On inspiration and social anxiety

 

  Recently many people ask me where do I get my inspiration from. The question more than reasonable, as these days I mostly write fiction, and I focus on regular creative writing exercises that serve me best. Few years ago I would have given a very elaborate answer to that: I would be talking about all thoughts that come to me as I pass the streets, looking at all buildings, blue sky, how strangers on the train evoke me a story. This time the answer is way easier: inspiration comes to me, like to most people, in silence. Preferably in calm, slow paced environment of my own bed alongside the feeling that there is nothing in this world that I have to do right now.

There are few things that can enhance your inspiration. Such as a stable day job, that you do not hate, a peace of mind and the lack of internet. There is probably no need to explain the blessing influence of the first two, so I would like to focus on the latter. You see, Internet makes me socially aware. And as I am naturally socially awkward, the access to the window to the world makes me feel totally exposed. One click on Google icon and I am no longer alone.

I guess there is more people around for whom the constant connection to the Internet is a source of social anxiety. Don't get me wrong- it’s not only social media. It’s the feeling of being constantly connected, available, exposed to any information that might pass through the digital channel; it’s the feeling like someone was creeping behind your back, watching your every move.

And so to speak, social anxiety is a number one enemy of inspiration of any kind. Most writers admit that they are at their best in their own bed, not to say desk (if you live in London, you know that a decent desk is a luxury one shall not be dreaming of). Straying from the theme of writers’ inspiration: the inspiration of any kind. Even if you don’t consider yourself an artist, let’s focus on an example of thinking activity. Every person thinks. Now connect all of your devices to the Internet and try to think. The shadows of your family and friends will be creeping out from every direction, and all this information you were searching for seven years ago with no purpose at all now becomes available. Is your thought still roaming freely? Expand this image- now picture yourself, with all your connected devices in a busy coffee shop where you’re endangered to meet all your neighbours. Someone in the queue looks like your former colleague you failed to contact over the past few months. Your email inbox lies wide open before you, encouraging you to insure a car that you don’t have and sign a petition on something you have no idea about, while the radio bombards you with the recent weather podcast. Now let me ask you once again: what is your inspiration?

The need of being alone with our own thoughts is a vital part of any creative process. From the point of view of your poor, suppressed individuality any human contact, whether direct or indirect, is an unnecessary distraction. It’s creativity that prevents us from becoming a part of a herd. The feeling of social anxiety reminds us that a human is, first of all, an individual. We believe we ought to fight it in the society that pressures us to be a part of a larger body, appealing to our need of belonging. Maybe nowadays one needs to ask themselves, if feeling socially anxious is not a cry of some inner self, the call for individual development. After all, we are all imprisoned inside our minds, and only ourselves we possess truly. And maybe that’s why the real inspiration can only come from within. If we dare to listen to it.

One-off Summertime

 She would be telling this story to George Noskov, surrounded by empy coca-cola cans. To George, the one she used to call a misogynist, a lunatic, sometimes a dreamer. She will regret all that she said after his death, or rather all the other things that she didn't say. Especially that she would never tell that story to anybody else, because who would like to listen to so ordinary a story, so sad, so elusive that it seems to be untrue. But she doesn't care whether anyone believes it or not, for there is no way to tell it the way it was, with all the smells, the colours, the music it brought, the wind it brings when it comes back. Anyway, it doesn't matter if someone understands it, as there is no more such summer, and it never will be. That one was the only one, a one-off summer in the world, and it has already passed away, not leaving anything which could be picked up by someone else. It was only her who could understand, her and somebody else, another her in another part in the world. You see, once a time, one summer, two girls simultaneously had fallen in love. A blonde and a brunette, born only few weeks apart, only few miles away. For neither of them it was the first time, but all the loves are the only ones in the world for their own summertimes. Years later, only one of them will remember. 

 The feeling which will come along with it will be like a memory of a time loop. She won't be talking about it, as it is not a memory which might fit into today's reality. Only sometimes she will be wondering if it still exists, that bench outside the old bus station in Bristol, if any trace of her memory still sits there, awaiting. 

 The other girl will be getting married. She will change the spelling of her name- it used to sound Russian, now it's just a name. On a picture she will stay just as beautiful and untouched, like experiences had gone past her, not leaving a mark on her shoulder, no trace on her face. She will look happy. 

 Or maybe it is because they have lived so many miles apart for so many years, they both appear to each other just as images, faces from the past, and they cannot relate to each other anymore. Or perhaps for both of them, the summer wind has never stopped, and there will always be parts of them, paused within a loop of one-off summertime. Perhaps.

 The memory will bring them together on one evening, seven years and hundreds miles away. It would be one of them looking for the other, and the second one answering within seconds. Through all these years they have not grown indifferent or unaware of each other, like their souls were right there, waiting outside the loop. In their paused smiles on old photographs, for a moment, they will find a way to resume their one-off summertime, and to be drawn back, like it was all they've been ever waiting for.

 The story is a piece from my new short story, not yet completed, but just a sketch as I am trying to get back on track with writing. Soon I am to start an online creative writing course. Join me in this journey!

Mindwritten part 2- the advanced methodology to writing without a real effort

 In two hundred years people will be able to get a filter into their brain which is going to select the right information and therefore, form articles in bulk and add them to the queue in order to be published. Till that, with a deep sadness, I need to anounce that me, my empty piece of paper and my total lack of inspiration, are sucked.

 Recently I have been mindwriting a lot. I created a chronicle of my past, of a long forgotten travel, I wrote two large episodes of my fantasy saga (with illustrations only my mind itself is able to create) and I almost finished two short stories. So my dear readers, could you kindly read my mind?

 There was for all of us a promised land of creative perfection, the land of our own we were supposed to furnish with dreams and hopes. The shops stuffed on empty books with pretty covers and hundreds of good quality pages engouraging us to write our own novels inside. They got filled with tones of canvas and paint of every possible colour inviting us to create a masterpiece. But the outcome of it stays in our minds, untouched and perfect, an ideal deal with both angel and the devil. In exchange our lives fill with experiences which are there for a moment, enjoyable essence which is about to pass and fade away, the elusive mark of our presence which is going to be surpassed in the race by it's own dress. That is what keeps passing me by.

 The evolution, for-God's-sake the mother of gravity and movement, has been not less cruel with me. The skill which remains not used for a while, vanishes. I call it a communism of the mother nature, whatever cannot be utilise needs to go. A good keyboard and an outstanding power of will won't be enough to beat it.

 But you see, there are these benefits of being a cat. And a cat person I am, I will be holding to the surface with my nails and I keep writing and posting even if I have absolutely nothing to say. Because even through the heaviest snow of an inspirational desert, there is no such a thing which is as easy as writing about nothing. 

IDEAS FOR EASY WRITING PROCESS

 Writing only for the sake of writing has been practised by thousands of the best authors over the centuries. When I was still at the university one of the most widely cherished author published a new book. It was quite a large piece, published by a prestigious company and quickly nominated to several literary prizes. All of my friends headed to the bookshops to get their own copy as soon as possible. But instead of a vital discussion in a student community, the reception leaned on a persistent silence. Maybe they couldn't get a complex philosophy presented by an award-winning author and a proclaimed genius, maybe his point of view shattered their perception of life so much they decided to keep quiet, maybe the masterclass of his skills was simply overwhelming. But the truth was much more touching and cruel: this book treated about nothing. The genius, the authority for millions, had absolutely nothing to say. The product he submitted to the prosperous publishing house was well-written, full of pleasant descriptions but had absolutely nothing to communicate. And just as he anticipated, it got sold out.

27 resolution- Why do I write

 As you can probably see, writing is something which is happening for me beside. Beyond my biography, on the side of my own history called life. It is somehow true, that writing as far doesn't get in my life the place it deserves. And some of you may want to ask me: why do I write? What do I need it for? Let me explain it to you by recalling a story of a great man. His name was Eric Blair. But most of you might most probably know him as George Orwell.

 Eric could afford doing something I never could. Reject all the opportunities he had in his life. Just because since he was six he knew that all he wanted was to write. Therefore, his idea was to dedicate himself to two things: to read and to experience.

WHY READ

 Because every writer his own flow. Eric was aware of something unfortunately most of contemporary authors seem to be missing: without a good literary preparation you remain a child in a fog. Only reading can give you the right tool to use the language entirely, to express and to reflect these expression on your readers. You cannot create a real dialogue with your reader without being once a reader yourself.

WHY EXPERIENCE

 Due to a simple true that it's always easier to write about something you know. One old quotation I learned during my literary studies said: If you really don't have what to write about, write about yourself. Sadly in reality there are only few authors who can write about a world they only imagine (as a brilliant example we can mention, of course, sir Terry Pratchett himself). Most of work nowadays crated in a total dettachment from a real experience is somehow naive. (I am trying not to be judgemental.) That was indeed the idea of Blair, born in a well-situated family and spending his youth on a respected playground of Eton, not really having a clue of how the life can be. Fueled by his desire to discover the truth (mind my sarcasm) he moved to Paris where he was meant to experience a real working class poverty in order to finally publish a book about this experience. I do not recommend anyone to do that, but if you feel pushed to the extreme, actually why not. For example Paolo O. Martin, known also as Paul Portier, is now roaming around the streets of Thailand before he tries a modest life in a monastry- that's speaking about extremes.

Mindwriting - an offer of a new hobby for every Absolutely Genius Writer

Recently I actively practice mindwriting. I was thinking a lot about starting to do some sport but as I hate gym, it's too cold to go for running and I don't have a swimsuit they don't produce my size in this country) I had to think twice. The idea of mindwriting came to me naturally on my coffee break and amazed me with it's functionality. It's completely effortless!- all you need is a brain in quite a good condition (no drugs, baby) and an ability to think equally about two things at the same time. It's easy, isn't it? Follow me- I'll explain you why is mindwriting a perfect hobby for a dreamer.

It's better than typing. You don't have absolutely any risk you will accidentally press the caps lock.

It's better than handwriting- your words always follow your thoughts. Moreover, the words are actually your thoughts. I am looking forward to the future when thoughts readers will be our typists so we can finally create effortlessly, with a smile of our faces. I could let myself get hibernated for that.

After discovering this such an amazing way of expression, I was happily marching through th grey scenario of lonely London. I was thinking about how many amazing posts had been already mindwritten, how many stories I'd just told to the random crowd of whispers. of course, you can't read it. There is an old fairy tale about a naked king who believed he wore indeed the most excellent outfit in the world, but only exceptionally wise people were able to see it. It used to be my favourite good night story.

The Resurrection

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No matter how long it takes, how many other things does it take, I always miss my blog. And I almost let it die, or maybe it could have looked like that, but after all I am here, standing on my feet. 

 After my grandfather died everything seemed so bleached. Everything I was meant to say, and meant to write, and every story I worked on seemed to be irrelevant. Pointless. Many words are created never to be published. But this is a life of words, they live as long as we need them. I spent this time walking around the streets, translating in my mind the same poem on an on, again. On these days I almost forgot my English, the one I used as a creative force and I came to the point, where every next step was only a running in the circle. 

 But yesterday it was my birthday. One of not very cheerful ones but therefore quite refreshing. And I would like to thank everybody, who were still checking this page, during all this time. You can now lean back and prepare for a resurrection. Monkey Seduction is back. To start once again.

 Let me tell you a story of an incredible land. Once upon the time there was a kingdom peaceful as an infinite sea, established like an old wise tree and untouched like an image on a sand. The wind was so slow and gentle, that even a feather was staying safe in constancy. The colours were so enriched with light that the whole landscape seemed to be a painting on the porcelain. It's name was Gheborhgia, the land of old sages as chronicles said. But the land by itself was older than all of the chronicles and all of the books ever written, and all of the times when people learn how to put their memory to the paper. Gheborghia was inhabited by Tafoons, forrest creatures with featutres of old willows and three ears, so the third one allowed them to hear voices from inside of the earth. They were big and strong, but also calmed like an old river and able to answer any question, and their spirits were totally free, without any earthly attachment.

Weltzschmerz and a Cup of Coffe. Or what making romanticism work.

 Today I don't feel like writing. I realized that hours ago, trying to create a new exciting post, writing a relation from hunting Victor A. story or at least hoover the memories from my last long journey. At the meantime I took a look at my stories painfully demanding nice endings and my translating work waiting to be corrected. And then this scary thought appeared in my mind: Today I don't feel like writing at all.

 Freud used to say that creating is the response for excessive sexual desire suppressed by social limitations. Following that, the process of creation gets a new meaning for an individual- meaning as something coming from instincts, original and savage. Surprisingly, this statement completely doesn't underestimate creation as a higher process we used to perceive it as- if we notice that sexual instinct was something primary for living creatures, then becoming a creator appears as a natural phase in the cycle. Therefore the need to create is innate and inevitable, a silent destiny of a contemporary human kind.

 - Go and write- once The Guy I Lived With said somewhere between clearing the table after meal and filling the washing machine.- When you don't write, your life seems to be falling apart.

This unbearable word starting with 'F'

 I posted a facebook status which was my translation of some punk song's chorus. 'My freedom is none of your sin'. Only two of my friends commented on it. The rest of them probably thought about sex. 

My kind regards to Berberis The Cat

 It was my dad who told me this story, one night when I was six I believe, and I couldn't sleep without a story. It's been loads of years then I've been creating this story, more chapters and characters. To celebrate finishing of the prologue, in which I explain how the story has started, I would like to start sharing the story here, on Monkey Seduction.

Somewhere on Earth- 6 months of Monkey Seduction.

 I opened a website as usual and I realized that Monkey Seduction is already 6 months old. Therefore, I would like to thank everybody who keep checking my posts, and enjoying, somehow, my modest try of writing skills. To thank you, I would like to introduce myself to you in this post, as I think, I owe to all of these people who actually read me. 

O.B.B.- Offended By a Blogger

 There is one creepy thing I realized recently when my dear friend Paolo O. Martin (known by his English friends mostly as Paul Portier), has been asked why did he stop to run a blog. 

 -Well- answered he, concentrating on a pronounciation of double 'l'- I guess I had too many thoughts insulting random people that I decided not to post anything for a while. 

 Refering to this after a while, I realized that since I became a blogger I always think twice. And amongst all of other benefits I got from it, such as a perver pleasure of a never-read-before writer, I realize such a good exercise of patience is that. All because we live in a society of O.B.B.s.

Beginning with a description

 -Switch the music off- said my literary one of best friends Paolo O. Martin interrupting consuming his daily portion of cereals.- It reminds of a time passing.

 After this statement he wiped his mouth with a napkin and put his spoon inside of the bowl, letting me know that he is no longer hungry.

 - The passing time is the most depressive thing in the world- continued my friend, who diagnosed himself with depression long ago.- If you think about it coming from the right point of view, it's actually the only depressive thing in the world. Because everything is all about time. Without it, we would just enjoy a moment.

Handwriting for children.

 Modern ages terrify me. That's something all of my closest friends know about me and therefore never ask me to send something via email or scan any documents. It's not about my literacy, God sake! It's just that I don't really feel like modern technics are able to chase my mind in appropriate way and time. 

 This is why running a blog got me recently overwhelmed. But I cannot live without Monkey Seduction anymore. Writing is an addiction, worse then gambling, alcohol or any phobias or passions you can imagine. I write so I am. This is the condition of being me, outspoken. 

 Till the moment I started my life online I've been pursuing handwriting since I remember. My hand is the only thing which can think for me, work for me and be always there on time. I bet some people agree, even with a bit different passions then writing. Anyway, how to replace your pen with keyboard? Keyboard is always late, always stupid, decreasing and is a subject to many conditions you do not wish to know.

Love Letters

It's probably one of the most forgotten fine arts in the world. Not because people almost don't write letters anymore at all, but rather becuase people don't express their feelings the way they used to anymore. That makes IT even sadder reminding the fact that love letters used to have their own, special place in the history. Despite it, nobody reads love letters anymore even if they are written by Guillaume Apolinaire. Somehow, love letters writing became an inconvenient substitute of an in-depth intimacy we're all ashamed about and don't want to let into our awareness. To be truth, I'm including a love letter written by me, as a part of 'Esperanza'. Although I've written some of my own too. 

Esperanza- middle piece.

 The main character of 'Esperanza' is a man who's fiancee disappeared several years ago. One day, convinced that he saw her walking on the street, he decides to take a desperate journey through his past to find the truth. 

 Since that time I knew, that never again, I just can't lose anything anymore. So I spent my life surrounded by material things, things which couldn't leave or fade away and which always remain a one captured moment. I was collecting articles from newspapers about daily events and flyers advertising temporary discounts. I was taking pictures of decorated shops' windows and I was writing down overheard in the tram sounds of strangers' talks. It was all to believe, that it's possible to capture the moment. And even to keep it forever.

Esperanza- a romance adventure

 (...) Sometimes I feel like I was there. Walking on these streets. However, I know these streets are not real, this city is an illusion, these worlds in front of me are world of my immagination. In this daydream I feel very light, in kind of weird way, like I was light as a wind. So I'm haunting these dreamy streets as a fog, able to make every heart cold, make every thought blown away.

 It took me actually ages. 'Esperanza' was supposed to be my first novel, but a composition of the story required a more specific form. So there is my short story. Placed in Poznań, Poland, Esperanza is a story about searching answers of a past before living home. But the main character is a city, a magic city, to be enjoyed by those who had an honour spend a time there. This is a last sentence of Esperanza, finishing this adventure for me, and beginning it for readers- translation in progress.

Woman's Portrait

 I never was a good poet. Though I dreamed about it since ever, my mind just never developed any talent towards it. Maybe that's why I became a translator, to cheer up my pride and partly make my dream come true. There's nothing better than a good poem to translate. 

 Today I'd like to share one poem, probably translated already thousand times, but I believe still touching in every version. The poem of Wisława Szymborska, recently died winner of a Nobel prize.