Does my writing look fat in this?

Sitting in bed I was doing some Instagram photos last night at about midnight. I like how the 20 different filters and frames change the feel of a photograph, creating not just a nostaligic look such as Polaroid, but interpret a scene completely differently. Of course with PhotoShop I could change everything and I love working on multi levels, but these few changes Instagram offers encapsulate a picture well. The format also has to change, I like using panoramic format and the square format means I have top centre on one part. It’s a good discipline.

In some ways Renegades Writers (and all good writers groups) are like an Instagram. Wouldn’t it be lovely to have a button which instantly rewrote your work in different styles or different viewpoints? Well that is what the group do. I had to miss going last night but I am sure it was just the same high quality advice such as ‘…why not say bum instead of arse’ and other such things! To be reasonably serious the advice and insights a group offer are vital and discerning. We write quite blindly thinking everyone will of course fully understand what we say and mean, we miss constant repeats of the same word, we too often over or under write, and often don’t understand what actually makes a piece of writing work. That is expertly pointed out by a wonderful group of people and often when reading a piece out loud we see it ourselves. These characters and stories are locked inside us banging on our brains to get out and through our fingers, which too often mess around so they do not quite meet the initial idea.

My recuperation is such that I am finding it hard to write in a concentrated way, so I am making notes as the stories for Traitor to the Cause and Working are rattling around relentlessly, especially in those hours I am not sleeping. I am writing a few notes by hand which in the morning sort of make sense, three I see from last night –

1980 Strachey sends Vincent to New York and he supplies Double Fantasy to Mark Chapman which Lennon signs for him. A note inside the record sleeve guides Chapman to where he can find a gun.

Vincent is made manager of punk band Rancid Bile in 1976 to report on whether punk is a threat to the nation. They make one single and go on a chaotic tour around Britain during 1977 the singer becomes Vincent’s first wife. The members are made up of two old Etonians, the son of a miner and daughter of an Opera singer.

In 2010 Vincent’s son (Arthur) is sent a key from solicitors Southampton and Thrush to a flat in Brighton. Arthur begins to search through his fathers’ belongings and finds 15 forged passports in his name even though he’s never met his father. Arthur sells houses.

Ah well, so goes the tortured mind, perhaps another line I came up with needs to be asked when I eventually get back to Renegades – ‘Does my writing look fat in this?’.

Today’s photographs are in my front room waiting to be repainted, a chilly getting brighter day.




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