannot think of a better way to describe it. I wish I could. I made a decision which led me to where I am now. Maybe if the doctor had helped. Maybe if I’d recognised my condition earlier. But these questions are irrelevant now. The answer illusive; redundant. She wasn’t typically beautiful. But she did pay me attention. Clearly too much. I need to make it clear, this is not a confession. For a confession you need to be repentant. I’d taken to leaving work early. Finding excuses to leave. My boss thought I might be dying. Cancer she worried. I played along. Not my finest hour, but small fry compared to what would happen. I didn’t know she find me there. I needed time, I thought I had it. But she’d been sent home early from work. My dream begins with that look on her face. I might never forget. It haunts me even more that the last look I saw. She had such beautiful eyes; Hypnotic. I remember the first time we met. The first time I saw those eyes. Every time I thought of her, those eyes, piercing to my soul. I felt like she saw me for who I really was. Am. I didn’t hear her come in the door. I don’t know why. I didn’t even hear the door close. What I heard. What changed everything was the phone call. “I’ve got the results” Is what she said. Then she cried. For 15 minutes I stood at the top of the stairs watching her cry. Those uncontrollable tears falling down her flushed cheeks. The phone resting liking a dead pet in her hand. There must have been someone on the other end the whole time trying to console her. I wanted to console her. I wanted to be the guy who was there for her. I could have put my arms around her. I could whisper in her ear that I’d be there for her until the very end. I’d have told her I loved her long dark shiny hair. Hair like the models in shampoo adverts. I never believed women really had hair so good. She did. But not for much longer. “I’ll still love you when you hair falls out. I’ll still love you when you can’t control the sickness. I’ll love you more because that’s what you deserve. And that’s what you’ll need.” This is what I would like to have said. This is what I want to whisper in her ear. Instead I just watched. I always just watch. The nightmares haven’t gone. There still there. Time is the greatest healer they say. Not in my case. Everyday is the same as the next day; the day after. The day my conscience reminded me what I’d done. I tried telling myself it was an accident. That I didn’t mean it. But I did, I know that now. Through all the sickness and drinking and smoking and pain. I knew I meant it. That’s what haunts me. She deserved so much more. She deserved the best. I wanted to give it to her but she didn’t want it. Then it happened. I’ve had the same dream for two years now. Those eyes, the blood. Maybe I did her a favour. Saved her the misery, the pain, the humiliation. The degradation. These are the things I tell myself to get me through each day. Those tears, her body slumped at the bottom of the stairs. She would have had more of that. She might have had the strength but how can anyone know. No one will now. But at least if it had killed her. If little by little it had eaten her insides. Destroyed that which made her beautiful. That which gave her the sparkle in her eyes. Then I would be justified. I couldn’t have seen her like that. Maybe it was for the best. These are thoughts that race through my head as I try to sleep. Insomnia creeping ever slowly over me, like a disease infecting my mind. I lay awake, the moon glistening in my eyes. I close my eyes and she stare at me. I want her smile but she never will. I can try and make her, but it will never happen. The memory, the image, it’s always the same. She never smiles, not anymore. The End.
The 3 A.M. Epiphany Exercises
Exercise 2.
IMPERATIVE. Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands. O this; do that; contemplate the rear end of a woman who is walking out of your life. The exercise will be a sort of second-person narration. (a you is implied in the imperative).
500 words
Do exactly as I say.
Hear me.
Pick up your shoes and walk across the floor.
Feel the soft varnish finish on your sweaty, clammy toes.
Stand on tiptoes.
Do exactly as I tell you.
Now dance. Dance like it was your last waltz before you meet the maker.
Dance like your true love was waiting in the wings ready to take up your hand.
Dance until the red shoes upon your feet, are stained with blood.
Now stop. Think. Listen. Listen to the sound of your heart beating. Feel the energy as it moves from finger to toe, tingling with life.
Slump to the floor. Rub your hands over the wood. Smell the tarnished varnish, mixing with the sweat of your bare feet.
Feel alive, for the first time in weeks. Do exactly as I tell you.
Trust me, and trust yourself to be free, to hear, to see, to feel, to taste, to sense.
Open your senses to the world around you.
Step outside. Walk through the long grass, like some memory of you childhood.
Remember you childhood. Remember the games, playing with your friends. Never forget them. Never forget who you were, or from what you came.
Imagine your parents, cuddling and smiling. Imagine them waving you goodbye on your first day of school.
Now imagine their funeral. Imagine placing the wreath on their coffins, sat side by side. Imagine looking round and seeing a wave of tears from mourners, all also remembering that one defining moment with your parents.
Now imagine your not crying. You’re not even upset. Look at the sad mourners, now angry at your expressionless face, your lack of emotion.
Do exactly as I ask. Don’t question my commands.
Imagine your girlfriend, Imagine she’s away. Tell you her you don’t love her anymore. Tell her you fantasise about the girl down the road, in the office, the girl on the bus, any girl. Tell her, if you had more guts, you’d cheat on her just to see her reaction when she found out.
Tell her you wouldn’t confess. Tell her you’d leave clues, ensuring in the worst possible way that she knew. Now tell her you love her. Tell her you can’t live without her. Mean it.
Run. Run as fast as you can until you heart hurts, you can’t catch breath, and your vision goes blurry. Now run some more. Push your body until it breaks. Then moan at its limitations. Speak as if you can conquer the world, but no inside that you never will.
Try, but don’t try completely, so if you fail you have an already, pre-packaged excuse. Make yourself feel better.
Remember all the things you’ve done that you regret. Remember that without them you wouldn’t be here, at this point in your life, with these endless possibilities ahead of you. Now fail to fulfil any of those possibilities.
Ask that girl out you’ve had a crush on since before you can remember. Convince yourself she will never say yes, and remember even if she does say no, you’ll never see her again. Walk out without telling her you feel. Hate yourself, loath your very existence. Think about taking your life. Think about how easy it would be. Think about who would miss you. Think about all our so called friends, who wait for you to make arrangements, who wait for you to phone, text, email them. Wait for your friends to ask you something personal. Wait forever. Know that it will never happen.
Now, listen to me very carefully, as what I say next means more than anything I have ever said to you before. Listen, intently. Know, without doubt, without question, without insecurity, that I am your conscience, and I will be with you forever. Know that nothing you do will change that. Know that for now and forever I will be your only companion. Live with it! Now…. Dance!THE END
IMPERATIVE. Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands. O this; do that; contemplate the rear end of a woman who is walking out of your life. The exercise will be a sort of second-person narration. (a you is implied in the imperative).
500 words
Do exactly as I say.
Hear me.
Pick up your shoes and walk across the floor.
Feel the soft varnish finish on your sweaty, clammy toes.
Stand on tiptoes.
Do exactly as I tell you.
Now dance. Dance like it was your last waltz before you meet the maker.
Dance like your true love was waiting in the wings ready to take up your hand.
Dance until the red shoes upon your feet, are stained with blood.
Now stop. Think. Listen. Listen to the sound of your heart beating. Feel the energy as it moves from finger to toe, tingling with life.
Slump to the floor. Rub your hands over the wood. Smell the tarnished varnish, mixing with the sweat of your bare feet.
Feel alive, for the first time in weeks. Do exactly as I tell you.
Trust me, and trust yourself to be free, to hear, to see, to feel, to taste, to sense.
Open your senses to the world around you.
Step outside. Walk through the long grass, like some memory of you childhood.
Remember you childhood. Remember the games, playing with your friends. Never forget them. Never forget who you were, or from what you came.
Imagine your parents, cuddling and smiling. Imagine them waving you goodbye on your first day of school.
Now imagine their funeral. Imagine placing the wreath on their coffins, sat side by side. Imagine looking round and seeing a wave of tears from mourners, all also remembering that one defining moment with your parents.
Now imagine your not crying. You’re not even upset. Look at the sad mourners, now angry at your expressionless face, your lack of emotion.
Do exactly as I ask. Don’t question my commands.
Imagine your girlfriend, Imagine she’s away. Tell you her you don’t love her anymore. Tell her you fantasise about the girl down the road, in the office, the girl on the bus, any girl. Tell her, if you had more guts, you’d cheat on her just to see her reaction when she found out.
Tell her you wouldn’t confess. Tell her you’d leave clues, ensuring in the worst possible way that she knew. Now tell her you love her. Tell her you can’t live without her. Mean it.
Run. Run as fast as you can until you heart hurts, you can’t catch breath, and your vision goes blurry. Now run some more. Push your body until it breaks. Then moan at its limitations. Speak as if you can conquer the world, but no inside that you never will.
Try, but don’t try completely, so if you fail you have an already, pre-packaged excuse. Make yourself feel better.
Remember all the things you’ve done that you regret. Remember that without them you wouldn’t be here, at this point in your life, with these endless possibilities ahead of you. Now fail to fulfil any of those possibilities.
Ask that girl out you’ve had a crush on since before you can remember. Convince yourself she will never say yes, and remember even if she does say no, you’ll never see her again. Walk out without telling her you feel. Hate yourself, loath your very existence. Think about taking your life. Think about how easy it would be. Think about who would miss you. Think about all our so called friends, who wait for you to make arrangements, who wait for you to phone, text, email them. Wait for your friends to ask you something personal. Wait forever. Know that it will never happen.
Now, listen to me very carefully, as what I say next means more than anything I have ever said to you before. Listen, intently. Know, without doubt, without question, without insecurity, that I am your conscience, and I will be with you forever. Know that nothing you do will change that. Know that for now and forever I will be your only companion. Live with it! Now…. Dance!THE END
The 3 A.M. Epiphany Exercises
Exercise 1.
THE RELUCTANT I. Write a first person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I or me or my) only two times – but keep the I somehow important to the narrative you are constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in herself than in what he is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting event in which he is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make her self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece to realize that this is a first person narration. Show us quickly who is observing the scene.
600 words
I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, couldn’t find the inspiration needed. The white blank page returned my gaze, taunting its viewer, as if it could do better. Then the noise started. The constant groan, creak, the hum of the lights. How is anyone supposed to find inspiration in this place? Excuses they might seem like but how can they be when they actually prevent creativity. Today there was a new sound. One which wasn’t abstract. One that didn’t bounce around the room, disguising its location, like a ninja waiting to strike, and throwing off its prey. Investigating, there she was. Hannah her name was, an artist. A Painter. She was moving in and asked for some assistance. Beautiful, mesmerising, beguiling, confident, even arrogant, but in a way which would melt your heart. Unloading her boxes, carrying them up three flights of stairs wasn’t easy, but from somewhere motivation rose up, and it wasn’t even a problem. At one time, she was carrying a heavy box which looked bigger than she was. Returning to collect the next box, she was there, laughing in a hysterical fit the box under her, as she clung onto it with all her might. Her long, seductive fingernails proving to be more than just an aesthetic decision. There were, to all intense and purposes the only thing stopping that humongous box from rolling all the way down a flight of stairs. Helping her up, we managed, with great difficulty together to raise the box from its teetering position and carry it together up to her room. We took a break, had some tea, the first cup of the day is always the best, and to share it with her, somehow made it taste like the finest cup of tea ever drunk. As if each leave had been handpicked from the mountains of India, and brewed instantly. As we sat waiting for the tea to cool, there was a palpable tension between us. As if each was trying to fathom the other. Her eyes where the most piercing blue, her long blonde her, looked liked it had been fashioned out of gold leaf. But it was her neck which struck the strong chord. The long curves, the soft skin, leading down to endless possibilities of happiness. The only clue to what happiness and joy, those worn, lived in hands, which spoke volumes about the world this god of art worked in. Through them you could gauge the obsession she felt for her creativity, that she was a slave to her art, that her hands were victims of the enduring pain and ecstasy of painting. On one of her canvases was the name Athena, scrawled as if carelessly applied to a meticulously composed masterpiece. It stood out against the careful, fine brush strokes which revealed her character as some who pays ultimate attention to the task at hand, someone who did nothing without first knowing, completely, that this was the best possible option. Yet the name, Athena, its scrawl across the piece, unveiled a hidden side to her, a spontaneity that which not be kept in check, that forced its way up through all the pre-meditation, the contemplation, the careful planning to leave a final signature on a personality so effortless beautiful, so unaware of her spellbinding charm, that to reveal it to her would be to burst the bubble of her ignorance. An ignorance which subdued her evident arrogance. This was the most beautiful woman the Creator had ever conjured. His great magic trick, and it seemed the fates had conspired to make he, the unwitting victim of her magnificence.
THE END
THE RELUCTANT I. Write a first person story in which you use the first person pronoun (I or me or my) only two times – but keep the I somehow important to the narrative you are constructing. The point of this exercise is to imagine a narrator who is less interested in herself than in what he is observing. You can make your narrator someone who sees an interesting event in which he is not necessarily a participant. Or you can make her self-effacing, yet a major participant in the events related. It is very important in this exercise to make sure your reader is not surprised, forty or fifty words into the piece to realize that this is a first person narration. Show us quickly who is observing the scene.
600 words
I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t focus, couldn’t find the inspiration needed. The white blank page returned my gaze, taunting its viewer, as if it could do better. Then the noise started. The constant groan, creak, the hum of the lights. How is anyone supposed to find inspiration in this place? Excuses they might seem like but how can they be when they actually prevent creativity. Today there was a new sound. One which wasn’t abstract. One that didn’t bounce around the room, disguising its location, like a ninja waiting to strike, and throwing off its prey. Investigating, there she was. Hannah her name was, an artist. A Painter. She was moving in and asked for some assistance. Beautiful, mesmerising, beguiling, confident, even arrogant, but in a way which would melt your heart. Unloading her boxes, carrying them up three flights of stairs wasn’t easy, but from somewhere motivation rose up, and it wasn’t even a problem. At one time, she was carrying a heavy box which looked bigger than she was. Returning to collect the next box, she was there, laughing in a hysterical fit the box under her, as she clung onto it with all her might. Her long, seductive fingernails proving to be more than just an aesthetic decision. There were, to all intense and purposes the only thing stopping that humongous box from rolling all the way down a flight of stairs. Helping her up, we managed, with great difficulty together to raise the box from its teetering position and carry it together up to her room. We took a break, had some tea, the first cup of the day is always the best, and to share it with her, somehow made it taste like the finest cup of tea ever drunk. As if each leave had been handpicked from the mountains of India, and brewed instantly. As we sat waiting for the tea to cool, there was a palpable tension between us. As if each was trying to fathom the other. Her eyes where the most piercing blue, her long blonde her, looked liked it had been fashioned out of gold leaf. But it was her neck which struck the strong chord. The long curves, the soft skin, leading down to endless possibilities of happiness. The only clue to what happiness and joy, those worn, lived in hands, which spoke volumes about the world this god of art worked in. Through them you could gauge the obsession she felt for her creativity, that she was a slave to her art, that her hands were victims of the enduring pain and ecstasy of painting. On one of her canvases was the name Athena, scrawled as if carelessly applied to a meticulously composed masterpiece. It stood out against the careful, fine brush strokes which revealed her character as some who pays ultimate attention to the task at hand, someone who did nothing without first knowing, completely, that this was the best possible option. Yet the name, Athena, its scrawl across the piece, unveiled a hidden side to her, a spontaneity that which not be kept in check, that forced its way up through all the pre-meditation, the contemplation, the careful planning to leave a final signature on a personality so effortless beautiful, so unaware of her spellbinding charm, that to reveal it to her would be to burst the bubble of her ignorance. An ignorance which subdued her evident arrogance. This was the most beautiful woman the Creator had ever conjured. His great magic trick, and it seemed the fates had conspired to make he, the unwitting victim of her magnificence.
THE END
Wednesday, 6 January 2010
Preamble
My name is Keith E. Glenby and I'm a writer. Or at least that is what I tell myself. Whether I can actually call myself a writer is up for debate. Unpublished, unpaid and uninspired; maybe I am a writer. Seems like most of them are in the same boat. The problems holding me back are manifold. Firstly, inspiration. Knowing what to write, and when. I have ideas all the time, but rarely ones I feel confident exploring and expanding to try and turn into some form of fiction.
Secondly, confidence. Writing is a fairly depressing pasttime for me. Not only is it incredibly hard, its very time consuming and those two factors really don't sit well with my cynical, self loathing outlook on life. Spending hours and hours doing something you find ridiculously hard and depressing, whilst being the type of person who can spend most of the time feeling sorry for yourself is not a cocktail worth swallowing.
I sense I might be losing you, whoever you are, out there in the infinite blogosphere. And why would you be here in the first place. With all that porn out there just waiting to be watched, to clutter up you cache and infect you software, while you have that post wank self awareness, which barely ever makes it worthwhile.
Back to me though, the other element which hinders my ability to be a writer is arrogance. Not my arrogance, but the arrogance required to actually be a writer. I see it this way. Firstly, any creative person who wants to tell stories, paint, sculpt, act (especially the actors) must have some degree of arrogance within them. Why you might ask. Well, to be a writer, or artist you have this need to communicate. To send out your thoughts and opinions on the state of the world, and you hope, pray even, that people will hear what you have to say and agree, or remark how insightful you are. This might not on first impression seem arrogant, but in order to think you have something worth saying is slightly arrogant at the very least isn't it. Now of course we life in the age of social media, where everyone can indulge their "voice". All social media proves really is that as a species we are quite self involved, have high opinions of ourselve and feel as though what we say is worth listening to, or reading. But it's not really is it. Very few people have the capacity to move others, to enlighten our lives, or change the way we view the world. All social media, and contemporary society proves is that most people have nothing to say, but still feel they have a right to say. And of course the more people who feel like this, the more encouraged are those of us, who didn't think what we had to say was worthwhile. So this blog will be my two cents. In it I will explore the emotional rollercoaster that is my life, the things which really grind my gears, stick in the craw and make me want to rant about all things annoying, like when you on the tube, squashed up into someones armpit, as you see that new advert for Sure maximum protection and can't help but laugh at the irony. Only you can't laugh because to do so will involve inhaling, and your just not that confident that breathing in this, just say it, overweight man's, wearing too many layers because it is winter, sweaty armpit air is actually going to keep you alive. So you suck it up, close your eyes and imagine your somewhere else.
This is my blog, and its as good as anyone elses, because I say so.
Postscript
This week I have been mostly listening to Gorilla Manor by Local Natives on Spotify. It's my album of the week. Stand out track thus far is Airplanes. The last film I saw was Nowhere Boy about the young John Lennon - it was good, but lack any real weight, or message. The last book I read was Dostoyevsky's The Idiot, not because I'm pretentious but because he's someone who actually has something to say.
On that bombshell.
Secondly, confidence. Writing is a fairly depressing pasttime for me. Not only is it incredibly hard, its very time consuming and those two factors really don't sit well with my cynical, self loathing outlook on life. Spending hours and hours doing something you find ridiculously hard and depressing, whilst being the type of person who can spend most of the time feeling sorry for yourself is not a cocktail worth swallowing.
I sense I might be losing you, whoever you are, out there in the infinite blogosphere. And why would you be here in the first place. With all that porn out there just waiting to be watched, to clutter up you cache and infect you software, while you have that post wank self awareness, which barely ever makes it worthwhile.
Back to me though, the other element which hinders my ability to be a writer is arrogance. Not my arrogance, but the arrogance required to actually be a writer. I see it this way. Firstly, any creative person who wants to tell stories, paint, sculpt, act (especially the actors) must have some degree of arrogance within them. Why you might ask. Well, to be a writer, or artist you have this need to communicate. To send out your thoughts and opinions on the state of the world, and you hope, pray even, that people will hear what you have to say and agree, or remark how insightful you are. This might not on first impression seem arrogant, but in order to think you have something worth saying is slightly arrogant at the very least isn't it. Now of course we life in the age of social media, where everyone can indulge their "voice". All social media proves really is that as a species we are quite self involved, have high opinions of ourselve and feel as though what we say is worth listening to, or reading. But it's not really is it. Very few people have the capacity to move others, to enlighten our lives, or change the way we view the world. All social media, and contemporary society proves is that most people have nothing to say, but still feel they have a right to say. And of course the more people who feel like this, the more encouraged are those of us, who didn't think what we had to say was worthwhile. So this blog will be my two cents. In it I will explore the emotional rollercoaster that is my life, the things which really grind my gears, stick in the craw and make me want to rant about all things annoying, like when you on the tube, squashed up into someones armpit, as you see that new advert for Sure maximum protection and can't help but laugh at the irony. Only you can't laugh because to do so will involve inhaling, and your just not that confident that breathing in this, just say it, overweight man's, wearing too many layers because it is winter, sweaty armpit air is actually going to keep you alive. So you suck it up, close your eyes and imagine your somewhere else.
This is my blog, and its as good as anyone elses, because I say so.
Postscript
This week I have been mostly listening to Gorilla Manor by Local Natives on Spotify. It's my album of the week. Stand out track thus far is Airplanes. The last film I saw was Nowhere Boy about the young John Lennon - it was good, but lack any real weight, or message. The last book I read was Dostoyevsky's The Idiot, not because I'm pretentious but because he's someone who actually has something to say.
On that bombshell.
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