A Survival Guide for Young Writers

Thus, O my best beloved, have the sages spoken of the Writer’s life: Revelling, glorying in the power bestowed upon him by the Most Gracious; despairing ever of unchaining it from the puerile censure of an uncomprehending world, the Writer is shaken like a leaf in the winds of December, clinging withered and frosted to the branch of life. ‘Never victorious yet never defeated’, the Writer is the ultimate paradox, the greatest hypocrite alive and the last truthful soul left on earth.

Ere thou canst thus to the soul vow thyself, thou must needs provide for the body, lest in thy hoary days thy love of thy art turn all to bitterness. Then shalt thou cry imprecations and rend thy manuscripts, and weep for thy ill-forsaken youth. Yet take thou heed and hold fast to hope, for with a trifling torment to thy soul thou mayst yet win ample sustenance for thy body.

This is thine Half-Plate of woe, O author. Expound, argue, declaim, in weighty and rolling periods, upon anything and everything under the sun, taking care always to bolster thy rantings with lengthy citations from works duly obscure and ponderous. Thus shalt thou become that feted parasite upon the public weal: a Researcher, an Academic, and a Scholar.

The essay, be it critical or literary, is a nobler pursuit, worthy of the dexterity of thy best faculties of reasoning and of imagination. Set forth naught but the leal and true in an essay. Write for the sake of the idea, not for the Chair it may perchance bring thee, as thou dost in thy Academics; do thou write simply and clearly, or else not at all.

In the writing of poesies, do thou give thy fancy free reign to alight upon and affix unto rhyme all vagrant ideas, expressions, humours and tempers in all of the languages thou dost know or would fain master. Yet neglect not the tradition of the language, nor yet the noble forms that grace it; yea, make these even the objects of thy study, that thou mayst with grace acquit thyself therein.

Into each story, be it vignette or conte or novel, pour a little of thy heart’s blood, a few silvery strands from the pensieve of thine own life; then plant them deep in the clay of language, and draw from it by the nurture of sun and wind and water the tender sapling-shoot that will grow in the garden of the reader’s imagination into a stout thrice-canopied tree. Let it be thine own voice that fashions it, thine own voice that lies hid in the seed that might once upon a time be.

The play treads between art and life so delicate a skein of spider-silk, that do thou be well-assured of erring neither upwards nor down ere thou dost undertake to tread it, lest the shendful fate of Icarus befall thee also! Write, then, with due regard to the moulded pageantry of the stage; but into this enchaunted life pour no wine but the water of life, drawn quick and throbbing from its very source.

To write, to create, thou shalt relinquish hope and despair, sense and madness alike; thou shalt walk forth into the beyond, barefoot upon the splinter-spined bridge. Thou shalt write. In sorrow and in joy, in sickness and in health, in peace and in war, thou shalt write.

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A Feather from a Secret World

Before it can be written as a seamless whole, every snippet of its shadow that can be caught must be pinned to paper. Nakushita. The Land of the Lost…You’re wrong there. Lose yourself it, and you’ll find your way through. But can you do it? Can you trust, you who lie hourly to yourself and all the world besides? Can you, do have faith enough to let go? To not be in control?

Set a trap for the phoenix, the Simurgh, the Soulbird, who dwell higher than the arc of mortal bows… String the net of words, warp and weft… and watch over the trap, hour after hour. Watch it wear out and decay, ever empty.

For many years they came, uncalled and ever welcome. The Eyrie was your home then, and the dovecote too. For you loved beauty and did not covet it…

God loved birds. He made trees. Man loved birds. He made cages…
All lands were yours, because you did not own any of them.

It had to end. Time would not stay at the behest of joy, any more than it will fly faster for sorrow… Thus the mad, eternally doomed chase, with the many-stringed net of words.

Now wuthering, now silent, the phoenix hovers… ever, ever, will it elude thee, poor hunter. When your despair is at its darkest, your anguish nigh beyond bearing, it will gently let fall one feather. One splendid, glorious feather that you have leave to carry into your own world, to call your own.

A feather from a phoenix from a secret world.
Aye. You can see it. Feel it. Bury it. Burn it.

The feather. You can buy it, sell it, use it to mop spilt ink. Or you can dream the dream every silken leaf ,quivers with… and yearn anew for the phoenix never to be yours.

You cannot catch him, or sway his will
You cannot reach him

You can only hunt and pray and wait. Wait for the pan to extinguish and the feather to light the candle-flame of hope in your heart again… Search, little bird. Search, for what art thou but the search?

O Ye Scum of the Earth…

I’m an unknown new writer, but then
I’ve written stories since I turned ten
Here’s the ripping tale of a grey-winged hen
Will you publish it for me, please?
Back! Scum of the earth, I bid ye cease!
Begone! O ye scum of the earth, avaunt!

I’ve a DELF a DALF, a TOEFL to match
A sample of my translation I hereby attach
But a native I’m not – there’s the catch
Will you publish it for me, please?
Back! Scum of the earth, I bid ye cease!
Begone! O ye scum of the earth, avaunt!

I have no diploma, no job, no PhD
But I’ve got ‘geek’ written all over me
I’ve written an article, a beauty,
Will you publish it for me, please?
Back! Scum of the earth, I bid ye cease!
Begone! O ye scum of the earth, avaunt!

I’m here to study, to learn how to be
Tagged and labelled so they’ll listen to me
I’ve written a thesis, I’d like a degree,
Will you publish it for me, please
Back! Scum of the earth, I bid ye cease!
Begone! O ye scum of the earth, avaunt!