“There is a splinter of ice in the heart of a writer.” – Graham Greene
Above a thought-provoking quote from the twice ‘Nobel Prize for Literature’ nominated author. The ice splinter of which he alludes affording writers the capability of turning tragedy into art through the ability of journaling prose dispassionately.
Possessing this element of detachment granting penmen/women access to a full range of emotions, regardless of how stark the scene. Greene indicating dilution of the prose’s honesty and integrity jeopardises diminishment of the narratives force and vigour. Hinting the ingrained gift of creativity in itself isn’t enough; courage of one’s literary convictions is also a key ingredient towards the final bookish fare.
Without wishing to blow my own trumpet, despite my ‘go to’ writing style being predominantly whimsical parody, I’d like to think I’m capable of effectively conveying life’s more melancholic/tragic episodes into written art. Within my blogging back catalogue sit numerous examples of that style of prose. An example being the following lugubrious narrative quilled after my, hospice in situ, father passed in 2017, Raising A Glass.
Another of the blogs indicating I possess a heart located splinter of ice, alluded to by Graham Greene, was a narrative written less than twenty four hours before my old man took his final breath. The Wrath of Karma my unsuccessful attempt at utilising creativity as a distraction while the worst days of my life played out in front of me.
I don’t find chronicling sombre content any tougher than lighter hearted literary rations. If an occasion warrants a venture down Sorrow Street, it’s a challenge I’d engage with similar tenacity to that expended when writing humour. It’s gotta be said, though, I enjoy journaling paragraphs of jocularity significantly more than the serious stuff.
On many occasions my brother Ian has proffered that my darker, more emotional pieces are much more accomplished than those bearing his elder sibling’s comedic stamp.
I’d like to think when making this observation our kid is complimenting the calibre of my lexicological journeys to the darker side. Not suggesting my whimsical essays are utter crap; opining these more inane forays exhibit a quality which’d be usurped by any old piece of penned detritus.
Maybe Ian is right; to grow as a writer I should embrace a more serious penmanship technique. Follow a path trodden by one of my comedy writing heroes, Woody Allen. Old Woodward predominantly ditching the almost continuous slapstick content of his earlier 1970’s movies, instead creating critically acclaimed screenplays, including Annie Hall and Manhattan.
As our kid advocates, perhaps I should utilise that heart in situ ice splinter more often. In turn developing a more mature and erudite style, hauling me from the relative comfort of this current wordsmith den. A place where I reside with laptop, a tub of Haribo gummy bears, a bottle of sparkling water and the sole desire of penning the comical.
As my aunt Mavis said to her zoo-keeping colleague, prior to being eaten by a man-eating tiger, “If you look the beast in the eye, it won’t attack.” It turned out to be a misguided piece of advice from her perspective, however, looking the beast in the eye segment of the adage does bear credibility as a metaphor for facing fears, along with a requirement to depart that growth stunting comfort zone.
Having just re-read the initial draft of this blog, two notions immediately sprung to mind. Firstly, what a load of pretentious old flimflam I can churn out at times. The second, coincidentally ,was also what a load of pretentious old flimflam I can churn out at times.