This damned “my house” story/ recording is going to be the end of me.
I had some kind of existential moment yesterday. I'd been working on this piece of writing. Refining it (so I thought). I decided the text was ready. So I tried recording it, experimenting with my delivery.
First I tried a sort or hysterical, theatrical style. That didn't come out right. Frustration didn't work either.
Then the whole thing felt like it wasn't any good. Like the writing itself sucks and that's why no amount of vocal experimentation will get anywhere.
It made me aware that I haven't been doing enough creative writing recently. My time is taken up with too many other things. Plenty of articles, interviews, reviews — all great to be doing. Apparently quite a different muscle to my stories though.
So I gave myself the task of spending a little time each day (again — I had this routine in the past) to do some creative writing.
This morning I spent a little time in the park, sitting alone with a shitty cappuccino and a slice of cake, working on this infernal “my house” thing. I'm pretty sick of it now. I feel like I maybe did something useful with it though.
Later today, if I'm in the right mood, I want to try recording it again. Third time lucky? (Maybe the fourth actually).
I'm not making excuses in advance for myself by saying “if I'm in the right mood”. It's quite emotionally draining I discovered to work myself up into a panic, or rage, or despair for a recording. In a way I take that as a positive. It seems to be that I'm brining real emotion to the surface. It hangs on my afterwards though. It isn't easy to shake off.
That'll teach me for deciding the next album should be significantly more harrowing than the last.