"I'm never gonna dance again. Guilty fee.....". - An Honest Diary Entry About The Fear of Writing

** The folliowing diary entry was written on January 21, 2021. One month later i would have a high dose of mushrooms which, after screaming naked on my kitchen floor that my children do exist goddamnt, their lovve is real, i woke up the next day equaninimous and quit alcohol. I also started the SELF-TITLED novel the following day, which was a delightful writing process, and has some stories which maybe are the only ones to date that i am not ashamed of (some, not all). When i wrote this entry, i had no idea what was around the corner. I had written HARROLD the month before, and nothing for all of 2020. So i was desperate and worried. This, then, is just something from my personal records. This is a dash of honesty.

ON WRITING:

 

21-1-21

 

At the moment I feel as if writing is something I can’t or won’t be able to do again. I know I’ve felt this a thousand times over, but it seems that each time I feel it, it seems more pertinent – more real; as if the inevitable is solidifying into an absolute truth, like a chunk of old play dough left in the sun, unmoldable, unchangeable, and quietly crumbling away. 

I’m scared to start writing – all of the time. I guess, in part, to find out if any of this were true. Absurd really as four weeks ago, in one brief sitting, I wrote the best story I have ever written – one that was not just clear, concise, and impactful, but the process was measured, controlled, technical, and really enjoyable. I never felt as good finishing a story as I did at the end of ‘Harrold’.

Yet four weeks later, the idea of opening a blank page scares me to death. It’s no different to calling back Cinthia, or any of the girls I had a great time with, and allowing something good to seed, sprout, and flower. To just let it do so, naturally.

Part of me knows that to really write – to write something that swallows the reader up – I have to commit and that means giving up control – for however long the process may be. And everything right now is somewhat controlled. Work is plentiful. Money is plentiful. Emotional stability is plentiful. And the rational part of my brain – the father especially – says, being in this state is safe. We have to keep a roof over our heads. We have to keep food in the fridge. We have to have savings. We have to have financial stretching room. We can’t fuck up.

So have I grown to look at writing as I have drugs? Something that will undeniably whip me into a frenzy of reckless abandon? Have I made that direct association? It’s not true, if this is the case. 

A month ago, you sat down unemotionally and did your best writing. The only story you were actually proud of – the only one that, when passing it on for someone to read, you weren’t swept up by feelings of shame. It was the only story (bar one paragraph admittedly) that was written right, especially the ending. 

So why the aversion to writing?

I would love to go back and re-write everything I had written from A Rising Fall onwards. I look back at how I wrote and I get shivers of disgust. And I could re-write them, and feel better today, but what good would that be? In ten years I’ll look back and want to re-write them again, because I will have changed, my writing will have changed, my tone will have changed, and I will tell myself that I can see those ideas with better clarity. But that will happen every ten years. It’s not the clarity, voice, vocabulary, or tone that makes any difference, there will always be an underlying feeling (and it is physiological too), that I could say better what I said in the past. How is that any different to my brain tormenting me with dumb shit I said when I was 12 or 17 or 27, and trying to give the better come back in my head whilst scrubbing my hair in the shower? The underlying issue is not the story, the writing, or how it was told – at that time ! – the underlying issue is a complete absence of self esteem (which ironically is probably why I write in the first place).

So maybe this is not a note to Cian now, this is a note to you – Cian – five years from now.

“Stop sifting through your fucking past and I promise you, I’ll stop sifting through mine.”

Those first novels were written by a young man with no formal training, teaching, or experience, trying to figure out an artform alone. And for his own enjoyment and need. It was never about being a writer or writing for people. It was always this damn itch in my head that needed my head to be torn open, just to get at to scratch. Pandora’s box. But those books are an evaluation of Cian – then. For that reason alone I shouldn’t be delving in the past. I was a different person back then, and I was learning a craft without any guidance – I don’t even bloody read, so there is no author’s voice that I can emulate, echo, or follow. I’m learning to talk in a cave by myself. What creates the frustration and shame then, is knowing that there is a young, immature, impulsive and pretty unstructured version of myself still wandering around out there – still making first impressions. This is the part that is vexing. Every book creates this parallel universe, where If someone reads just one thing I have written, they’ll have a perspective of Cian (and his story telling) that is totally askew from past or proceeding works. Having no desire to sit down and repeat on type of story for my career (not wanting to paint a fruit bowl for 50 years), this will always be my predicament. Every story I write is a reflection of myself now, at this point. And telling the story I want to tell right now. And so the writing will be indicative of how I am communicating – with myself and the world around me – at that given moment. And yeah, the first 9 novels especially, were rushed. They were manic. They were unstructured. They were laden with errors. Because so was I. Were it a painting, they could be my happy mistakes. Clumps of paint that, once again, were indicative of Cian – AT THAT TIME.

So there is no point whatsoever, not only in going back to re-write my first ‘learning’ pieces, but going back at all, and judging unconvincingly. 

The fact is, Harrold was an evolution. It was a maturity. C. Sean McGee grew up. AM I scared then that, like sparring, it was just a one off; a singular lucky moment where all the stars aligned in my head, life, immune system, and I was capable – in that exact moment – of being patient, calm, relaxed, and flow like water taking every right step from beginning to end? And just like how – every now and then – I sparred with grace, technique, and joy, it was never an assurity that I would always spar that way, and that because of my mind, more often my body was rigid, my thoughts were heavy, my legs were heavy, and I sparred forcefully, brutish, fearful, and ugly; just as I have written time and time again.

Am I thinking I have to be impassioned? That I have to be swept up by the tidal wave of inspiration to be able to write – and more so, to map out a story that will be meaningful for the person who reads it? Because this isn’t true. We weren’t swept away when we wrote Harrold. We felt no different than we do now. IN fact, this, more than anything, meant that what we wrote was solely down to our skill. Just as we had sparred with poise and technique (enjoying the process), so too with Harrold, did we go into the writing without that all encompassing wave of inspiration, and instead, we told a story – with poise and technique.

We don’t have to be inspired. 

We need only sit down to write.

**** new novel has been undereay since Feb/Mar 2022. A filthy dystopian tech nightmare. Writing is coming along, but much slower than usual. A lot slower than usual. It will be worth it. 

Take Risk and Take Care,

C. Sean McGee

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{Ineffable} excerpt

"Before equanimity there was fear, and with it, an omniverse scripted upon the most irrational logic. It created worlds of disparity, indifference, and indignation. And it spawned a culture of misery that spread through the seed of existence. Fear is the division of self, the infinite fracture of the whole, with neither part behaving in accordance with good and proper mathematics."

- The Good Doctor

{Ineffable} C.SeanMcGee ₢2015

Jonathon and The Collector

Jonathon and The Collector:

Once upon a time, there lived a boy named Jonathon who loved nothing more than playing in the wild forests of his imagination.

He had a mother and father who loved him so dearly and friends of plenty of whom he danced with so freely.

But one day whilst playing by himself in snow, dear Jonathon met a man he quite surely didn´t know. The man said to him: “My boy, have you the time, for if you have none you can make haste with mine”.

Jonathon thought what a strange thing to say, for why would a man count existence away?

“A second, a day or a week or a year, are treasures to keep, my boy, nothing to fear”. Jonathon knew that his musings were wrong, that time only is, in each note of a song. And just as a note may be grandiose and vast, a song that´s been sung cannot sing in the past.

“My boy you´re so clever, then care you a treat? I have in this bag a prize for your feat”. Jonathon smiled and ran to his side and tugged at the bag to peer deep inside. 

“My child if you will, reach as far as you can, a surprise for you waits at the stretch of your hand. Wiggle your fingers and tip on your toes, the deserve you desire is beyond your nose”.

Jonathon did as the strange man had said, he stood on his toes and he buried his head. When balance was lost there then came a mute cry from a brown hesham bag with a young boy inside.

"How did I fail? Stranger please tell me why."

“You won me with logic but I fooled you with pride”.

The Collector moved on and he vanished from sight; into the

darkness, away from the light. And inside his bag a collectable toy,

with movable parts, a collectable boy.

When The Collector got home he dished up a feast, he cordoned his

bag and he put up his feet. On an old rocking chair he rested his rump

with his tiresome feet on a rickety stump. It was back and forth he

swayed with delight with a lick of a finger after every bite.

He ate cat, he ate dog he ate rat he ate frog he ate fox he ate ox he ate minks he ate lynx he ate mice that had lice he ate maggots for rice, twere the nastiest things twere the things he found nice.

For dessert what he wished on his grubby old plate was the boy he

collected, no older than eight.

He cast out his belly and turned on the telly for the air in the room

was now thick and was quite smelly. The stench form his farts and his

burps and his feet were then made all the worse by the stifling heat.

A scary old man on an old rocking chair with long fingernails and grey

greasy hair; skinny white legs and filthy back toes; distracted by

thoughts of maundering prose.

Out of his reach and still far from his sight stirred the making of

trouble; the start of a fight. From inside his bag well now wouldn’t

you know, there now wriggled a wriggling wriggly toe. Then came a

foot and from there came a leg and a hand and an arm and a little

boy’s head.

Out of the bag the boy jumped for his life and he carried

in hand an old hunting knife. He motioned toward the old man and

said “I’ve something to tell you before you are dead”.

The Collector was startled and screamed to the night for a prisoner was he, of distraction and fright. “My boy if you do you’re no better than me for to kill of one’s will is to set hatred free; for desire it rules from the heart to the hand from the seat where I sit to the stance where you stand”.

Jonathon smiled and shook of his head and leaned in and hugged of the old man and said: 

“To live is to die and to fail is to try and to be an old man is to seldom ask why hath the hole in your heart and the dread in your head be the burden you carry from the road to your bed and these things you collect and forever keep near hath done nothing to vanquish the state of your fear, for this hell you preserve above one, above all; it deepens your downing it heightens your fall. You siphon the past through a memorial sieve as a bitter old man with a life gone unlived”.

The Collector sank into a sad empty stare as Jonathon pulled on the old rocking chair and the old man he hummed such a dark mournful note as the young boy he plunged the knife deep in his throat.

The lesson to learn in this tale of a boy is to caution of conscious, a dangerous toy. For just as a rattle keeps a child at distraction; the thoughts that one keeps tend to speak of inaction.

- Johnathon and The Collector is an extract from the dystoian novel 

A RISING FALL, book 001 in the dystpoian trilogy 

CITY: A Literary Concerto.

This fable is preached to children within The Nest, to teach the importance of focus and maintaining a state of 'one'.

Download your FREE copy of A Rising Fall here: http://goo.gl/BtHpCk

A Rising Fall is the first book in a dystopian trilogy entitled City: A Literary Concerto. The story starts ten years after the blackout as a group of humans struggling to fight off a conscious famine, try to re-learn empathy to save humanity in an old industrial assembly plant. In 3 days; feigned affection, deception and a black heart will take them further into the repression of their own fears in search of unconditional love.

The City Concerto through literary prose; answers one question: To what lengths would a father go and what horrible wrongs would he do, to teach a god how to love again?

Following the theme of a concerto, City is divided into three parts; A Rising Fall, Utopian Circus and I, Cannibal. Each book is then divided into three pieces and with A Rising Fall, each piece refers to a day; the three days leading to the fall of their city.

The trilogy illustrates the human emancipation from three states of love; Eros, Philos and Agape as each is torn apart under the guise of well intention as humanity; now void of identity in the wake of a century of dehumanising dependence and necessity upon industry and digital technology; has separated itself from the labour of its existence, aborting empathy and setting in place the death of mother nature. Yet, on the verge of extinction; mankind presses on; towards salvation; towards the city of light and sound; towards New Utopia.

Take Risk and Take Care and Merry Festivities,

C.SeanMcGee