The discourse on the subject of writing below was inspired by the following brief exchange of comments, originally posted in September 2005 at Universal Radio, my latest experiment with the respective forms of creative writing and web log. The primary comment was itself inspired by a number of the first pieces posted to Universal Radio.

• fine words butter no parsnips said...
  what spooky stories! good stuff. i like the uncertainty of the ending of this short one. re their being "transcribed" -- transcribed from voices in head? best, JP

• Richard said...
  Glad you enjoyed the transcriptions, JP!I refer to these pieces as such because I have come to realize, while working on my ongoing narrative, The Blue Dog Journal, that at its best the art of writing (fiction at least) is like channeling information from some mysterious source. I often feel as if I am just writing it down and have in fact come to use the expression "just write it down", as a kind of inspirational mantra or slogan, at least.

Now, as promised, a discourse on the subject of writing. Or, a bit of elucidation and re-iteration of the comment above.

As indicated in the above exchange, the sole credit I give myself for the writings at Universal Radio is that of transcriber. This is in keeping with the theme I have attempted to establish at that particular blog space, and which I think I have summarized more-or-less neatly in the tag line:

As Nina Hagen, our founder in spirit, sang in 1985:

"I'm my own radio."

So am I.

Here you will find transcriptions of the fictions, fragments and fantasies I have received from all across the dial.

A familiarity with Nina Hagen’s 1985 club hit, Universal Radio (the credited influence and obvious title source for my blog) might or might not help the reader’s comprehension regarding the concept behind the Universal Radio web log. In any case, I believe the analogy of myself and a radio receiver is clear enough in light of the quoted tag line (s). It is an analogy which contains, as I’m sure many will find wacky and others right on, more truth than poetry. If any of my readers are artists, scientists, philosophers, they will be familiar with that idea which arrives luminous and perfect from the proverbial blue, as if transmitted.

Transmitted, one might ask, from where? Well, that is the question, isn’t it? And one I have touched upon at least once before in this space, I’m sure. It is, as I recall Alan Moore commenting somewhere, the most annoying question an artist can be asked, but also the fundamental question: Where do you get your ideas?

I think that most of the afore mentioned artists, scientists and philosophers would agree that a small but important re-phrasing might better serve this question: Where do your ideas come from? Then again, perhaps this is nothing but semantic wanking.

In any case, though I have been writing most of my life, it is only recently – with my work on The Blue Dog Journal and Universal Radio – that I have been not only extremely conscious of tuning in to some kind of inspirational frequency but, better yet, almost adept at doing so at will.

Sure, I’ve written poetry and stories before which seemed simply to flow from pen to paper, but where those experiences were similar to automatic writing in that they were unconscious, this new experience is one of vivid consciousness. Like automatic writing, however, and as indicated in my response to JP’s comment with my use of the word “channeling”, there is in this new experience the sense that I am not writing a story so much as having a story revealed to me.

I will refer to my previous musing on this topic by invoking that obscure penner of tales spooky and weird, Stephen King, and his comment of some years back regarding his experience of writing:


"My job is not to create, per se, but to unearth, to get these things out of the ground as fully complete as they can be. . . I never felt like I wrote a story. I felt like I found them all. I feel more like an archaeologist than a creator."

The implications of Mr. King’s “job”, of my own experience of writing, are quite astounding; pointing to something which seems to be greater than the writer and from which the writer draws material. Applied to all of the arts, and many of the sciences, this notion suggests an Art (yes, with a capital A) transcendent of and integral to the human condition. Now, the implications of these implications run deeper than I intend to explore at this point, but I might summarize my general sentiment on the matter with the statement that I believe the ability to create is a gift of sacred proportions.

The possessor of such a gift would not want it to be squandered.

This is where my so-called mantra comes in. Just write it down. This is an injunction to capture in the best words I can what is being revealed to me, against the ever creeping forces of self-doubt and idleness. The former might take the shape of hyper-critical censorship of the random thoughts and fragments of inspiration that pop into my head on a regular basis. Just write it down, I say, and worry whether it is “good”, “bad” or somewhere in between or beyond later.

It is a big mistake, perhaps the biggest one can make creatively speaking, to allow the rational mind to stand in the way of inspiration. If I was to speak dogmatically of this mistake, I would call it a sin. Fortunately, self-doubt is not such an issue for me, at least in terms of my art, as that other sin, Sloth. Idleness, pure and simple, is the only reason I even need a mantra.

I believe that a certain amount of unstructured (i.e. goof-off) time is not only important but essential for anybody. Especially, perhaps, those of us who are creative types. My trouble is that I find it far too easy – after working an 8 hour day, a 40 hour week – to fill my meager free time with low impact distractions, and then feel guilty about it.

Who knows, for instance, how many masterpieces of poetry and prose have been lost because I spent too much time playing Dig Dug? Only the Angels know the answer to such a rhetorical question, of course. My concern does not lie in attempting an answer but in moving forward in search of better understanding, and fulfillment of, my art.

My general lazy nature notwithstanding, so long as I am taking breath I will be moving forward as above described because I must. The day I am not writing, or planning to write, or thinking about planning to write, is the day that I am dead. Or, if not, I might as well be.