Anaïs Johnston

I drew a blank when deciding on what to write today, leaving it until 21:05. It’s probably because I had something on my mind that I don’t believe I’m equipped to write about – maybe because I’m young? Perhaps because I’m shockingly bad with expressing myself in my own voice.

“For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction”
Lord Byron

I often wonder about that; about how many authors, writers, poets and artists there are – Arguably there is not a single person alive that doesn’t fit into one of those categories of people. Perhaps excluding the illiterate but that is a whole separate discussion. I wonder which of them write or express in their own voice, character, essence. Sometimes, one just knows, it’s obvious in its authenticity; the autobiography (barring ghostwriters, of course), the heartfelt love poem (barring Lord Byron’s ‘Fare Thee Well’), or the eponymous author surrogate. Albeit, on reflection I can see a flaw being that authors write what their audience wants, it’s still likely the intention of such literature and art is to reflect their own voice. Sometimes, one must say, not awfully well.

My point being, it isn’t very straightforward whether or not someone’s expression is truly reflective of their perspective. We simply have to assume, or choose, which work feels true – which work feels like it was felt. Yet, even then, the assumption can (and will) be skewed based on our own experiences, essentially rendering the burden of an authentic reading on us, not the author. Having said that, one does realise when a writer hasn’t got authenticity or their own voice – but it’s entirely possible I’m just reading them wrong. That is why I keep wondering; because there is no sufficient answer to what I want to know, and I do want to know it so desperately. How can I tell who is expressing their own voice and who is not? And how, remembering humans are flawed, do I know whether I’m right and you are wrong? My whole being would swear by Emily Bronte’s voice being her own but my dear friend avers the contrary – “Bronte’s a mere Romantic wannabe” she’d likely say. What exactly makes her right and me wrong?

Finding issues with the subjective perception of authenticity seems counterproductive for the literature student. Surely I should know language, literature and essentially all art to not be black and white – unless visually, indeed. However, I find my issues with this topic can serve as my own personal reminder to assess what I create, and by default who I am, and continue to present my own voice when I intend it.

That leads me on to my final thought quite well. Sometimes authenticity is unnecessary. Writing from/painting from/creating from another perspective is often essential. Historical realism comes to mind and, for reasons I don’t quite know, King Lear specifically enters my thoughts – Shakespeare was not blind but the emotional pleas of Gloucester after having his eyes gauged out has a raw quality because Shakespeare was an incredible bard and playwright. It’s poor writers that can’t create alternative perspectives. Particularly, it’s poor writers with lacking empathy that can’t produce a variety of point of views.

Having written this out I am still frustrated that there seems to be no resolution to the pressing question, “Whose voice is this?”, but I can rest easy if I convince myself that I am the one who is right. Maybe I’ll try to remember that I can (sometimes, rarely) be wrong (I’m only half joking) but please don’t point it out – my ego can’t take it, nor could Byron’s.

“Dumb as a drum with a hole in it, sir.”
The Pickwick Papers, Charles Dickens

Starting ones first blog with the topic of dumbness, poorly worded I know, perhaps isn’t the best way to garner a positive response. However, I find this quote as fitting today as it was for dear Weller in The Pickwick Papers – aren’t we all a little dumb?

I open with this because, if ever my blog reaches people and people (somehow) value my words, I want to direct them here and remind them that they are dumb, I am dumb, we are all, in fact, dumb. We need only to think of the mistakes we have made; the time (or times!) we accidently responded “you too!” to the waitress wishing us an enjoyable meal; when we got stuck on the alphabet after we turned eighteen. Then there’s the state of this world, a royal fuck up one might say if they were vulgar, where as many as 1.6 billion people live without adequate shelter (and an almost definite 150 million are completely homeless). Surely this is rather dumb?

That’s not to say I care much – unfortunately I worry about the state of my own life far more than the 7.7 billion other people alive. I’m not heartless, just incredibly dumb having fallen into western hedonism like most everyone else. I quite like my iPhone, high-street clothing and makeup. I like western society far too much to give it up. It keeps me clean, fed, healthy and somewhat happy. Though it makes me incredibly dumb; I am happy.

I don’t speak for everyone though. Dumbness doesn’t make everyone happy and my own happiness certainly isn’t a constant – if it were I wouldn’t be a poet. Quite frankly, I’m an unbelievable liar because I am not often happy. I am comfortable, is that being mistaken for the same?

Supposedly then, those of you that empathise with others in the world, far more openly and emotionally than I, are a little more aware, a little less dumb and very much likely to flout societal hedonism. Ah, “a little less dumb” but infuriatingly naïve and that is where I place the blanket term on all of humanity… The people that don’t care are dumb for they have been manipulated by their own selfishness, the people that do care are dumb for they can change little. Dumb as a drum with a hole in it, oh I am glad I picked up Pickwick today.

Not a cheery first post, but welcome nonetheless.

I’m Anaïs Johnston, by the way, an entirely cynical 19 year old living in Cornwall, England. I write because my thoughts don’t work otherwise and I blog because I need someone like you to understand. My blog posts will, as far as I’ve decided, all just be ramblings like this and I may shake it up with the odd poem.