I have a confession to make.
I have been a very bad student.
In the eight weeks since the Albury Writer’s Festival I have written diddly-squat.
…That is to say, I, as always have “coloured outside the lines” on this particular assignment by utilising my student blog as more of a diary and less of an academic journal. It wasn’t a conscious decision, it seldom is. It’s just that now, as we approach the hour of submission and I sit frantically reviewing my creative output which was tentatively typed around the time of the Writer’s festival, not only do I realise that my every post is absolute pants, but also, that I was really rather depressed for the duration of the festival as is my seemingly eternal biological constitution. - Oh please, there’s no need to seize up as I mention the dreaded ‘D’ word. I’m not asking you to do something so daring as to care. I believe that we all carry own special flavour of shit sandwich in our emotional lunchbox, mine just happens to be oozing manic depression. And that is completely fine.
Although, I do feel an overwhelming urge to sincerely apologise to the two pairs of eyes that may or may not skim my few emotionally charged blog posts. Of course, I did contemplate deleting everything and starting again. But whatever for? It’s quite rare these days to catch me at a moment of creative clarity whence I am capable of writing exactly what it is I feel I must portray. So I write through the fog and hope that someone might decipher my meaning. Whatever that means.
For many years I had pretentiously thought of myself as a ‘writer by compulsion’ I often felt compelled to bear witness to the tedious and the treacherous forces in our world, to give an account of all things from the comfort of my quasi-youthful perception. However, as I grew visibly older and assumedly colder, I couldn’t help but feel that my literary voice was almost entirely without purpose. Although, it probably should be noted that I have never had the naivety nor tenacity to seek an audience for fear of personal persecution. My witterings have largely been for my own amusement or catharsis.
Yet, I have often imagined what it would be like to be on the receiving end of the adoration I heap upon my literary heroes. One such literary hero of mine found his fame as the lyricist and lead singer of 80’s band ‘The Smiths” but that is ancient classical history now. He only answers to one name, he is the ultimate. The poet for the downtrodden and enduringly tear-sodden. The unmatchable, magniloquent Mancunian… Morrissey.
When he stands on the stage, he REALLY stands on the stage. Though when he writes a novel he doesn’t REALLY write a novel. Morrissey’s 2015 foray into fiction was more of a 118 page love letter to like-minded entities, which in typical Morrissey style perfectly aligns with his philosophies; For dear Morrissey has previously made it known that One should not waste their time attempting to impress those who ‘did not like you then and do not like you now’ (Dial a Cliche’ - VIVA HATE) Which to me, is incredibly sound advice applicable to virtually everyone in virtually every field and facet of life.
Upon reading Morrissey’s novel entitled “List of the Lost” I experienced many moments of epiphany. Such moments of profound, earnest understanding served to deepen my adoration for the man affectionately known as Moz. As I read his words, I discovered page upon page of pure creative resonance reverberating throughout my wounded psyche and touching me on levels that are rarely skimmed by the sentiments of other authors or artists. I felt as if something very special had passed between he and I regardless of the fact that he knew nothing of my individual existence, he had still somehow managed to write a book for someone like me, assumedly in the hope that someone, somewhere would understand. In fact, I could delude myself in to thinking that he wrote the book just for me - solely for perusing by mine own precocious peepers,…though I do reluctantly acknowledge that such a notion is a girlish fancy too far.
Last Saturday night I was queuing outside the WIN theatre in Wollongong - a seaside town that might be likened to the sweaty armpit of the world, yet, for a single day in the history of ‘The Gong’ the usual sea-spray percolated melancholia was momentarily dispersed by the arrival of Morrissey to their dated, dowdy shores. Wollongong has never played host to the likes of Morrissey and I’m certain that they never will again. After hours of anticipation, sprawled on a patch of itchy crab-grass outside the venue, kept company by an equally passionate army of Morrissey faithfuls, we were initially confronted with the inevitable poking and prodding of modern security protocols and upon being deemed ‘acceptable’ bestowed with fluorescent paper wrist-bands which allowed us entry to Morrissey Mecca.
We were warned not to run but I blatantly disobeyed as every cell of my being propelled me to the barrier. I was determined that tonight was the night. I was going to have an interaction with Morrissey and it was going to be glorious. In hindsight, I suspect that this determination was written all over my face as I risked ejection from the venue by leering towards the stage each and every time he walked my way. eventually my persistence payed off as he walked towards me, mid chorus, our eyes locked, he bent down, I extended my hand even further towards him and we made contact. I held his hand for all of four seconds but it felt like an eternity. In my shock the only words I could string together were “Thank-You Morrissey” he closed his eyes, nodded and looked to be slightly embarrassed as I burst in to a fit of tears and found refuge in my partners arms for the remainder of the song. That was it. I had touched my idol. Morrissey’s songs have seen me through the toughest of times and the most triumphant of triumphs and at last he had seen me. My devotion had been validated. My lunacy suddenly not so seemingly vain. Post-gig, we decided that our appetite for Moz could not be so easily satiated, so we set out to get a glimpse of him leaving the venue, unfortunately to no avail.
This is what happens when you meet your hero’s.
You are left wanting more.
Even if they give you everything,
You. Still. Want. More.
Much like creating your own fictional world, you can give your everything to perfecting your plot-line and sculpting your characters into deep, rich, fictional beings, - you can dedicate your every waking moment to conveying a heartfelt message and telling an important story but when all is said and done, it just won’t be enough. You are your biggest critic and furtively your own most fervent fan. And you know that it will never be enough, so long as you are invested you will need to invest more - Yet, as long as you are shirking your creative impulses you are doing yourself a fatal detriment. So… we have choices, choose creative torture, mental damnation and self flagellation or choose a steady job that pays a decent wage and might, maybe, perhaps, possibly allow you to write that half-baked novel “one-day”.
But one day “one-day” will be a day too late
whence your mortal form succumbs to fate.
Oh dear!
rhyming couplets signal the end of the evening.
I am left with little choice but to upload the few pages of tatty typeface that my addled mind has birthed in the past few weeks.
This is not the last time I will apologise.
You will eventually find it charming.
charming :)
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