Compost from Refuse

Remember just over a week back? It was that fateful weekend when England lost to South Africa in the Rugby World Cup Final. Wait, wait - don't switch off, this isn't a post about sport. Far from it. Rather, it relates to a conversation I had, during said match, with my good buddy Paul about writing.

Now Paul is a clever chap and I'd been badgering him for a while to do some writing. Up until recently, the usual (pretty and fair and reasonable , to be honest) excuses came out relating to day jobs, free time and all other aspects generally getting in the way of literary extra-curricular activities. Well, I was pretty pleased to learn that Paul has indeed starting writing and in the true style of most initial dalliances into the written word, he's kept it under his hat.

This revelation (and I'm getting to the point, now) led us to discuss how I go about writing and, to an extent, I've discussed this in an earlier post so I won't repeat it here. It did bring up an interesting notion, though, that of the bloody-minded writer - he or she that writes no matter what, even if it's rubbish.

I'm a first believer in getting something down on the page, even if it's bad, is much better than nothing. I'm also an advocate of the brain 'warming up theory', though I don't always subscribe to the 'always throw out your first paragraph' doctrine, but occasionally it's a useful exercise.

The truth is, no writing is garbage. Well, that is to say, even refuse can become compost with a little treatment. Leaving the gardening analogy to one side, the message here is that a page of fairly suspect prose is better than a blank page. Remember: you can always go back.

It puts me in mind of an interview I did with Dan Abnett several years ago. I was asking him about his writing techniques and amongst the many pearls of wisdom he imparted, one stuck in mind in particular. He mentioned the importance in his writing of going back over what he'd done and changing a word here and there, a switch of emphasis, a tweak of dialogue until the page really sings.

I like that. All that tweaking and re-reading (aloud is best, I find, especially in the case of dialogue) is the literary gargling before belting out a passion-filled solo.

So, whether gardening or singing (to reconnect with the analogical landscape), even writing the literary equivalent of refuse is better than doing nothing, because you'll get compost with a little work and that's when something of substance can grow and flourish. I reckon Paul's gargling right about now...