I have always wanted to paint. I lie about, my eyes closed and imagine bright colours painted thick, with huge wide brushes. Vivid punctuation. I imagine swirls with only the glimpse of an image.
I imagine a few deft strokes, the eye of the beholder filling details, creating imagery. I wanted to be able to produce something which meant different things to each person who stopped in front of it. I wanted clarity, deftness, paucity, conservation. I also wanted vibrant colours which mixed only as much as required.
So I bought paint, boards brushes, and I got mud. I got images even the kindest of my critics said looked like nothing. I evoked no emotion.
Although I awoke after several hours from a muse induced daze on more than one occasion, I can honestly say, that anything I produced worthy of hanging on the wall, arrived there by mistake. The few I did produce and induce family members to hang, were contrived, constipated pieces with no spontaneity. Completely the opposite of what I wanted.
After a long gap, I picked up my pen, and instead of using a few bold lines to initiate an idea, I wrote paragraphs instead.
Sometimes I wake up in the morning and I write and when I ‘come to’ I have written pages and pages, but I have no idea what it is like. I look at it and sometimes I can’t remember writing it and I don’t know if it is what I want to say. I have a character firmly in my head, but don’t know if I have got the image across to my readers.
I love to read amusing books, yet my only efforts at humour are much like my paintings. Like they needed an enema.
For some reason I write deep, dark twisted stuff. I try to force my readers to accept that the world isn’t a pretty place and that shit happens. Makes me wonder. Perhaps I should have used black, and dark red and purple as my palette.