Actually Finishing

I rarely ever listen to or pay any real attention to lyrics in songs, not consciously at least. I’ll find myself singing them later, so at least some part of my brain does, but in the moment I’m focusing on how they fit into the song. The melody, the rhythm, the harmonies behind it, the place each have in the mix. One big soundscape.

It’s why I listen to a fair amount of non-English language songs, largely J-rock or J-pop, with a smattering of other European countries. On the other hand, it’s also why I’ve long struggled to write lyrics to any songs I’ve written. I can hear the cadence in my head, beat it out on the desk, but any time I put pen to paper it just feels hollow. Devoid of meaning, just words for the sake of words.

On the other side, there was poetry. That I could do.

One of the reasons I keep some kind of notebook with me at all times is I’ll get just snippets pop up in my head. Two or three lines of rhymes or feelings, a snippet of dialogue, a direction in which to go. Every now and then I’d review them, see which ones still have a place in my brain, and try and flesh it out.

And I was kind of okay at it. Put some online, got some praise. In particular a war one I wrote around Remembrance Day that I can neither find nor remember. I’d do open mic nights locally and not totally bomb, which is a solid minimum result. Then I just kind of stopped.

One of the things I’ve been trying to do a lot more recently is avoid over intellectualising things; change course from treating everything like it’s a deep intellectual puzzle that needs analysis and just see if the surface diagnosis fits. In this case, it is that simple: the open mic night closed, so I fell out of that routine, depression and neurodivergence did their work on distracting me from it, and I never allowed myself to go deep in process. It didn’t worm its way into my core.

And I was alone. Not truly, I had friends, I have family, but on this I was alone. I had no friends trying to do the same thing, no mentor I could learn from, and I didn’t have the social skills to try and make one. I was ‘on the breadline’ poor, so taking classes was out of the question, and while there were libraries and books, I had no idea what I was looking for, especially as I was so wrapped up in my perfectionist ‘I can do all the things if I try’ mindset.

But times change and so do I. I may not be surrounded still by poets and artists, but I can change that, even if it’s digital interactions over physical in the short term. I can lean back into my curiosity, expand myself out there again. I’ve got my Zettelkasten ready to accept snippets to flick through, and collect snippets from poetry that resonates with me. And I’ve got a much better selection of research tools than I did 15 years ago, not to mention a much better understanding of my self, how I tick, and how to get around my shortcomings.

I need to finish the three books I currently have on the go, but after that, I’ll be buying/adding A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and How to Write One Song by Jeff Tweedy as a starting point. Then we’ll go from there.

The thing about being a relatively busy adult with a load of responsibilities whilst dealing with neurodiversity issues is that it’s really easy to lose sight of the fun and creative hobbies you want to do. This then leads to the skills behind these hobbies atrophying, creating the dreaded skill gap - the distance between what you can do, and what you want to do.

I feel this most with my guitar playing. I’ve been playing on and off for nearly 20 years, but I would say my skills are trapped in that state of high beginner. Theoretically, I can hang at an intermediate level. Modes, positions, fingerboard awareness, extended chords and how to use them. All in my brain ready to use. I just can’t back it up.

I can definitely play, and play rhythm fairly fast and accurate; I can follow along at around 160bpm, and I can sort of solo. Improvisation is an area I often fail in outside of a pure flow state, usually because all I can hear in my head when I’m trying to solo over a backing track is the original solo (or a live recorded version).

Then there’s the fiddly bits. My bends aren’t 100% accurate and I struggle to put vibrato on them. I can hammer on/pull off pretty cleanly up to about 100bpm in quarter notes, but not much further or faster, and not for more than say 4 to 6 bars. Slides often get a bit blurry if I try to apply speed so the target note gets lost. Then there’s the speed picking issue, plus the fact that I struggle above the 15th fret in any position really.

Combine that with the tendency to play unplugged and I’m left with the inability to turn the sounds in my head into reality.

There are other hobbies I’ve let atrophy, or ones that I want to start picking up, that are similarly easy enough to assess the skills gap. The one I struggle with though is writing. How do you assess something essentially subjective? There’s no real 16th note alternate picking or speed legato playing equivalent in the art of writing, outside of perhaps grammar, and even then, there’s ways around it. Hello, Claude.

Experience has told me that unless it’s universally disliked, writing is difficult to qualify. Low effort, badly written books can still pick up a fan base, whilst highly rated best sellers still have their detractors. For example, I’ve personally tried and failed to read One Hundred Years of Solitude 3 times; I just can’t get on board with it. See also: Rivals by Jilly Cooper, a book that seemed more interested in introducing the 6 page glossary of characters than writing about any of the things said characters actually do on the daily, other than cheat on their partners.

ChatGPT (whose grammar opinions I trust less than Claude, for reasons, although I find it better for general purpose use) tells me to try and assess things like storytelling and structure, narrative pacing, scene construction, but again, being a relative novice at this how would I know? Then there’s the directions I want to push into more - poetry, story writing, etc.

Of course, the answer is simple: I find out by doing the thing. Start writing poetry. Start writing more fiction. Make it more of a daily habit. Then assess it. Pick up things I struggle with, just like I notice the struggle adding vibrato to a string bend.

More importantly, stop using the unknown or unknowable as a reason to not do the thing, or even learn more about doing the thing.

My pencils are sharp enough.

Yesterday morning, I felt compelled to write. I woke up with a story in my head, and I knew if I didn’t get it out it’ll play on me for the rest of the week.

It’s as yet unfinished, but just starting it is enough to keep the beast fed. The question was whether to start sharing it now, know it’s both unfinished, unedited, and hardly original.

But art demands to be shared, and at the very least, I can compare it against alter works and claim an easy 500 word win.

And so.

The rain pelts my barrier as I surveil the scene a final time. All must be exactly as the dreams I implanted to prevent breaking the reverie too soon, ruining the careful work of months. It took too long to find a suitable subject this time, I don’t relish the thought of what it would cost to secure another. Already this shell wears thin.

Satisfied with my surroundings, I close my eyes and project myself outwards. Externally, I see a new mirror image of the dream self. The face half illuminated by the moonlight, half hidden by my wide brimmed hat. My overcoat hiding the shape of what lies underneath, my shoes appropriately black as the night. With a small effort, I stretch out my barrier a little further from my body to enhance the ethereal look of the rain not getting close to me in the slightest.

All is as needed.

Pulling myself back into my shell, I start to flex my muscles in well practiced order, from scalp to toes and back again, re-orienting my mind to this body. The process takes longer than usual, additional effort being required in order to will muscles into being. Patience, I remind myself. Soon we will be fulfilled again.

I glance up and down the street before checking my pocket watch. Five minutes to ten. Not long now. The street is empty, ensured by a combination of this deluge and my chosen location. Graveyards, contrary to popular myth, hold no real symbolic power in the world of the occult; they’re just locations conveniently avoided by most, largely unlit apart from the occasional street entrance like this one, and usually attract only the grieving and the dispossessed, both of which have their uses.

Additionally, nobody wants to go running after the screams heard in a graveyard at night. Better to just believe it’s a figment of the imagination.

Lights to my left alert me. Looking around, I see a vehicle coming. Life was so much easier before cars. Sharpening my sight shows three young men, none of which are the one I’m waiting for. The one in the front passenger seat is pointing at me and says something, the others laugh. I freeze the moment temporarily and commit their soul signs to memory before they speed away. They will come in useful later.

I check my pocket watch again. One minute to ten. I hurriedly put it away, focusing the body into the correct posture. All must be perfect.

And then, they arrive.

I slowly look up to see the subject and our prey. The subject wears thin himself, his skin pale, his eyes hollowed and dark, his hair ragged and falling out in patches. After months of work, the dreams have him so completely that he resists even blinking to stop seeing the afterimages. He huddles himself against the cold and wet, standing barefoot in his nightwear, staring at me in fear and awe whilst his companion is frozen to the spot.

I allow myself to smile, ensuring precision in every movement. I beckon them over with a gesture as the gate opens on it’s own behind me.

Finally, the feeding can begin.

On the list of things I both love and fear doing at the same time, writing easily sits above all others. Nothing could signify that more than this post.

I’m a guy with a dozen and one thoughts running through his head every waking minute, from dawn to dusk. I go to bed thinking, I wake up thinking, it simply doesn’t stop. Communicating them, however, often takes a huge amount of effort.

This stems from the fear of being Misunderstood, or to be more precise, the fear of Having To Try To Find The Right Words Over And Over Again. It’s why my therapy sessions often have five minute pauses whilst I search for the most efficient words, or why I’ll pause arguments because I know what I’m saying, but I’m clearly not getting my point across. I get flustered, frustrated, and soon enough give up.

But when I do find that near perfect combination of words? Pure, divine satisfaction. I’ve grinned ear to ear talking about some of my darkest moments for no other reason than finding the cleanest way to explain the exact situation and feelings it evokes. It’s an absolute joy when I’m able to clearly express myself, but that joy comes as a result of a journey that is often too daunting to take.

There’s also the familiar and oft repeated fear of sharing, the vulnerability that comes with expressing yourself to others. As with a lot of complicated feelings, it’s inconsistent; I’ve written and performed at several open mic poetry nights with no issue, for example, and published several blogs in the past, but have re-written this post five times over because I’m just not quite satisfied that it’s good enough for Others, despite the complete lack of consequence if that’s the case (especially compared to the risk of bombing on stage).

So then why persist? Because again, it brings me joy, and joy is often in short supply in life.

I also have an over abundance of ideas; brief bursts of poetry, stories half mapped out, blog post ideas, essay topics. Getting them out there seems the better path, rather than sitting under the weight of them.

And if nothing else, it’ll help lift the monotony in a far healthier way than endless YouTube shorts.