Something that has annoyed me for the past year, since I got to university in fact, is the idea of 'the perfect writer'. Its what we, as writers, strive to be; cradling our achievements at the end of our lives and realising we have written something that has had some kind of impact on the world around us.
But do we ever get to this point? Is perfection even possible? In the words of John Sublime from New X-Men: "Every diamond has its flaw."
I guess for me I'm still struggling to find my voice; how do I write? what have the books of the generations before me given to me? Has their writing heralded any advice, any wisdom? It seems when I try and think of 'the perfect writer' I answer myself with a myriad of questions that make my quest seem murky or vague. Where am I going?
I guess the question I should be asking myself is; 'what writer am I?' - and generally this means 'what do you write?' I've always written poetry and toyed with the idea of becoming a novelist but I've never written one. I aim, by the end of this year to have a draft finished for publishing in my third year. The idea is still blossoming and however much miracle-gro I sprinkle its end result seems further and further from manifesting.
I've noticed, especially in my course, what sort of writers some people are. Some absorb books on touch and use their writing to advance on their own technique, others take a relaxed approach and let their thoughts guide them. Some I never see, and I often imagine that they are locked in their rooms till they begin to starve, fuelling their emotions in to a blazing masterpiece.
I feel a bit lost whenever I think of this.
But perhaps, possibly, maybe I don't need to pigeonhole myself in to one of these categories, but I often get quite pissed off because I never have a consistent pattern of an idea. Usually its stream of consciousness (whatever comes to the fore), but with a university project, I came to find that my sub-consciousness was actually a provider of my inspiration. We were asked one day to bring in a dream journal filled up with notes and details of our dreams over a few weeks. I poured over mine and realised they were either too obscure and nondescript or complete and utter bollox. They were nonsensical and, despite the only person at the table who was interested in surreal writing, I found the task of choosing one to be more arduous then the rest of my group.
But there was one that stuck out and actually, right now, is chaining itself to my idea for my novel. I was standing alone at the edge of a driveway whilst the autumn leaves collated messily along the road in front. It was a driveway; a long path that stretched far out as if it touched the horizon. A man, a stubbly older man, was standing in front staring back at me with a sweet, sad smile, apologetic. He looked towards the open road which was now a house; a cabin. Childish noises and laughter began to grow louder and louder until two small children ran up. "Daddy, Daddy!" they shouted in excitement. He turned his head back one last time and consigned himself. He picked up the smallest child, a young girl and walked towards the house. I felt my throat grow heavy, more prominent then ever before. I didn't even realise how hard I was crying; I didn't know this man, but he was of great importance to me and, bereft of him, my heart began to grow weak, my energy deplete. As he walked slowly in to the blazing light he kept shooting glances back until the horizon consumed him.
And then I awoke.
That dream itself... Well, to say the least, struck a cord in me. I couldn't even remember writing it down. The handwriting was messy, so it must have literally been when I had been aroused from sleep. But fuck! What an idea!
And even though I'm far from discovering what writer I am and what 'the perfect writer' is, I have found a path. A hazy, often bleak path. But its my path and mine alone. I could say 'And that made all the difference' but then this would be a giant cliche. I'm just going to shut up now. Phew.
