1000 Words Paint A Picture

I love this painting, as I'm sure an incredible amount of people around the world do. You only have to see the replicas and the variations of people's own artwork to appreciate it's magnificance. 

"I don't know much about art, but I know what I like," has never been a more true statement than in this moment. My admiration for this painting is in the swirls of colour and the perception of movement when a photo would not even come close to this grandeur. To see swirls and wind blasts in what was more than likely a sky of black, absolutely fascinates my creative mind. To see the world in such a childlike manner, makes it all the more special to me. It shows me what I have lost sight of but reminds me, all I have to do is remenisce, and my world becomes vibrant; land of OZ vibrant.

I started looking deeply into my craft of writing around 2009. Not going to lie, it was fanfiction. It was good fanfiction. If you love NCIS lore, I recommend a look, especially in regards to the first seven seasons of the original run, well, until Shane Brennan (bless his Australian soul) made the formula predictable, for me at least. Again, I digress. 

I see the world and my memories like a film set up. I love film so it's only natural I want to see my life in the same manner. I started describing the story and realised, especially if you are dealing with mystery and crime, every detail is important. The addage, "A picture paints a thousand words" came to mind as I realised that conversely, I need a thousand words to write my picture. I added my senses to the mix, and as someone who loves photography, the more colour and fine detail, the better. 

Looking back, I have been a storyteller forever. Memories of rolling tales with no end as a five year old, lead to audiences with friends as I laid out details of the newest events which happened during our last visit to ABC studios to watch the newest taping of Good News Week. Those train trips home at two in the morning were filled with adrenaline filled rants and hyperactivity, my Italian hands flailing about in description.

Refining it came when I would regail stories which I thought were hilarious only to be met with the distant sounds of chirping crickets and the line, "well, I guess you had to be there." I hated when that line struck me in the chest. I had failed to convey my meaning and make the story entertaining enough to brighten someone's day. So I started following the nuances of comedy more closely. 

Again, I was lucky enough to be exposed by accident. It was a major component of my English exam for the HSC, my year twelve certificate. We studied poetry and Strictly Ballroom. I didn't quite understand the meaning of it but was fascinated anyway. The only reason I probably passed English was my entertaining creative writing skills, and the comeraderie of David Royo and his double jointed shoulders. (Would take another blog to explain that). An 18 out of 20 for my creative writing piece in English, the praise I needed after describing a traumatic event was told in two line sentences. It was a depiction of a young boy who I vividly saw bend in half as the car he ran out in front of hit him. Even now, I can recall the crunch and sideways motion of his torso as his hips were pummelled by the small blue datsun who had no time to react. My body tightens even now as I recall the sound and the flight of the boy through the air. It happens dramatically in slow motion in my memories, at the time, there was no time to react. It was over in seconds. The scream of pain from him down on the road, was the moment I reacted. I ran. I ran in the opposite direction to my friends. It was a Friday and I was headed home after finishing sport at Marathon Stadium. It was two weeks before the pedestrian lights they had been installing were officially turned on. 

I didn't help in any way. That moment defined me. It is probably why I didn't run when Jase got sick. I needed to know that running away felt worse than staying and offering comfort and support. I am not disappointed or angry at myself because of those acrions; I was fifteen. No one at fifteen would be expected to react in any way except the way I did. It redefined me as an adult and has guided me to where I exist today. I often wonder about the kid, what his injuries were and if he survived. It's probably why I explore the theme in most of the stories I write. I need the final chapter and it's the one I never got.

It also turns out my four failed years at uni degrees weren't failures. I was exposed to a gamut of thinking processes I wouldn't had access to in other environments; videography, philosophy, media studies, film studies. These were all elements which created my wider world of thought, and I soaked it all up like the last piece of paper towel left on the roll. I was falling to pieces, but I held onto everything I came across.

This was the catalyst. It sparked the way I communicated through my writing.

When someone refers to Van Gogh's starry night, everyone gets the same picture. There is no doubt of what is being referred to. I want that power. That's what drives me to be better. If a detail of the photo in my head is missing on the page, how are other people meant to see my story? They can't read my mind, at least I don't think so.

At least now, I can be more entertaining - right?