I am unsure as to whether my writing is art. I think when looking at writing and art I am drawn to the idea of literary merit and all its many connotations. I can’t help but think of arty writing as pretentious and self important. Often it is turgid, dull and self congratulatory in its use of clever language. I don’t really aspire to that; more I look to write a story people will enjoy. But maybe that too is art, just a different art – the art of storytelling not writing.
Creativity and inspiration sit together. I am a bit of a dreamer, telling many stories in my head. Often the spark is something seen, or something read. A lot of my writing at the moment stems from an image, a fragment of a scene, that sparks and flashes in the back of the mind. The work, the creativity, which flows from that, is drawing the image out of the mind and onto the page.
That is the most difficult part; when you can see clearly the image in front of you, and trying to find the right words to describe it. The battle I fight constantly is writing in my head the scene, and then that flash of creativity/inspiration burning out before I have an opportunity to sit in front of the computer, and type it out.