It isn’t that I don’t have anything to write about here, especially now that I’ve finally landed my dream of a Creative Writing graduate degree. Nor is it that I don’t have the time to assimilate my thoughts and write something of value, outside of the one experience I had going to the Graduate Bar. None of these things are even vaguely a concern. Nor was it that the forthcoming launch of The Missing Slate was commanding my attention, nor the fact that I am now living on my own and from cooking and whatever else I’ve been doing here, have rediscovered my limitations. Much of this week has been about getting used to the fact that I’m actually here; acclimitazing, if you will. And the fact that classes hadn’t started yet. They have now. I attended my first one yesterday, and it was interesting.
Graham Mort, who seems to be avidly immersed in the literary world of the United Kingdom was my first teacher and I’ve enjoyed the one class I’ve had with him, more because in his ramblings (and there are quite a few), I find a similar thought process as my own. He seems to really love what he does, and that passion’s rather infectuous; that, and he’s a lot more effusive and demonstrative than my fellow writers on the course, which is to be expected I suppose, considering how we don’t really know each other. But my expressive nature kinda saw a kindred spirit in Graham and that was nice. I believe it’s Dr Graham Mort, but whatever.
Tomorrow’s workshop’s being held by Dr Paul Farley who, from what I’ve heard, seems to be quite a character. Let’s see. Dundun.
While I have settled on the idea I’m going to cover here, which was always going to be the first book I was going to do when I decided to do it: the Shi’a/Sunni tale which began its run as the short story, Shades of Gray, was attempted to be rewritten after and never really felt right. It features themes I’ve been comfortable with over the years: loss, guilt, anger, betrayal, grief and then layered in with all the rest of the regular emotions being human, normally entails. The underlying theme, however, is very much about whether a Sunni and Shi’a union can sustain before social proprieties tear the two parties apart. Or whether it can sustain despite that. And because many of the places that face this issue are located in the neo-conservative/conservative end of the spectrum, where no matter how openminded people my age are, will never cross that invisible line. After this, I’d like to tackle Numb more fully which, although it doesn’t have the sustaining longevity a novel would require, can do well in a compendium of short stories. The Carousel Man is another piece that I’d like to push forward until the end. There’s a lot in there that needs to be written about and I would like to see it through to the finish, whether as a novel split into two; The Carousel Man and Postcard Memories, or as a short story or as a novel within itself as an independent book. There are other ideas like For Sale I’d like to explore which is set in the same imaginary world as The Carousel Man and that was perpetuated in a story of physical loss, death and family dynamics: Amitto, quite literarlly translating to Grief. For Sale is more heavily reliant on social dynamics as opposed to cultural and religious dynamics and every day, becomes increasingly relevant. Consider it a 1984-esq warning, not so much political as anti-capitalistic. I suppose I could start with that one, but would much prefer bringing it into the equation a little later into the game.
Alongside this, are my very real plans for finding some financial backing for The Missing Slate so we can start printing, get advertisers on board, and get subscribers by leaving a couple issues in various university campuses, cafes, restaurants, bookstores, dentist’s offices and the like and call for subscriptions on our website too sending the issues to our international customers and having a subsidized version of the magazine on the website. Material like the actual cover features, artistic interviews, visual represetations, any photo journalism we call for, etc will all need to be done. I’m not willing to let this go as a serious venture; I’ve wanted to helm a literary journal for quite some time, and having not found a suitable outlet for those ambitions until now, feel that I should go all out for both sides: writer and person. It’s the only way I’ll ever truly be content.
Huh, apparently I was aching to get all this outta my system. You really don’t realize how much there is to say until you start writing and let the words have their way with you. Now that it's out there, my job here is done. I'll be back, updating this blog fairly often. There was a bit of a disconnect in the middle concentrated mostly on my finding my north, both literally and figuratively. Suffice to say: I'm back.
Whatever the frack that means.
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