Inspiration

Since I have been talking about my inspiration, I thought it only right to share my own personal inspiration with you. Here you have, my travels, my friends, my home and my passion, all in one post.

All comments are welcome and much appreaciated.
Enjoy.

Expect a lot of books

One of the first things people say when they come into my house is always;

-You have a lot of books!
-I do.
(Silence usually falls at this point, but only for a moment because its biding it's time, it know that it can rear its ugly head again later.)
-Have you read them all?
-Most of them. I can count on one hand the ones that I haven't though...
(Then my guest will wander towards one of the many bookcases/baskets in my house and run their finger along the spines of the books; hopefully noticing the lack of dust that all too often lingers on heavily burdoned bookshelves.)
-I used to love this series! I see you like your fantasy?
(It's always fantasy. No one ever says "I see you like your thriller, short stories or anglo welsh writers!")
-Yes. I do like a bit of Pratchett. The Discworld is...
-I used to read the Terry Goodkind books too.
-Their actually my partners...
(Ignoring me they quickly scan the rest of the bookshelves in my living room before saying)
-Don't you have the first one?
-'Wizards First Rule?'
-Yes?
-It's in the spare room. He owns a big copy of it, won't fit on these shelves.

Mrs Yettman sits in her chair and sniggers. She's seen it countless times, I should expect it now too, but somehow I am constantly suprised at how people chose to reference their knowledge of literature. For example, on clear display in my living room are the complete brightly decorated childrens versions of the Harry Potter books. They are almost without a doubt the most obvious and well known books on that particular shelf, (with the possible exception of the 'Complete Works of Shakespeare'...) However no one uses these books as a starting point for this conversation. I think perhaps it has something to do with them being primarily childrens books. Mrs Yettman is laughing now. She has been circling me for a few weeks now, preparing to pounce. I can hear her whisper write, write, write... She calls. I want to, I actually want nothing more, but unfortunatley real life breaks my heart and forces me to have time only to write in countless forms. Pink ones, yellow ones and white... they don't whisper. Their voices SHOUT!

Truthfully, I am tired. I have found a moment, one moment to write to you. I have no time to proof read, to check, or even to think. But this moment will silence Mrs Yettman for now. Slowly she is shrinking in size on my sofa, curling up into a tabby ball of fur. I watch her, she has become young and lively again. Craving my attention, my time. I pick her up, gently stroking her contented face, twisting her tail around my fingers. She rests contented in my arms as I make my way down the stairs, I put her outside next to the potted tree in my front garden and close the door and clip the latch on the cat flap. I come back upstairs. For a moment nothing happens. One beautiful moment of nothing, I begin to rest. I breath.

She has started to scratch at my door... it's only quiet, but I know it will soon become unbareable and I will have to let her in. Give her my time. My love.

Mariannes Makeup

All to often people see only the finished product. A pair of Prada shoes; exquisite. For those with a more modest budget, like myself, undoubtedly there have been weeks if not months of agonising self debate before the purchase is finally made. Do I need new shoes or do I just want them? Should I have the washing machine fixed before I get buy them? Then, as if by magic, its January and that pair of Prada shoes are sitting sadly on the sail rack at the back of the shop. Fate. I can't afford the washing machine now anyway, not after the christmas spend. Days, weeks, months and sometimes even years of perfect harmony pass. It isn't until they begin to fade that their ownwer takes a closer look at what is holding them together. She picks away at the peeling sole that has been her friend for so long...

I have been reading a lot of finished products recently and it has started to occur to me more and more that what I really want to know about them is where they came from. What started them? Who? Why and where? I'm going to make a wild assumption and guess that it is almost never only from the authors imagination. Every idea needs a spark. A good writer sees this spark and steals it, moulding it into a new entity. Giving birth to a new story.

However, admitting where one stole this spark from offers a transparency into the piece. An honesty, maybe? I am going to give you an honest view into a piece of micro-fiction that I wrote a few years ago Mariannes Makeup. I was looking around an exhibition at the V&A a few years ago and found a spark in this painting...I moulded it and created Marianne. Given her story I thought she would be an appropriate place to start given we are discussing transparency and honesty. She still inspires me.



Marianne has just applied her makeup. I've just watched. I don't understand how she does it. Every morning she puts on her crow black wig. Lines her eyebrows. Shaves her face. Foundation. Rolls on her lipstick. Spreads her eye shadow. Powder blush. Eyeliner. Every morning, she just stares into that mirror, mouth ajar. And every morning I gaze in fascination past the back of her head at her square beaten face, through the gold framed mirror. She used to be like me. It’s why we fell in love. So much in love. She wanted me, wanted what I wanted. A house, a home, a garage for the car, a cat named Biggles, a dog named Rex, and perhaps, someday a marriage. Like every couple. It would be fine, normal. It’s a modern world, no one would bat an eyelid. That's why I can't understand. She used to have long straggly hair, knotted. Ginger. Baggy jeans, over her ass, revealing a touch of her grey Calvin Klein boxers, alluring all of the eligible bachelors. Her trainers were too big, their laces untied, and a bands name was splashed across her t-shirt. I still love her. I still want her. She's just not the man I fell in love with. After she's done staring into her wonderland of plastic beauty. She spins on her plush pink swivel stool and says
“Ready for breakfast Richard? Tea or coffee?” She gets up, slips on her brown kitten heeled boots and walks into the kitchen. “ Richard? You never said. Tea or Coffee?”