I love words, l love writing, l love reading others’ words and their writing, but what inspires us to write, to put pen to paper [or keypad], to ply our art, to capture moments in time, or days ahead of where we are, to quill to parchment – what motivates us to write, display, blog, poetise, photograph or draw – what inspires us to be the way we are and how we choose to express ourselves to not just ourselves but others?
When younger l was inspired by the likes of Creepshow, Fontana, Tales From The Crypt, Eerie Comics, The Vault of Horror, Mary Shelley, Edgar Allen Poe, Bram Stoker, and the list went on. My parents were very concerned for my mental health and the reading of such ‘nasties’ and said that it could affect me, twist my sense of the world.
I started writing for pulp magazines when l was around twelve years of age, small horror stories, tales of murder, ghost stories and all things creepy.
With writing l found my escape, my salvation, my entry into the darkness could be accepted … I wrote this as a form of salute to those who heckled me and said writing like this ‘would turn me!’
“Turn me into what?” I would ask of them?
“Strange was the answer, it will make you strange!!”
Well my strange stories when l was a kid were published and for the time back in the 70’s paid me handsomely … strange it is then!
So without further ado …
Murther Most Foul!
Should a wordsmith of fact, fill pages of penned ink,
On foulest deeds, murther and of surcease,
Doth reader of such dreadful woes think?
Or assume ‘Smith is guilty of ghastly disease?
Doth reader think twice that maybe just perhaps?
Strokes of pen hath committed said crimes of evil tiding,
And that in order to stroke such mishaps,
Must themselves be guilty of hiding,
Truth of dishonour amongst hapless souls?
Whom they have slain in such horrible endings,
Knifed, sliced, chopped up and no longer whole,
All the whilst safe at home pretending,
Imaginings come from just within the mind,
And’t brushed with quill,
Upon parchment awaiting their artistic time,
And nay, they are of sound health and not ail?
‘Tis true then that same can be applied,
Absolute nay to crafters of Gothic artistry,
That they too are sin free of misdeed,
And not guilty of suicidal treachery?
To pen in such a darkly mannering doors,
Doth not make them guilty or accurst!
Harping their inner flaws,
Of deathly gallows as is scribed within verse!
Are they to be accus’d of slumbry agitation?
Perchance that is oft the thought,
Walking of the dead at night is motivation,
For such heavily drapes of distraught!
Can they too not assay to scribe such misery?
With’t persecution from readers,
Or’st just wordsmiths allowed such delivery,
Of such dreadful breathers?
Should they too not receive prayerful benison?
For scribing such enjoyable parchments,
Of evil deeds upon mankind hath done,
And be acknowledged too for chosen sentiments?
Nay, their scribed works are set to confound,
By readers of such devilry and distempered belief,
Gothic artistry is only disturbingly profound,
Awarding said readers no immediate relief!
That mastery of such penned morbidity,
Must be oh so, so cloudy,
To scribe such ways is open to scrutiny,
By weal of such knowledge and so worldly,
And are strokes of the Gothic craft to feel cowed,
For walking in the dunnest alley ways of mind,
Or perhaps like Smiths of crime, simply proud,
That they have enkindled deeper this time?
Guy or Bloke, Your Choice
What inspires you to write?