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September 21, 2013 by musehick

This blog has always felt easy to work with because the whole point of it was to be as unadorned, unclever (meaning not try-hard) as possible. I just wanted something straight up that plugged into where my head was with in regards to my writing, and I think it is something I have succeeded in.

You need some kind of forum or place to talk, kind of to yourself, and work out the direction you are heading in, even if it turns out not to be the eventual path you fully explore. I have spurred myself on to completing a lot of work purely because i have said I am going to do it here. Set yourself the challenge; oblige yourself to the people who drop in to hear what you have to say, and you want to perform.

I am amassing finished books at a good rate – or at least ones where the writing is done. They need to be edited together, and then i am working on a release strategy that does the most for me, the books, and the potential readership. I feel like I have been in a very fertile period, and due to the pressures I have had bearing on me, some of which have been hinted at in the work, I feel like my writing has taken on new resonance and depth. It is something I see and feel and am happy with. i still seek to push myself though.

I am reading a number of poets at the moment, and they all have very distinct voices which I wish to have literary conversations with. Bukowski still kicks the shit out of the cliched copyists who crowd into the warmth of his shadow, but I often have a strained relationship with his poetry and prefer the prose (my favourite being Ham On Rye). Margaret Atwood makes me think of sharp kitchen utensils in a shiny kitchen, but with an undercurrent that transforms her into the female equivalent of Jeremy Irons in Dead Ringers. John Betjeman is uniquely English and plugs into some common cultural language that runs deep in me like the letters in seaside rock. Dylan Thomas is more robust and there is muscle in his lyricism. Heaney always seems so sure-footed and easily lyrical about things which sometimes seem like they should fight being in poems. And then there is the Virginia Woolf I am reading – Mrs Dalloway bristling and alive and so full of music that I am in awe of Woolf as ever.

It mashes up and steeps in the acid, a mixture of apples, rats and ham hocks in the cider.

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