What haunts you...

nd pin it together. When the cup returned to the hands of Yoshimasa he became furious with the repairs made to the cup and deemed it to be further ruined than it was before. Japanese ceramists, who were new to their trade, attempted to repair the cup following the principles of Wabi-sabi and used a local tree sap, lacquer, and gold dust to fix the holes and fractures of the shogun's favourite tea cup. The finished cup was presented to the Shogun who praised the result, not only was the cup repaired but took on a new life through its imperfections and had become truly unique.

This worldview has been conserved in Japan and has continued to the modern day, the method of repairing pottery in such a manner is also still continued and is now called Kintsugi, which roughly means "golden joinery".

The percolator came to a spluttering stop, and the ticking of an old clock could now be heard. The dishevelled man looked across from his chair to the timepiece, a face that could only be described as one of being disheartened appeared upon him like a well-fitted suit - every crease perfectly placed, he'd missed the completely arbitrary and humanly impossible timeframe he'd set to finish this and thus, he has failed. He felt out a large yawning stretch and stood as if being tortured upon a mime's rack, and began to step precariously around the mountains of higgledy-piggledy books to the percolator and poured another cup of coffee. He lit a cigarette and gazed momentarily through the piled books towards the beams of light and its little dust fairies, and then slumped back in his armchair, scratched his stubbled chin, and began contemplating what was next, where was he going…

It may seem as though I have meandered somewhat off-topic perhaps, however, the art of Kintsugi is very much so like the writing of a book. writing our story exists as an abstraction within our minds and becomes a glass fortress. As perfect, grandiose, and elaborate as it may seem when constructed in the mind it remains an abstract concept and its flaws are easily missed or overlooked. When it's transferred onto paper these flaws become all too clear and the glass fortress fractures into pieces. If one were approaching this with our Western "perfection is beauty" mindset, it is easy to become disheartened by it all and see this fracturing as being final and inescapable, often we lose faith in our abilities and ourselves and see it as easier to simply walk away from our now broken fortress.

It's a hard pill to swallow. Pride. No one is as critical of a piece of work as the mind that created it and when we approach it with the "Kalos" mindset what we are left with are piles of dead manuscripts and unfinished stories. This brings a new problem for the "Kalos" minded writer; the unfinished story still lives on in their mind as the glass fortress and as its architect, the writer becomes its prisoner. The story will haunt their mind forevermore until it has its lease and the only key to escape said prison is to try to commit to paper...

The room suddenly changed in mood as the few rays of sunshine withdrew behind a particularly dark and heavy cloud. The fairy nymphs faded from sight and the whole room seemingly froze over in a shade of grey and as it did, so did the thoughts of the dishevelled writer, like a single damaged cog defecting the whole machine, he ground to a halt. Nothing but the ticking of the clock indicated the passing of time. A trepidatious hand sprawled onto the desk and the dishevelled writer glanced as he grasped his lighter and lit another cigarette, breathing out a plume of smoke with a heavy drawn-out breath. The cloud passed by and the room sprung back into life; the dancing of the fairies, the eerie creeping smoke upon stale air all jolted back into existence as the rays of sunshine graced the room, unthawing it. The light, seemingly brighter than it were before the cloud, drew the dishevelled man's eye to a small pile of books upon his desk, he plucked the top book and inspected its cover with an inquisitive yet bleary eye. He remembered it all, every word of every page it contained, it was all still there locked in his mind and he remembered sitting at this very typewriter when he wrote it all, but it was not his name on the cover. His greatest work was being the ghost of someone else, someone who mattered. He tossed the book back to the pile like a sorrowful fisherman returning a catch to the wild, took a sip of rapidly cooling coffee and reset his focus on the task at hand...

If one were to look at the creation of a story or indeed any piece of writing the same way the Japanese see a broken teacup they could apply a sort of ment Kintsugi principle to their work; once it is fractured, it can be rebuilt and restructured. Wherever the cracks in one's work appear, one could simply work those areas to rejoin the pieces back together, and rather than treating them as irreversible errors, see them as new opportunities to weave gold into an already great story until eventually the glass fortress that once existed in their mind is built onto the pages, and there it would exist not only of glass but of gold also.

If a story exists as an abstract concept in your mind and when transferred onto paper, no fractures exist. That is when you have failed. Because beautiful writing isn't about perfection, perfection does not exist, beautiful writing is something that strikes a chord within the heart, soul, and mind of the reader, it is unique and therefore like beauty and perfection itself, it is completely subjective. Like Yoshimasa's kintsugi teacup...

The dishevelled man looked down at his work with a furrowed brow which slowly gave way to a face of disdain, where was he going with all this? He'd lost his train of thought completely. Tearing the page from the typewriter and tossing it to the desk, he rubbed his eyes and ran his hand down his face almost as if trying to reset it. He gazed at the clock once more, the time seemed to be correct but the date was all wrong. Picking up his now cold coffee and taking a drink with one hand whilst brushing his hair from In front of his face with his cigarette ladened other, he noticed another overdue bill which he'd been inadvertently using as a makeshift coaster. The dishevelled man threw his cigarette stub into the remains of his cold coffee and placed it back on top of the bill. He stood up and carefully tiptoed around the piles of unpublished manuscripts and opened the window, letting fresh air into the room. The dust fairies became excited as the sunlight penetrated deep into the room for the first time in what seemed to be years. Smoke-infused stale air gently crept out of the window sucking out the fairies in the draft. The dishevelled man let out a contemplative sigh and gazed out the window before leaping from it to the ground far below…