Light up the Word Fog

At first I thought it was a dam. A massive edifice bricked with formidable writer’s block.

I thought that the words would gather behind this dam, build up and swirl around each other in a frothy frenzy, and splash and rush until cracks appeared in the block. Words would spit through here and there, hissing and gushing, until the weight of words became too much and the dam gave way.

The words, hundreds, thousands, millions of them, would tear down into the parched glens below and feed barren soil.

And then I would write. All day, every day, like when I was a young boy. I’d build worlds as easily as I once did, and birth blindingly colourful characters with the stroke of a pen or the tap of a keyboard.

Writer’s block comes in many frustrating guises, however, and over the last couple of years I have started to fathom that there is no massive dam to burst, no years-deep well of unexpressed thoughts to tap into. I’ve broken plenty of smaller dams, blasting creative thoughts onto the page in short anomalous bursts. But the all-encompassing central dam has only dregs of old ideas swilling behind its towering bulk.

No, my lost words and stories are not trapped behind a dam, but lost in a dark fog.

There is no way of knowing which words will emerge from the fog once they enter it. Sometimes an idea which at first seemed shiny and revolutionary reappears months later, rusted and emaciated and dull. Sometimes, they do not emerge at all.

There have been so many times recently, as I walk or run or sit in silence, when I find myself trapped in that fog too, trying to express myself and realising, when I grab a pen and paper and flip open my laptop, that I cannot remember the way out of the fog.

I point in a promising direction, wish the words luck, and they disappear into the murk.

Perhaps it is because my imagination is growing colder and harder. Whereas creative writing and fantasy worlds once fixated me, I now spend enough time in the company of news articles, political rants and academic essays that the fiery imagination of my childhood seems too dangerous or distracting.

And when I try to summon up the energy to express these fiery thoughts and make life with them, and paint my concerns and thoughts and surroundings with creative and fictional words, the result often seems disappointingly stale.

I think I may just have to accept that my mind is a different place now.

But that acceptance doesn’t necessarily mean defeat – it means evolution. If I want to beat writer’s block, well and truly, I need to explore and adapt. New writing styles, new settings, new characters. New forms of expressions, new definitions of ‘creative writing’, ‘fiction’ and ‘fantasy’.

Instead of searching for lost words, ideas and stories, I can summon the courage to find new ones, with the reassuring knowledge that, while imagination can be illusive, it is also infinite. When one word dies, three more are born.

I should light a beacon in the word fog, and fuel it with new and radical thoughts. Some will burn brightly, some will hiss and sizzle, but the fire will keep burning.

The word fog may be eternal, I do not know yet. But with the beacon burning, I’ll be able to find my way. And maybe, just maybe, the words that were once lost will find their way back into the light.

Iberian Odyssey

Adios Edimburgo

First posted on Facebook on Sat 14 Feb 2015, 00:14

-1 hour into journey-

After a long, restless day in Edinburgh’s hazy chill, I’ve finally set off. Our Barcelona-bound coach is rumbling its way south. And what’s that noise I hear blasting my ears? Triumphant thoughts? Excited internal cheers?

No. A ringtone. An endless ringtone. A phone, which has gone off 6 times, rang for 5 minutes, driven every person on the bus to the brink of madness… Then stopped. And we all breathe a sigh of relief. And settle down to sleep. And-

Off it goes again. The Angry Bald Londoner in front of me, he can’t stand it any more, he snaps. “OO’S BLUDY PHONE IS DAT!?” The vein in his forehead echoes the sentiment.

Nobody answers.

“BLUDY INCONSIDERATE.”

A distant giggle.

I feel sorry for Angry Bald Londoner as he sinks back into his seat, defeated. He and his forehead-vein have earned my respect.

But beneath this surface-tension at the fear of another unanswered ringtone, I feel a thrill of freedom. Here I am, out on the open road, just another couple of days from the mythical land of Catalonia. And it feels great.

(See you in 36 hours, Josh!)

 

God Save The Bus

First posted on Facebook on Sat 14 February 2015, 10:45

-11.75 hours into journey-

The mystery of the unanswered phone was unravelled last night, when I realised it belonged to an Old Deaf Indian Woman sitting directly behind me.

Miraculously, she heard the ringtone (On its 9th screeching session), slowly pulled it out of her pocket – and started chatchatchatting into it. At 2am.

I had been reading my book at the time, and couldn’t help but laugh quietly. Angry Bald Londoner, meanwhile, trembled with rage under his sleeping mask and ear buds.

Her call concluded, Old Deaf Indian Woman nestled down into her seat with loud, contented sighs…

The lights blazed on, and on streamed an influx of passengers from Newcastle. A friendly law student called Zi squeezed in beside me, and we chatted away until Zi started watching ‘A Most Wanted Man’ on his tablet and I faded into a contorted form of sleep.

Just before 8am, we reached London, and after saying bye to Zi I went on a wee hike around Victoria. In St James Park, I took a picture for a Smiley Korean Man, who was fascinated about Scotland and gave me lots of travelling tips before scurrying off to rejoin his travelling party.

Both Zi and Smiley Korean Man had been to Barcelona and loved it – but gave me a warning I’ve been hearing a lot: “Barcelona’s beautiful, but be wary ‘cos it’s full of pickpockets.”

I’ll need to keep my eyes peeled. But for now, it’s off from London to Paris!

 

Vive La Bus

First posted on Facebook on Sun 15 Feb 2015, 21:25

That blurry dark picture is actually the Eiffel Tower peaking over the skyline as our coach hurtles past.

-22.5 hours into journey-

The long grey behemoth of the channel tunnel train swallowed up our coach – and spat it out 35 sweaty, slightly claustrophobic minutes later in France.

Sunny, stunning, rolling green France.

The light was unlike anything I have seen for many many months – a clear, warm glow which picked out the shadows in a fascinating way and warmed our faces.

Hours passed, and the sun began to set as we passed through Amiens and on to Paris.

Beside me for this whole stretch was sceptical and vaguely miserable looking Englishman I later found out was called Richard. He was miserable with the cold, he told me in a sceptical voice.

I asked where he was headed. “Toulouse. Then on to a town in the Pyrenees. My wife and I are moving there – I just quit my job at Bournemouth University accomodation service to go,” He said dryly, as if he found the whole idea quite boring.

He turned out to be a really friendly, genuine person, beneath his blunt speech and sceptically arched eyebrow.

His face (almost) lit up when I told him I was a history student, and off he went into a grand spiel about all the First World War relics in the surrounding countryside (1914-18 was his speciality). “Verdun.” He demanded, “You must go to Verdun. I spent two days there and didn’t see everything. It’s well preserved because lots of French died there, you see. I intend to visit Gallipoli soon. Although the Turks aren’t any good at conservation.” He grumbled, before glancing around to make sure he hadn’t insulted any nearby Turkish historians.

Later, he recommended me an Argentinian restaurant in Barcelona.

“On second thought, it might not be suitable for a student budget, ” He added drily as we pulled into the busy and picturesque Parisian junction of Port Maillot.

 

The Road Goes Ever On And On

or Shelob’s Lair

First posted on Facebook on Sun 15 Feb 2015, 07:50

-32.5 hours into journey-

If it weren’t so grey and drizzly, the land stretching around me would look nearly Mediterranean.

After wandering around Porte Maillot, failing to find a map, and working my way back to the bus through bright, loud Parisian streets, we hurtled south into the night.

It was one of those strange semi-sleeps – the ones where you don’t even realise you’ve slept until you lurch out of your dream and disorientatingly claw back to reality.

At 6am (GMT) we reached Toulouse, and Sceptical Richard disembarked to start his new life in the Pyrenees. I was still owlishly blinking my way out of sleep so didn’t get the chance to wish him luck, but I’m sure he would have tutted at the idea of relying on chance.

A pile of international students streamed in, and I spent the next hour and a half listening to a Belgian guy trying to flirt with a Catalan girl.

The flirting side is hilariously embarrassing, but their conversations about their respective homes have been interesting!

We parked a wee while ago at a service station near Carcassonne and I went for a wander, trying to imagine the countryside under bright, warm sunl-

What is that? IS THAT A SPIDERS’ NEST!?

I’m back on the bus now. That’s enough outside for a while.

 

Catalunya

First posted on Facebook on Mon 16 Feb 2015, 23:00

     

-Journey complete/Day 2 of 4 in Barcelona-

There it sprawled. After hours of wet southern French plains and the fog-tearing Pyrenees, a vast ivory labyrinth.

36 hours travelling had left me smelly, sweaty, sleepy, but also energised. The sky cleared and the warm white-and-red city swallowed up our coach. Yesterday at midday, my journey to Barcelona was complete.

Now, our journeys in Barcelona are flying past. Josh and I have roamed the colourful streets, discussed the state of the world in bean-bag-chairs with hostel-mates, immersed ourselves in Catalan cuisine with a paella-making chef, watched swing dancers swing dancing under a pavilion while sunbathing in the Parc Ciutadella, gaped at the thousand lights of the Sagrada Familia, and met people.

Real, diverse people.

Wide-eyed travellers, passionate locals, crafty conmen, quirky strangers. Hundreds of beliefs and pointers and perspectives.

Now, stretched across a lumpy hostel bed hearing the quiet chat of our varied and open-minded roomates, the joy of travelling (Near or far, short-term or long-term) seems so obvious. It’s easy to forget, back home and burdened by normality, that the world is vast and full of wonders. And that round any corner may lie another adventure.