I began writing feverishly at the age of 15 because I couldn’t play an instrument. When I first heard Celtic fiddle music it was as though I heard what it was like to fly-sans jet fuel, and winged metal box soaring at 10 000 feet. I wanted to arrange words that flew, that made me feel as though a simple sentence could defy gravity. Emily Dickinson once stated that the gold standard question she asked about her own writing was “Do these words live?” I suppose that the question that I ask myself is “Do these words fly?” And if they don’t fly do they at least float, or dance a little in a way that could be flying. In a certain slant of light.
Fast forward 20 plus years and I am learning the classical violin. There is nothing like learning an obnoxious instrument during lockdown. The violin isn’t inherently obnoxious, but it is when you don’t stay in the third lane and your bow sounds like nails upon a chalkboard. But hey, my next door neighbour possibly runs a male knock in shop, and I have a tendency to be passive aggressive.
I’m learning the classical techniques because I believe in doing things properly. But I follow a guy called PeakFiddler on You Tube, a self taught Fiddler. The difference between the fiddle and the violin is that the rules go out the window with the fiddle. You can forgo proper posture, bow hold…hell you don’t even need the shoulder rest. As long as you hit the notes, keep the time signature and make sure your violin is in tune, you’re sweet.
I like to think that I’m a fiddle writer. Grammar and syntax in order, I like to play with words so the words become dance and the narrative becomes performance. Really, life is just that, a three to five act play of tragic-comedy. We may as well have a laugh and pretend that we can fly.
Word upon Word 