On Writing.

I have a relationship with writing.

A full blown torrid love affair, if you may.

Infact, if we had a song it’d be “Love the way you lie”, Rihanna’s tribute to love and Eminem’s tribute to wife-beaters (pun unintended)

A beautifully constructed sentence is art to me. As is an Andy Warholl approach to words and punctuation- mess-it-up,  giveitadifferenttouch,  but.don’t.be.predictable.

Zadie Smith, for example, she knows her sentences and metaphors and ironies !

Ofcourse,  loving beautiful art and being an avid fan makes for soul numbing, finger crippling fear. Reading a well written book does not make me jump up and down my futon (all,  writers read in futons *rolls eyes*) saying, “You watch out Amis, my books going to kick your book’s, now hardbound fourth edition, ass”

It makes me wide eyed, petrified and unable to stop myself from looking up that writer online. Worst.Move.Ever

It’s like telling a young scientist, “Did you know Einstein completed his thesis by 26?”

“Oh wait, you’re a 32year old phD student, is it? Err. FAIL.”

My fav authors actually studied literature. Zadie Smith spent considerable time at Cambridge learning/observing/mastering how other authors wrote, their techniques, the construct of a novel. Hell, the construct of a sub-character even. And while I am proud of having had a real education (which means not an MBA dupe-show for a Masters) there is no real skill/technique or a cheat sheet in there on how to be a better writer. These thoughts furiously compound themselves into a Glee-like musical in my head (with  a par-excellence production quality, if I may add) and its endless foot tapping torture. Much like Darren Hayes in the 90’s.

I then sit down to write on my laptop. The result is what a monkey on a Twix high, furiously pounding on a keyboard, would produce. Not great.

The other fun scenario is when I actually want to write something. It would be a lovely day outside, lots of pollution and a sick leave. I will think to myself what boundless opportunities this day holds and how I must carpe diem them by the throat. Filled with positive hoo-haa, I sit down to write and what do you think I am able to write about? Nothing. Nada. Except, 5  genious, scathing ways I can insult what so and so wore to that event. Or, how mad I am at so and so for being an obvious plagiarist (pet peeve alert). Or on a really bad day the lyrics to what will absolutely be Gaga’s new hit

(Even on my worst day I can top the poetry out of this-

I want your horror/I want your design

‘Cuz you’re a criminal as long as you’re mine.)

So. My Darling Writing. I hate you (like I love you).

Love,

Your Favorite Monkey.