March 11, 2014 by musehick
I read Kerouac and within a very short amount of time I want to start writing about my home life and I want to start looking for the heroic and the saintly in the every day. I come from countryfolk, and even though I feel more often at home in a city, there will always be something of the countryside mentality about me. If I could write something that might immortalise and glorify my father and do something to illuminate how profound and worthwhile I consider him and his life and the hard he put in to be, then I would feel that I had taken a few small baby steps towards doing something unselfish and valuable with my art.
Directness is a key component in the communication that you give and receive when you talk with someone who really works for a living. I have worked a lot of jobs that people I know wouldn’t touch with a fifty foot bargepole, and while some of it was hard on the body while I was going through it, there was something very liberating in the physical demands that were placed on me and the sense of accomplishment when I had finished the day out having checked the items off on the list.
I have often thought that there are two distinct threads through my work – one that deals with the fantastic and the abstract, and one that is very grounded in the real and the actual and factual living of life. The generation I come from came from working class backgrounds and then became weird social hybrids when they were forced through the mutating filter of university. My fiction and my poetry meets somewhere in that place – it is why Heaney makes as much sense as Eliot, why Kerouac makes as much sense as Bradbury.
I don’t think of myself as a genre writer – I want to capture the whole human drama; I want to be as much about philosophy as real world reportage. It’s nice on the days when I feel like I hit the targets I aim at.