From Fear to Ideas, from Ideas to Pen, from Pen to Paper

When I was at primary school my class was set a homework project to use ten particular words in a sentence. The teacher, Mr. Ashton, I believe, said we'd get extra points for using all ten words in a paragraph. So, me being the smartest guy in school (records sealed), decided to do exactly that. That evening, I set about writing a paragraph of such earth-shattering brilliance, that I could barely contain myself on the walk to class the next day. I anxiously awaited my turn as my fellow classmates readied their own rusty statements. Verging on accomplishment, I read the paragraph back to the classroom full of my peers, when I suddenly stuttered, and stopped, about three lines into it. My eyes glazed as I realised that I had, unwittingly written my first piece of pseudo-erotic fiction. It wasn't so much that I had written about sexual acts per-se, more that the structure of the sentences themselves led the listeners' titillation centres into a bountiful garden of imagery, while simultaneously dragging me through hell and half-a hard-on.

As I said, there was no direct commentary of sexual acts or deeds, but the message to me was one of my own underlying perversionist nature. It was really nothing worse than something like: "I've got this red boat, lets see what we can make over-water if I hang down the drawbridge...", or words along those lines. But there was something deeply disturbing about it, a stark moment in time where the cutting groove slips and leaves a ripple in the ether, that in billions of years will cause the destruction of the universe. As the eyes of each of my classmates burned through my very soul, I retreated to a dark, shadowy place: turning away from the light of truth and instead into avarice and deceit. Eventually I pretended I couldn't read my own writing, and stuck to the story for the rest of the academic year. The lie put me in the lowest class in senior school, and may have put me on a "watch list" for potentially unpredictable people. But I'm not bitter in the slightest. Who needs educashon anyway?

I have been writing ever since then, in one way or another. Alex Fish is a book I started writing about ten years ago. I suppose it is a work of fiction as much as a literary exorcism, and I hope to be able to have it ready to read by other human beings very soon...

Michael Biggam 
 

Selected Poetic Works 

All the poems on this page were written by Michael Biggam.

Buy One Soul, Set One Free

Haearte

The Gods

A Coin Has Two Sides

Defined

Toll Road

Partisanal

Echelon

I Am Wrong