Thursday, 17 September 2009

Gleaned Genius (Pt 1)

When I told people I was doing a Creative Writing MA, there were predictable howls of scepticism.

The consensus among the league of beleaguered writers I liaise with (and whom I love with massive slabs of affection) seems to be that writing courses are bunk, bollocks and bungleable.

I thought so too. The argument that tutors mould writers in their own image is a powerful one. How can one writer, imparting their wisdom and experience on a class, sidestep the clone treatment, subliminal or otherwise?

However, this one at Napier Uni seems to be tight. The tutors are on the same wavelength as the disillusioned doubters, and have devised an attack plan of writing that encompasses a whole smorgasbord of innovative approaches to fiction and non-fiction.

This blog will be filled with actual thoughts about writing from now on. Yes, actual thoughts, as opposed to feeble-minded rants and passive-aggressive whines. The freedom, the brilliance of using one’s brain!

Or… the tedium of navelgazing and pseudo-academic windbaggery. We’ll see. Ta-ta for now.


  1. Where's the shitfling you promised? I thought you were going to tell me what a useless twat I am and give me advice on where to stick my head, your head, Guy Lombardo's head, and a quart of hot sauce. I was planning my weekend around it. Now I don't know what I'll do.

    When I offend you tell me. Don't be a snotty priss and delete my comments unless you want me to fly there and put you in a French maid costume. Being offensive comes naturally to me. I think I'm extremely funny. Until someone tells me otherwise I will assume they do too. It simply takes too much effort to doubt myself.

    I get zippo internet access, being that I share bandwidth with the local chapter of Satan's Choice. I also use a Mac, and downloading your PC word files makes it smoke. I also lay in bed crying most of the day, and when I do wander out to the library it is wearing mismatched knee socks and otherwise looking like an escaped mental patient. There is always the chance the asylum wants me back.

    So give me a frigging break. When I'm not wearing my own butt as a bowler I'll slam you. You'll love it. It will make you crave spicy food. Until then I'll offer what cheap amusements I'm worth. If I tried to impress you with my critical thinking right now you'd be embarrassed for me.

    Have patience. Grow a beard. Lambada.

    I love you exquisitely (platonically and possibly maternally). I want to bake you cookies real bad. You get on my nerves sometimes.

    Go ahead and delete this too. I know you wanna.

  2. Morning, sweetie!

    Look at you with the hot-flush ranting and references to American celebrities I've never heard of. That's cute.

    I don't mind your flamboyant bile. If I call people lazy bastards in public I can expect bundles of manure on my lawn.

    You're exempt from my wrath, since you produce a prodigious amount of brilliant work, and hone your writing skills cleverly on Facebook and in colorful comments such as these. Transforming the mundane parameters of intewoob communication into spindly art is très magnifique. And you make me chortle.

    People don't like being given a boot up the arse. I refer to my other lazy writing friends who don't blog. They like stirring in their own wasteful piles and ham-shanking like monkeys. Maybe I should keep my snout out.

    A beard? Oh no. If I ever end up like Bosworth, blow my brains out with a Bren gun dipped in vinegar.

  3. Agreed.

    I sure did spaz, huh? Well.

    I don't deserve exemption, but find it touching.