Interview with a Writer

Today, I wanted to do something a little different. Instead of me talking about writing, I wanted to talk with a fellow writer and get his view on writing. Ill be doing this occasionally, interviewing other writers about their works and their views on writing. Today, Ill be interviewing a poet named Diarmaid de Frates, who is also known as Kam Freewind. He resides in Ireland at the moment. He attends university doing an English and History course. You can find most of his works online in websites such as “All Poetry”. He is also a Stanzas regular (look at my previous blog post).

  1. How long have you been writing?

Hm.Well.I’ve been writing mostly since I was about 16, so four years, but the first poem I wrote was for a dead bird I found when I came home from school when I was 7.

2.  Aw. Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

Mmmmhm xD Well, I used to do it just as a thing when I was a kid, saw an opportunity to enter competitions and the like. But when I really found my… Muse, let’s say… It was in response to a scathing public “letter” (blog post) that an ex made, directed at me. Thus was spawned “To My Olde Best Friend.”

3. Do you have a specific writing style?

Idk… Most of it is in-line rhyming, very conversational rather than having a strict rhyming scheme, though I kinda drift between both styles… Guess you’d call it free-form or slam.

4. What books have influenced your life and your writing?

I have no idea, never thought about it.

5. What authors/poets do you idolise or enjoy?

Edgar Allan Poe

Um… Emily Dickinson

Sylvia Plath

Don’t know who else

6. Great choices. By the looks of things, you produce mainly poetry such as Social Creatures and I Will Only Fade Away Someday. Have you ever written or attempted to write a short story or a novel?

Written short stories in the past, working on a memoir.

7. cool and how is that going? Do you have a process that you go through when you are writing such as locking yourself in your room etc?

meh, it’s alright lol

“Write fucked, edit sober”

8. Do you see writing as a career you may pursue?

As a side-career, words don’t pay bills.

9. What books are you reading at the moment?

Re-reading Animal Farm atm.

10. I’ve never read it. Any good? In your opinion, what is the hardest part of writing?

Mhm, very good. Especially considering how well it ties in with modern “Social Justice” idiots. Um, I have no idea, I don’t make problems for myself xD I’d say it’s probably just being able to tap into what you have to write.

11. How would you plan out your poetry? When you have the idea, how do you formulate that onto paper?

I don’t, I just write.

12. Out of all the pieces you have written, what one would you be most proud of? And why?

The duo-piece: I’m Not Crazy / Or Maybe I Am… Because it came out all at once, and is probably my favourite to read.

13. Oh right, that makes sense. It is a good poem. The poem I like by you is I Will Only Fade Away Someday. Do you have any advice for aspiring writers out there?

Well, mostly just to write and keep writing, submit the works you like, and keeping a blog is generally a decent idea. Even if it’s just used as a bit of an online diary, so long as you’re writing something.

If any of you are interested in checking out Diarmaid’s poetry, I have put a links down below. I recommend you do because he is a good poet. I hope to interview someone else soon. Ill keep yee updated!

http://allpoetry.com/Kam_Freewind

http://www.mychaoticplaybook.tumblr.com/

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A Safe Place

Writing is a solitary hobby/profession. A writer needs the time and leisure to sit at a desk, pick up a pen and be alone with their thoughts. It is a satisfying and therapeutic experience. Some say writing is just for make-believe. That we are avoiding the realities of life by creating new ones on paper. Maybe we are.

But writing is also the perfect tool to express your inner thoughts and feelings. It is a very private endeavour and writers would fear to share their work. For me, I saw it as a personal exploration and I didn’t feel the need to share my stories. Then, I went to one of those gatherings for poets, writers and other artists in a small but pleasant café called Cellar Door in mid-October last year. These gatherings happened monthly and they were set up by an organisation called Stanzas. Stanzas was formed up by a group of Irish writers and its purpose was to have a place where aspiring writers could go and share their stories. Just from that October event, I could feel the welcoming atmosphere. New writers could come here, read out their poems and be celebrated for it. There is open mic night, music, guest speakers and loads of laughter. Each month, there is a theme to the event, for example, December- Winter and February- Anti-Love. In a safe place such as this, writers can share their creativity and meet fellow writers. You can share your stories, instead of keeping them to yourself.

I find events like Stanzas help writers be more creative. It’s a space where fellow writers can speak freely and they know it’s a safe place to do so. My friends and I go to Stanzas every month and bring our words with us. What about you? Do you have a place like Stanzas in your area?

If you are an aspiring writer who wants to share their work, send them into a magazine or go to monthly events where other writers meet up. Take a chance with your work. Let others hear your words! And thank you to places such as Stanzas that help aspiring writers feel safe and allow their words to be heard.

My Perfection Nazi

You were everything to me. I idolized you and your mannerisms. I accepted your flaws and trepidations. However, I began to see your intolerance for imperfections. You wanted everything in their place. You were an artist and I was your canvas. You started to mould me into your perfect mannequin. Any faulty kinks were removed. You could not tolerate them. At first, I allowed you to create. I allowed your artistic mind be at work, I let you pick at every part of my being. I guess I did it because I loved the way your eyes lit up when your imagination was running wild. I loved being a part of that. I helped you build me up into your masterpiece. But then time and time again, you pulled it apart so to begin the process again. I became a problem for you. My personality didn’t fit your perfect vision. My whole being didn’t fit your insane artistic paradise. You thought you could remodel me into your perfect sculpture, something you could marvel at. Something you could control and keep for yourself. You were ignorant to who I was. The artistic look in your eye had no longer impressed me. It scared me! It became an obsession.

I no longer saw a master at work. I saw the inner workings of a madman breaking free. You became frustrated and angry when you couldn’t remove my flaws. I couldn’t be your perfect creature and at first, I felt guilty. I thought it was my fault and that I was to blame. But I realized that I could never make you happy. In fact, no one could ever make you happy. I didn’t want to be your canvas anymore.

So I stepped down.

But you were relentless. You didn’t want me to leave. When you realised you couldn’t stop me, a long-standing war commenced. In the end, I lost the fight but I didn’t care. Because I knew you could never get what you wanted from me or anyone else. Your insane ideas of perfections were unrealistic.

I used to hate you. Now I only feel pity. I refer to you as “My Perfection Nazi.” You won many parts of my soul and caused deep scars that will take years to heal. But you lost the war for my whole being. You ruled with an iron fist but it wasn’t enough to keep me. Now, I’m free to be who I am with no one holding me back, while you stay ruling over a soulless dictatorship with other loyal slaves.

Ms Invisible

“Oh my God. Did you hear what happened?”

“Oh yeah, I heard. Poor thing!”

“Oh shut up, Jessica. You didn’t even know the girl”

“Neither did you, Bethany. What was her name again?”

“I don’t know. It’s still really sad.”

This has been going on all day. The news broke this morning of a seventeen year old girl who was found with a noose around her neck in her own bathroom. There is shock among the student body but there is also confusion. No one seems to know who she was. No one can describe what she looked like or even recall her name. It’s as if there is a brief shock then all is forgotten when people admit that “they didn’t know her.” I didn’t know you either. And I’m sorry for that. But I do remember you. You were the one who had your jet black hair tied up in a plait. You always did well in English class. You were the one who wrote the beautiful poem by the name of “Blossom.” You always had a smile on your face when you came into school every day. I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you. I’m sorry I didn’t make an effort to know you.

I wonder why I am making a big deal about your passing. No one else seems to care. So why do I feel this sadness inside me? I guess, I felt this strange connection towards you. As if we were the same person. Of course, I don’t know if we had the same interests in books, politics or entertainment. I didn’t know anything about you.

The only thing we had in common was that we were always alone. In a classroom filled with students, I remember you sitting alone in the corner reading your classic novels, while I sat at the other corner listening to music. You hardly spoke to anyone or made yourself be seen. I guess your reason was fear, the fear of stepping out of your comfort zone. But I saw you. Even though, I didn’t know your name or who you were inside. I always saw you and how lonely you looked. No one else noticed when you were gone from school but I did.

You were Ms Invisible to everyone around you. No one ever saw you nor cared so you didn’t try. You stayed in your cold solitude. I guess one day, it got to you. The fact that no one knew you existed nor cared was too much. You saw the rope as your only option. I feel sadness because I wished I told you that I did notice when you were gone or when you were having a bad day. Maybe even a “hey” to brighten up your day. But I am just like you, too afraid to interact with anyone. I also feel sadness because I’m getting that feeling of cold loneliness too. I go about my daily life and no one cares. No one will care if I disappear for days on end. I don’t think anyone would notice. No one will care if I just die right now. I guess that’s just who I am. Just like you mystery girl, I’m Ms Invisible. I go about my life leaving no impact on anyone. I’m a miniscule anomaly on this earth. No one cares who I am or how I’m feeling! NO ONE CARES!!

So why should I care anymore?

Why should I care about life in general?

Why even continue on?

There is nothing for me here. I have brought nothing to this world and I will leave the same way. I will leave nothing behind. No legacy, no memory. Because there is nothing of me worth remembering.

I am nothing.

Winter

Everyone associates winter with Christmas; the joyous holiday filled with present giving, mistletoe and of course, Santa Clause. The smiles of little children opening their presents from Santa and their loved ones would warm anyone’s heart. I, myself, dont think of Christmas when I think of winter. I associate winter with darkness and no warmth. As December draws closer every year, I dont feel like rejoicing. I feel like locking myself away and retreating from the world. But the worst part of it, is winter comes to me every day, of every month, of every year. I can never escape winter because it is a part of me.

I sit in my cold cocoon and watch life pass me by. I interact with people but I never let them get close enough to see the harsh winters swirling inside of me. In a way, I saw it as protection. For a long time, this eternal winter frightened me but it was also my only companion. I would always welcome its icy cold embrace with open arms. It was all I knew. I had no one else to turn to. I saw no escape from its grasp. My parents never understood. They tried to understand why I would rather stay in my room with the blinds drawn, then go to a coffee shop with other teenagers. They got frustrated when they couldnt figure me out. Now, we just dont talk. They call it a “phase.” Well, this phase lasted for six years. I became inept to the world surrounding me. I didnt understand the functioning of society and the people in it. People came into my life but they were just smoke in the wind. I couldnt hold onto them. I was alone.

But then, something happened. I am still unsure what. All I remember is everything started to thaw. I no longer felt winters embrace. I felt a large weight coming off my shoulders. I began to smile more and then, I began to laugh again. The world seemed much brighter and clearer than before. I was no longer afraid. Winter no longer had control over me. It was no longer my platonic companion, just a season that comes only once a year.

Hello fellow writers :)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnKZ4pdSU-s

I never considered myself a writer for years. It was merely a hobby that I dabbled with every once and a while. After, two years, I began writing more and more. I started writing short stories, prose and even novels (many are still incomplete) :). I enjoy writing because it gives me the freedom to speak my mind and express who I am when for the longest time, I couldn’t. My purpose for this blog is to talk about writing and the great writers of our time or even from years ago. I will talk about what goes on the mind of a writer and how to express it onto the page (or computer screen!). I will share videos of great poets and maybe interview some brilliant writers that I know. Moreover, some of my posts will be of my writing. This is a place where fellow writers can come and talk about their passions for writing. Come and talk about your favourite book or author. If you want some advice on writing or tips, feel free to ask J Ill be posting stuff very often. If not, then once or twice a week. Come, fellow writers and let your lovely words be heard!