Clyde Davis's Blog: Notes & Musings

“Writing is not life, but I think that sometimes it can be a way back to life.”

The writer sits bent over his tools. A lamp is the only source of light. The muse lingers in the corner and whispers its inspiration. Then comes the ingenious spark - the flash of brilliance that will set fire to a plot, characters and eventually a roaring novel. These are the classical notions of a writer which I have always struggled with. I was always too perturbed about the otherworldly aspects of a writer.
Romanticised? Yes, of course.
Delusional? Somewhat.
But there are truths to some of these things. A writer needs his tools. A writer needs his, or her, place to sit and craft. And no matter how skeptical you may be, there is a muse (it just isn’t ever the seraphic figure you would imagine).

Another thing which always bothered me (and still does), are my doubts. To consider writers such as Salinger, Steinbeck, McCarthy, Tolkien and Hesse as my aspirational benchmarks, is a daunting standard to compare oneself to, never mind try and emulate. Not only are they profound writers, but prolific too. They’ve all written numerous novels. They’re working writers. They have a system. An ethic. So if you strip away the mystics and romantic beliefs, you’ll find an approach. There’s no undefinable process or supernatural ability that sets them apart from the rest of us. Yes, talent is a variable. And not all writers are the same. Talent varies from one writer to the next, and that inherent skill is up to the lucky draw. I guess the most terrifying doubt to plague anyone pursuing the creation of something, is that one single question… Is anything I’m producing actually worth anything?



Stephen King’s On Writing, doesn’t deal with that. Instead, it’s a refreshing take on the nuts and bolts of writing. King’s candid dive into his own history as a writer not only reaffirmed many things I already thought to be true, but most importantly (for me, of course), is that the book de-mystifies the art. Quite simply put, it boils down to sitting before your workplace and getting started, and once you do that don’t stop. Write what you want. Write for yourself, first. And then open it up to others. Most importantly, be honest. It is an art of practice, of honing one’s style and skill.

King says, “Words create sentences; sentences create paragraphs; sometimes paragraphs quicken and begin to breathe.” When I picked this book up, I was apprehensive of what I was going to find. A part of me thought King would reveal attributes that I simply lacked. Things that I missed completely. Instead, I found a straightforward conversation from one of the most successful writers, and it was surprisingly comforting. There is no magic in the same sense that I first duped myself into believing. The spark of brilliance granted by a muse. Nope. The magic lies in putting one word after the other. The rhythm that follows, and then, when everything goes well, the wonders that are revealed to the writer himself.

On Writing, reaffirmed one important thing for me. Inspiration doesn’t come knocking. You find it in the labour. For me, that is such a comforting thought. No matter how tired or uninspired I may feel, or how disheartened I may feel after a poor writing session - there is one thing I always experience. Enrichment. It knocks the socks off anything, because I sat down and wrote. Perhaps some of it is shit. Perhaps all of it will be discarded at a later stage. But even if that is the case, I got it out and made space for the good stuff. And at the end of it all, I’ve learnt, and in may ways, I hope I’ve become better. Most importantly though, I’m happier for it. And isn’t that what it’s all about? I think King would agree with me on that…

2019 was a particular year for me. It was my first year entirely reliant on public transport. Having lived in a country where trains and buses are restricted rather than being the norm, I came to find the uninterrupted time afforded to me by my morning and evening commutes precious. Even today, I cherish and strive to preserve this time.


At first, I dedicated this hour-or-so to reading. I discovered the amount of books I could read during time was impressive. It was the first time I had devoted time to reading on a daily basis, and the rhythm of it was comforting and soothing. Each day, I began with the entry into fiction. Through the gloomy mornings, I was accompanied by characters from otherworldly places. And each evening, they awaited me on the train.


However, in 2019, I also began to regiment my writing routine. As much as I loved the reading sessions on the train, I began to use this time more often in pursuit of my writing. So much so, that I finished my first novel and worked through the vast majority of a second. As enriching as the reading was, I came to find much more in these short writing sessions. Being able to work on one's own pursuits before offering up eight to nine hours of time to a job was not only rewarding but uplifting too. Similarly, being able to pick that up again in the early evening as the train rolled through the coming darkness, is something I'm grateful for. Again, I found a rhythm. A pace. More importantly, the short sprints of writing taught me to write cleanly - that is, without being hounded by the editor that sits perched in the back of every writer's mind. The sole mandate of each session was progress. Not perfection. And for a writer that can get entrenched in a single passage, tripping on the order of a few sentences, this was a crucial habit for me to find.


But i digress...


With the daily writing sessions on the train, my reading fell to the wayside. The speed at which I read slowed. The number of books I finished, lessened. And as such, I barely came close to hitting the bottom of the book pile on my bedside table. There they sit, still staring at me; although I have committed to reading more this year. Nevertheless, that promise has done little to silence their impatient whisperings.


So, of what I read during the last year, I thought it would be fun to review my standout picks of 2019. Those few books that gripped me, transported me and inevitably inspired and taught me. But, before I get stuck into those reviews, I thought I would also share with you those books that sit glaring at me from the shadows, waiting for their turn to be picked up, opened and unleashed.


For 2020, my must-reads (some old, some new, but mostly old) are:

1. The Secret History, by Donna Tartt.

2. A Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley.

3. Johannes Cabal, by Jonathan L. Howard.

5. The Grapes of Wrath, by John Steinbeck.

6. Outliers, by Malcolm Gladwell.

7. Murder on the Orient Express, by Agatha Christie.

8. Steppenwolf, by Hermann Hesse (already read, but this should be read every year).


There will be others, I am sure. But these are those who await.


Of the books that I shall review from 2019, they are:

1. Watch, by Keith Buckley.

2. The Dark Tower (Series), by Stephen King.

3. The Lurking Fear, by H.P. Lovecraft.

4. The Cemetery of Forgotten Books (Series), by Carlos Ruiz Zafòn.

5. On Writing, by Stephen King.

6. Guns, Germs and Steel, by Jared Diamond.

7. The Road, by Cormac McCarthy.

My soul is dyed by the colour of my thoughts. I am the emperor of my own universe. Upon my alabaster throne, there upon the hilltop of my consciousness I rule by supreme edict. It is by no means a divine rule, for I am no sage. There are regions of my mental domain that are places of gathering darkness. Above those blighted woodlands and wastelands, black storms spoil the heavens. In those reaches, only the fecundity of man’s base evils spread. The foul fumes of pride and creed linger along the ground, hauntingly grey and deep with shadow. Lurking along the moors are phantoms of a long-fought battle - revenants of those fallen to the conflict between genesis and genocide. Their mournful attire trail in the air, tattered banners of rancour and thoughtless pursuits - remains of shapeless epiphanies.

Across the horizon, beyond the grim pallet of avarice and desire, lies a sylvan promise land cast beneath the golden light of aspiration. Clarity flows in those rivers of awareness, sparkling like crystal in the dappled sunshine of the endless viridescent canopies. Ideas, vigorous and abundant in number, migrate from one cardinal point to another, soaring across the pale blue dome of that valley’s ceiling. They flutter amongst one another, with such exotic shades and hues, shining and glittering beyond any accurate portrayal. Far beneath such an incredible menagerie of movement, deep within the ground, the great roots of trees spread their claim. Those thick and hearty veins of the earth course with the rich aromas of soil and life, whilst upon the surface, their triumphant discipline trumpets in the rustling wind. These pillars inspire the spirit with bright courage. A luminescent glow abides beneath their vaulted reach and here the heart is filled with the will to lay siege to the gods and shake the world

Such is the tapestry of my mind. Here in this realm, my thoughts are many and strange. Here I wander and contemplate the nature of my being. Amongst these lands I uncover the colour of my soul.

As a writer, music is such a powerful influence on my writing. Perhaps it has something to do with being brought up on music as a little kid. Or that for most of my adult life (nearly a decade) has been spent in the thick of the music industry. It is an integral element to my inspiration in so many ways, that I can't list them all here. Most of the time, a song will trigger a thought or an emotion that is encapsulated in that very moment. The trigger is strong, and although the moment is fleeting, the spark of inspiration is not. It sits in the back of my mind and slowly grows upon itself. A flicker into a flame.

Other times, a song will recall an emotion from a past experience. Pain, regret, joy, fear - the potency of a forgotten emotion and its connection to a particular event, for me, is one of the most powerful muses. The song acts as a window into that past - an invitation to revisit a memory, and to distill from it such visceral inspiration.

Music, as much as reading, is a staple in my writer's diet. So much so, that I have playlists built around pieces of work I'm busy working with. Whether it's a short story, a novella or a book - I have a long list of playlists carefully curated for each project.

The dedication pages of my books will no doubt thank the artists and their songs for the sparks of inspiration.

Does music trigger your creativity?

As a writer, I've always adhered to a strange set of principals and if I had to be honest with you - I'm not entirely sure of their origins. One such principal, and one that I was most strict about, was in how I referred to myself. It took me a long time to get comfortable with calling myself a writer. Perhaps because I always seemed to struggle to find the balance between the 'real' world and the 'worlds' of make-belief in my mind. Was I committed enough? Was I good enough? Did I match up to the expectations of being a writer?

I think that all began to change when I began to read what I call 'anti-hero' literature from the likes of Kerouac, Salinger, Hesse and more recently Buckley. Reading about the Steppenwolf or the misadventures of Catcher in the Rye, or the lyrical beauty of chaos in Buckley's Scale I realised it wasn't so much about what the expectation of a writer was, but more importantly - it was about how I thought about myself as an individual who wished to create something with words. What did I want to write? Where did I want to wander and explore? What did I want to share? This was the point. It just took me some time to reach that clarity.

So, I began to think of myself as writer. And yet, that strict principal began to scratch at the back of my mind again. Great! You're a writer now. But you're a not an author... This is what that shadow in mind whispered to me. What is even the difference, you may ask? A writer and an author pursue the same craft. Surely they're the same thing, right? I suppose. But my idiosyncrasies are quite stubborn. A writer works, and puts thoughts to words. So does an author. The author though, puts their name on what they've created. They share it. They give it to the world. And that's special.

I've recently finished my debut novella. For a long time, t I put it on a shelf and that's where I thought it would live. And I was happy about that. "No one needs to read it," I thought. I've written something. Good job. That changed when I was telling someone - a good friend of mine - about my strange philosophy on writing, and he simply said to me, "There is no difference. You've written something. It's there. It's done. It doesn't matter if no one reads it. You're a writer. You'r also an author."

It's strange how someone else's words can reel you back to reality and give you a clean perspective on things. Encouraged by my friend's words, I endeavored to offer my novella to the world. It's called Blackwood. It's ready now. And I want to share it. Even if no one reads it. And that's special too. Today, I receive the final, edited manuscript from my editors. The time for sharing the maiden body of work is almost here. I