burntpunk
01-24-2009, 10:12 AM
Call me an *******, but I admire Jack Kerouac to high heaven. His stories aren't spectacular, but they are a spectacle. The reason I admire Jack Kerouac is because he sat down for a three week marathon and typed 100 words a minute, this made Truman Capote snarl, it makes me smile.
I feel like its always been on the fringes, always on the lips of many writers, artistes, playwrights, since the dawn of storytelling. It has been exposed, it has been utilized, but considering the amount of movements we've seen, the art of vomiting has never had its limelight.
When I began writing, I noticed that subconsciously events and images were filtering from my life into stories. When I had block, I would snatch a moment, a minute, fully-formed and real, and cosy it in fiction. In recent times, the notion of spending time with made-up characters in made-up scenarios has lost its buzz.
Imagination doesn't entice me.
Roman à clef is a novel describing real life, behind a façade of fiction, according to Wikipedia. And as writers, this certainly is a novel with a key, we can open doors, the potential that we are opening ourselves up to is lethal.
Do you keep a diary? What about a blog? I've been keeping a blog for 11 months now, the daily experience is cathartic, is exhilarating, I vomit my thoughts, my beliefs, my issues, emotions, my experiences, my musing -- I'm reaping a wordcount of 3k on a daily basis. I have a skeleton of myself in words. The chaos of life organised. Life stripped naked. Through the catharsis of honesty, vulnerability becomes stability.
Now I pose you a question. Ever drank a cup of vomit? Using the colours of vomit as a pallette to paint is dangerous. It has been the downfall of many artists, the catalyst to depression, however this reflection is what we are truly interested in as humans. We can unwind stories and subconsciously allegorise life in sips, but why not take a deep gulp? Vomit is an acquired taste, it is what we are really interested in.
The world of literature has seen too many tame stories, You can go and write twenty-something books, make a few bob, shake hands with Ruth Rendell, and be considered an important writer. You focus on a genre. Fantasy perhaps, you see the landscape, you see the tropes, you see the clichés. You write with caution. People accept this, people buy this. But does this person even write?
For all the clockwork matter that consists of writing well, you can nail just about every element going. Congratulations, William J. Shakespeare will be simultaneously resurrected so he can suck your ****. Does nailing all these glorious elements of writing even make you a writer? My name isn’t William J. Shakespeare, and I’m afraid I won’t be sucking your ****, but I don’t think that makes you a writer. At the end of the day, you’re hiding, staring at a computer, typing. How about get a life? No. How about actually writing? Actually discovering something through the process, yes? You have fears. You have hopes. You have a million things to express. This is brilliant. This is your fuel. This is your life ending one moment at a time, are you going to let your imagination masturbate, or are you going to write some real prose. And if you are going to let your imagination masturbate, please, grab a tissue, not a pen.
What is a story? I’m sure every weekend a buckload of academics will have a mass debate on what one is, they’ll use all their haughty elements and talk about the stuff that got them their status. In my humble opinion writing should just like vomiting. I don’t know about you, but I think the act of vomiting is the most beautiful action a human being can make.
You don’t know who you are until you have vomited. Because when you vomit, when you express yourself, you make yourself vulnerable, this may be scary, but this is your chance to yourself, see your life, see what is wrong, see the link that hold it together, take the third eye, and repair your life. Life is too short to write tamely, we have spent too long, listening to the philosophical thunderwank of Jane Austen. We are dying one moment at a time. We will have lived and then died. We are all journeymen, rushing through life. It is through vomit and stories that we get meaning.
I choose Jack Kerouac.
I feel like its always been on the fringes, always on the lips of many writers, artistes, playwrights, since the dawn of storytelling. It has been exposed, it has been utilized, but considering the amount of movements we've seen, the art of vomiting has never had its limelight.
When I began writing, I noticed that subconsciously events and images were filtering from my life into stories. When I had block, I would snatch a moment, a minute, fully-formed and real, and cosy it in fiction. In recent times, the notion of spending time with made-up characters in made-up scenarios has lost its buzz.
Imagination doesn't entice me.
Roman à clef is a novel describing real life, behind a façade of fiction, according to Wikipedia. And as writers, this certainly is a novel with a key, we can open doors, the potential that we are opening ourselves up to is lethal.
Do you keep a diary? What about a blog? I've been keeping a blog for 11 months now, the daily experience is cathartic, is exhilarating, I vomit my thoughts, my beliefs, my issues, emotions, my experiences, my musing -- I'm reaping a wordcount of 3k on a daily basis. I have a skeleton of myself in words. The chaos of life organised. Life stripped naked. Through the catharsis of honesty, vulnerability becomes stability.
Now I pose you a question. Ever drank a cup of vomit? Using the colours of vomit as a pallette to paint is dangerous. It has been the downfall of many artists, the catalyst to depression, however this reflection is what we are truly interested in as humans. We can unwind stories and subconsciously allegorise life in sips, but why not take a deep gulp? Vomit is an acquired taste, it is what we are really interested in.
The world of literature has seen too many tame stories, You can go and write twenty-something books, make a few bob, shake hands with Ruth Rendell, and be considered an important writer. You focus on a genre. Fantasy perhaps, you see the landscape, you see the tropes, you see the clichés. You write with caution. People accept this, people buy this. But does this person even write?
For all the clockwork matter that consists of writing well, you can nail just about every element going. Congratulations, William J. Shakespeare will be simultaneously resurrected so he can suck your ****. Does nailing all these glorious elements of writing even make you a writer? My name isn’t William J. Shakespeare, and I’m afraid I won’t be sucking your ****, but I don’t think that makes you a writer. At the end of the day, you’re hiding, staring at a computer, typing. How about get a life? No. How about actually writing? Actually discovering something through the process, yes? You have fears. You have hopes. You have a million things to express. This is brilliant. This is your fuel. This is your life ending one moment at a time, are you going to let your imagination masturbate, or are you going to write some real prose. And if you are going to let your imagination masturbate, please, grab a tissue, not a pen.
What is a story? I’m sure every weekend a buckload of academics will have a mass debate on what one is, they’ll use all their haughty elements and talk about the stuff that got them their status. In my humble opinion writing should just like vomiting. I don’t know about you, but I think the act of vomiting is the most beautiful action a human being can make.
You don’t know who you are until you have vomited. Because when you vomit, when you express yourself, you make yourself vulnerable, this may be scary, but this is your chance to yourself, see your life, see what is wrong, see the link that hold it together, take the third eye, and repair your life. Life is too short to write tamely, we have spent too long, listening to the philosophical thunderwank of Jane Austen. We are dying one moment at a time. We will have lived and then died. We are all journeymen, rushing through life. It is through vomit and stories that we get meaning.
I choose Jack Kerouac.