Kevin Pocock

…doesn’t work like other people’s brains.

My brain works like my brain, and this tends to mean that when I’m without ideas I don’t write. The two issues with this are (a), inspiration shouldn’t be the reason to write, just the occasional genius that populates writing and (b), it tends to mean that I’m lacking input.

Narrative.

Since a young age, my brain has been narratively driven in the way that…well, I assume most people’s are (we all enjoy stories) – so as to applaud extensive cohesion and the development of ideas.

Yet I think my brain requires narrative in extraordinary quantities. It wants to gorge on them, chew them and taste the best bits, the worst bits and process the whole. Not to produce inspiration, but to produce more appreciation of words, language and my own understanding of the work I enjoy so much.

Gao Xingjian, the Chinese novelist, playwright, critic, translator, screenwriter, director, painter (read as: ‘work ethic guru’) has said:

Writing eases my suffering…writing is my way of reaffirming my own existence

…and I get that. Not so much the first bit, but certainly the last. Writing is my life’s work, and I’m now realising that writing is dependent on reading. On listening. On the input of words into my narrative combustion engine.  No input = no output, and no output means no writing. No blog posts. No anything.

I’m trying to address that. Not only have I signed up to Lovefilm to plug the visual arts sinkhole, but I’m taking and making time to read more. First up are the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I read them before at university, but never really paid much attention. Couldn’t have done, else I’d have been as inspired going into Am. Lit seminars as I was when I got off the train today. Superb. Check him out if you’re at a loose end.

And that’s that. I only wanted to type something here just to keep people updated on me. This being a blog of sorts and all. To writing. To narrative. And to input.

Til next time.

In theory all anyone, other than a writer themselves, will ever publicly see of  writers’ works are the finished articles (pun not intended, but I’ll take it). Writer’s notebooks – mine anyway – are covered, sometimes hanging and curving at improbable angles, with little phrases, question marks, screamers and sentences that will never be anything more than that.

The best ideas, those formulations of words that provide a resonance and clarity/originality – or those at least chosen for that effect – are more often than not the fruit of arduous labours and research. Research into what can be made of the overall content from its parts, but ultimately research into the possibilities of what can be written.

Take it, scarily, existentially and you argue that everyone’s actions are subject to the same crazy construction process: Considered clothing, greetings, conversations and thoughts are all the fruits of infinitesimally small decisions as well. But I want to stick to writing and research here, and so thanks to kottke.org and Life.com for this fascinating image .

Einstein’s desk at Princeton, on the day he died. Incredible eh? Imagine all the workings and notes in there that never made it to publication. Further theories we might have now, and Einstein’s own little question marks and screamers.

The mind boggles. What’s more, if you read the editorial on Life, you’ll see that the image is one of a selection, taken by Ralph Morse, the others of which were previously unpublished and forgotten about.

To be honest, it makes the raft of unpublished posts hidden away on this very website, that I don’t deem anywhere near good enough for publication, a little inconsequential somehow.

A bit of preamble here: This was my entry for the National Poetry Competition 2009. Obviously I didn’t win anything, otherwise I wouldn’t be allowed to share this here. But the competitions loss is someone’s gain…or something else equally consolatory :) Anyway, here it is – I hope you find it enjoyable in some way. I quite enjoyed writing somethign a little bit different.

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