Not forgetting humility: a short rant about arrogance in writing, in life...

It’s a sad truth that we live in a society saturated by things tailored to inflate our egos. Personal image, consumerism, business top-down cultures and competitive sports – each of these are just examples of the way in which the self is exposed to messages which help us forget something which is possibly one of the most vital parts of being human: humility.

Being human condemns us to faults. These faults – although resented and considered a bad thing to possess by many – are actually entirely necessary. If we had no faults, we would not have a perception of what flawlessness might be (however impossible flawlessness is to achieve). What I’m trying to get at in this post is that, yes, there is sometimes a need to be proud and show pride. However, this does not excuse arrogance. Furthermore, as writers sometimes completely lose track of their humility, their work becomes compromised as a result.

We come across the necessity of humility nearly every day: constructive criticism is just an example of how much we come to rely on failure as a means to improve. Accept it. For a writer, this is the most valuable lesson you can learn – to suffer your weaknesses and not ignore them. Despite subjectivity, it is immensely helpful to listen to what others think and to adapt your own work to reflect an acknowledgement of that. That’s not sacrificing an original goal or intention; it is absorbing and intelligently reflecting perspectives hitherto unseen by the author.

What I have noticed throughout my undergraduate course has led me to the conclusion that a writer so stubbornly committed to one idea and way of doing things – his way or no way at all – obsesses too greatly on narrow idea tracks. That is not to say that the individual creative talent is no longer necessary at all; it is the writer from which work emanates. But it’s a lazy way of doing things to ignore advice – or rather, the writer becomes lazy in his own mind without some outside stimulus poking him to attention.

The ego is ever-present and, as such, always will be a huge part of the human condition. It’s equally important to remember that at times it is best for the ego to be slightly less ‘huge’. Respect your own thoughts and beliefs by both trusting and doubting them.

A world of difference: why the term ‘earth’ is not the same as ‘world’

There is something that I’ve noticed recently in use of popular terminology which is actually something a lot of people would overlook as insignificant. For the most part, it is. It’s rather inconsequential for most day-to-day life. But if you ever happen to use the terms ‘world’ or ‘earth’ in conversation, then be aware that the two words – although seemingly the same in what they refer to – actually mean entirely different things.

It all hinges on what is physical and what isn’t. That is to say what is actually there in front of us (grass, dirt, mud, trees etc.) versus what is fabricated by us as a race (society, religion and culture). We can touch the ground; we know that it’s there. Can we touch ‘society’? No – not in the same way. We can think of and appreciate the notion of ‘society’, maybe even see it in action as we walk down the street. However, it isn’t a substantial ‘thing’.

This is, on a very basic level, what the difference between ‘earth’ and ‘world’ is. When we say ‘earth’, we’re talking about the bare rock or planet that happens to exist or ‘be’ here. When we talk about ‘world’, we’re actually meaning the ‘earth’ but with human ideologies and practices established within it. So, therefore, we’re living on an ‘earth’ in a ‘world’ which – paradoxically – has in turn given us the opportunity to explore this observation.

It doesn’t stop there though. The notion of ‘world’ can be separated from the ‘earth’ we know of. People are all too keen to create new worlds in science fiction and fantasy; each of these are fabrications of the human mind. The next time you say the term ‘world’, you might have images of Middle Earth bouncing around your head, yes, but it’s nonetheless interesting to know exactly what you’re referring to.

There are a lot of terms in language which are used flippantly without having much thought given to them. This is just one example – there are many others for certain. It does not really serve to show anything in particular, admittedly, yet it might well prove useful to know that there’s a ‘world’ of difference between ‘earth’ and ‘world’ at some point down the line...

Speaking without saying: A dialogue dilemma! (A not-so-long examination of speech, including minimal amounts of Heidegger)

It’s a familiar situation to find that you have started a conversation with absolute conviction, knowing exactly what you want to say only to find that you’ve ended up garbling some rubbish about nothing in particular. Or it certainly feels like you are. Moreover, the other person probably hasn’t taken a whole lot of notice of anything you’ve said anyway. This is a common feature of any dialogue: feeling a little out of depth, even a touch disconnected from the other person. We can only ever attempt to say things – but are we ever really understood?

A little Martin Heidegger for you now (don’t groan just yet, he has a decent point to make). He says that:

‘communication is never anything like a conveying of experiences, for example, opinions and wishes, from the inside of one subject to the inside of another’

And so...

‘the communication of existential possibilities of attunement, that is, the disclosing of existence, can become the true aim of [...] speech.’

Not to go into too much analytical depth, Heidegger is basically claiming that we can’t ever actually know what someone is trying to say to us. Let alone this, it’s impossible to really know anything about anyone. I mean really know, as in personal emotions and tastes; not superficially know, for instance how someone might feel starting a new job.

As a result, we are always talking about ourselves. Even to someone else, when we’re trying to say something constructive or helpful: it’s all a disguise. The minute we open a communication with someone, we’re reaffirming our own existence. We say ‘I am here, I am saying this; I am convincing myself of the awareness of my own being’, and ultimately, there’s not a lot we can do about this. It is a quirk of the art of communication which we tend to overlook.

So the next time you feel as if you’ve said nothing much when talking – or absolutely jack all – it’s not something to be ashamed or embarrassed about. You are merely embracing the art of speaking without saying...and you’ve just made Heidegger a very proud man.

Hearting autumn: Being close to the rhythms of seasons

It’s around this time of year where I tend to get very excited. It’s not necessarily because there is often a lot of shifting in life happening around this time, with many vacations culminating and work beginning again – although that is exciting in itself. There is some indescribable resonance about this time of the year. The first morning after a long summer (however disappointing the summer was, weather-wise) when the air gets the most subtle of cold tinges to it – not just the cooling effect of wind alone but a cold kind of imbuement to it – that’s what rouses me first. It wakes me, reminds me; signals in the most minute of ways to me that there is so much sensory abundance to come over the next few months from the rich and beautiful season that is autumn.

There is far too much for me to romanticise about autumn here: the earthen smells, the umber hues and auras of evenings to name a few. This is also not forgetting what philosophy thinks of autumn, that we must see and be aware of the death of things to appreciate life (the dialectic). I won’t go further because I don’t feel that describing this really matters – besides, you’ve probably heard something like that before somewhere. What matters is that something is at work. Something subtle, a sort of cadence which resonates with my own measure. It’s around this time of year that I suddenly experience some sort of creative boost if I go for a walk or sit observing for a time. Obviously I’m not complaining about that, however it does raise a few questions.

The first is why exactly it happens at all. Could it be something to do with inherent human nature? It’s not uncommon for people to relish the summer months and feel energised by the brighter, hotter weather. Some people hate it. It’s a matter of taste and how the body reacts to different climatic conditions in that sense. However, that doesn’t mean that other seasons do not have the capacity to inspire. For instance, I’m not a fan of summer myself but I will still feel stirred to write more lingering verse in hotter weather.

So secondly, this is what leads me to think that it’s triggered more by what the mind finds from what is presented to it: I am presented with a season so full of ‘things’ happening that I feel not only the inspiration to write, I feel a soulful shift happening as an underlying current. It’s hard to ignore a dynamic like that; there’s no doubt it will come out in what I write in some capacity.

The final thought I want to give is that whatever time of year that inspires you it’s the subtleties that really hold the most worth and joy. The small things. The things that you might see in a moment or fleeting instance which strike you. The scenes you might want to take a picture of, the smells you might want to take another lungful of. Being close to the rhythms of the world around you is part of making you feel a natural human being – not a robotic office droid. Be aware of the seasons and know them: they are what make up our earth and world.

Inevitable acoustics: Returning to the musicality of language

There is a reason why poets have been drawn to rhythm and rhyme throughout the history of poetry. It would, however, be absolutely foolish to claim to know exactly why this is – though I can offer a few thoughts on the issue of why, no matter how hard the more recent schools of poets have tried to break from and fragment the tradition of lyricality in poetry, we’re ultimately stuck writing with the way words sound.

When someone decides to begin to write with the intention of producing poetry, the very first flash of thought that goes across their mind is probably ‘I suppose I’d better rhyme this, as that is what poetry is: words which have rhythm and rhyme’. Even after having been academically taught poetry – how to write it, what to think and say or what to withhold – it is still difficult for me to change this perception of how to approach poetry. What does change is the way in which the poet will see and utilise the words available to him.

For instance, there’s a clear difference between being inventive with the sound of words and just rhyming for the sake of rhyming. Instead of choosing a basic word that simply rhymes with another, you begin to be infinitely more selective to the point of absolute frustration. Occasionally there will be no viable way of expressing the thought through rhyme, or the poet will decide that it’s not a great idea to employ rhyme anyway after much deliberation. The poet is then seeing, hearing and knowing rhyme in the broadest possible sense. That is being inventive with language, as opposed to flippantly throwing words that have identical sound patterns yet have no collective value together.

It’s a strong personal belief of mine that there should most definitely be musicality in poetic language. When I pick up the guitar, I instinctively play with chords and picking patterns to produce harmonies. When I sit to write a poem, I instinctively play with the way things sound in order to inject tone into language. There is absolutely nothing wrong – as far as I can see – with this. We are raised on nursery rhymes and songs, we are taught that sound is very important from an early age; we adore music, bands and instruments of all kinds throughout our lives. Wallace Stevens, a personal favourite poet of mine, was inclined to agree that ‘sound’ is an integral part of our universe; as such, it is poetry itself.

What budding writers now think they have to do to become a decent poet – in a bizarre offshoot from the modernist era – is to have no rhyme or rhythm whatsoever. They tend to eliminate it altogether, focus on images and pay little attention to traditional forms in a very Poundian fashion. There is too much bearing on free verse and little appreciation of working hard on a syllabic form, where often a tighter form and closer attention to how the poem as a whole sounds would benefit it immensely. This is a shame. We’ve come into the 21st Century believing that the modernists and postmodernists had things completely right when this is simply a blinkered way of viewing things.

So my message for today is this: don’t be tempted to let the music in poetry die when you write. It can’t be removed completely, as words are, ultimately, sounds themselves. Yet it pains me to think that there will be yet more upcoming poets not taking what is now considered a bold step backwards to look at traditional ways of writing poetry. There is a time for poetry that is disjointed and minimal; there is a time for when it isn’t. It’s a case of having the conviction and confidence to rise above simply being ‘modern’ when you write, if that is what you believe is ‘required’ of your self-expression.

Passing into the realms of ‘the uncreated’: The creative process, featuring a crude Lego analogy

'Decreation: To make something created pass into the uncreated.'

'Destruction: To make something created pass into nothingness. A blameworthy substitute for decreation.'

- Simone Weil

As the writer puts metaphorical pen to paper, in terms of the very instance of a thought – inspiration – he is creating. This is something which we have come to accept: the act of drawing upon faculties and resources in order to envision a new order or combination of parts. This is ‘creation’, something which most of us find easy to let by unscrutinised.

Not so long ago I was captivated by Simone Weil’s philosophy of decreation; indeed, it has now become a staple in explaining away a great deal of the emotional traumas that have wandered through my life up until now. How we are able to decreate and then create ourselves in new and exciting, stronger ways leads me to believe that we are, in many areas, truly dynamic beings. So I’d like to spend a little time breaking down what she says, as I believe it’s important to understand how people, and in particular writers, ‘decreate’ as much as ‘create’. I will be doing this through the genius of Lego. That’s not the name of a philosopher, I really do mean Lego.

Firstly, let’s have a look at ‘uncreated’ and ‘nothingness’. They’re frightening terms, yes. The whole notion of the ‘uncreated’ is slightly less frightening as a starting point because this seems to refer to all the bits and pieces which are ‘us’ in their broken apart state. So, think little blocks of Lego scattered over the floor which are all the pieces that make up the writer’s self. Not that depressing, really, when compared to ‘nothingness’. If we continue our Lego analogy here, you can forget the Lego. ‘nothingness’ isn’t even the bare floor without any Lego scattered on it: more just blackness, or if you can imagine it (which you can’t) no blackness at all.

So if we destruct something, we aren’t taking the Lego and packing it away in a large box – we’re banishing it from the realms of existence altogether. However, if we decreate something, we’re taking the Lego model apart and looking at all the shiny, shiny coloured pieces in their individual glory, just waiting to be reconnected together.

This is the importance of creation and decreation as opposed to destruction: both creation and decreation share a symbiosis with each other. As the writer is creating something afresh, he is simultaneously recognising that his ‘self’ is able to be decreated. The writer is able to be split into component parts which suffuse themselves into his work – a combination of individual faculties. When the writer chooses to write, he is unwriting himself; as a Lego model is built, we see the pieces which slot together in creating it.

In a very simple way, this is what the writer needs to consider when thinking about the way in which he or she writes. It is a case of understanding your own parts, how they work and interact with each other: thoughts, emotions, beliefs and experiences. Once the writer has an understanding and grounding in this, the poetic or narrative voice becomes increasingly assured. After all, a Lego model will always look best if it’s well thought out.

At times I feel like Absolon: The poet versus his work

An allegory for today - (yes, really).

So the poet has the germ of an idea, an instance, and begins to construe his thoughts in the form of poetry: his chosen form of idea-communication. He will spend an extensive amount of time lovingly inflating this idea, expanding its possibilities with images and sounds, words and phrasings. Form and structure even begin to affectionately work their way onto the page, and the poet sees this and he is pleased that all these parts of the poetic process are happening.

But for any of you familiar with the character of Absolon (the sickeningly lovesick sop from Chaucer’s ‘The Miller’s Tale and Prologue’), you will know that his ‘love’ – if that’s what you can call it, more bordering obsession – for the beautiful Alison was never returned. Furthermore, he was mocked and lampooned for his desires to the point of wanting to take full-on revenge in the form of a red hot poker being inserted somewhere less than attractive.

I suppose my point is this: that the poet will spend this inordinate length of time working hard on his poem. However, this does not guarantee that the poem itself will return this affection back to him. It might sit there squatting happily to itself on the page, where in a moment of lucidity the poet will look and think ‘no, this isn’t working at all’, or ‘why the heck did I originally think this idea?’ At which point, the poem, having been slavishly adored and constantly reworked by the poet has not only lost its original intention – it actually begins to deride the poet for ever trying to write it.

The question then is whether it’s worth continuing. Does the poet go and grab his flaming iron rod to take his petty revenge for all the wasted hours writing, ultimately making him feel like a fool for trying? The equivalent of this, I guess, would be obliterating it off the face of the earth by savaging it with a pen or excessively pressing the delete key.

My personal opinion is to resist being an Absolon, to save whatever is written, to drag the Word file to the far reaches of some folder somewhere or to condemn the notebook page to the drawer. However tempting it might be to exact revenge on your own work, with a little more thought, time and space away you might eventually find infinite worth in what you said.