So… hello. Been a while, hasn’t it?
You may ask why. You may say, ‘so what.’ You’ll most certainly read on. One of you…
I’ve become some sort of nihilist to the writing world. Not that rejection has anything to do with it.
More a thing of self doubt. And it’s here, in this Blog, that I hope to find a way past this villainous psyche – one which has not thwarted me, but at least opened my mind to the possibility that I’m not a writer after all.
To call yourself a writer, you need to write. And write well.
In creating plots – I do well.
In forming character definition, impulse, desire and fate – I do well. Enough always to impress people with my ideas at least.
In imagining scenes and scenarios, technologies, sub plots and entire worlds, I like to think myself someone who can flesh out these things with a clarity wikipedian in scope. I do well.
Yet, in actually telling the story that my thoughts and dreams revolve around? That is entirely different, and each time I read something I’ve written, distaste, loathing and ultimately self-rejection cruelly stub out any passion I have for my own work.
Now, what’s that all about?
I’m not even being tough on myself. Nope, I’m being a realist, a rationalist, a critic – a patron of the arts almost, and even then, with as much objectivity as I can muster, I still feel my work is inaccessible to the imagination. I feel my work does not evoke the passions of a true writers spirit. Getting excited as I read is not something I’m able to induce in my work.
My work – in short – is an example of how not to do it.
About my current project? Well, I happily say I hate it, and only after months of working on it have I found out why.
I’ll share with you.
The work was a gift. When finished, it was to be printed on luxury paper, and presented it as a first copy before sending off another to many a publisher. I failed at that dismally for the same reasons I’m failing now: commitment.
Many of my thoughts about my current life streamed through me into that story, and when I read them back, certain sentences reverse engineer themselves into the memory of the thought that inspired them, way back then. Even by changing certain aspects of the story, the entire body of work rests on a single attempt of showing a devotion I wasn’t ultimately able to fulfil.
Because of that, I’ve shelved it. Stopped completely. I will no longer look at my life with that story in mind. As much crafting as possible had gone into it, yet it became work. Tedious, boring work that I grudgingly took on day after day for no particular reason other than to get it done.
Moving onto an entirely different project is my only option, and also a bitter blow.
You see, even writing something new is a direct relation to the time in my life where I utterly failed myself and others through my larrikin like ways. And yes, that’s an Australian word, larrakin. I like Australia at the moment.
Do you see how jumbled my mind is?
If I’m not a writer, then what am I? I thought musician once upon a time. Recently, I bought a Yamaha MX61, a neat little synthesizer that I can express myself differently on. And it’s the greatest toy I’ve bought for a long time. A very neat distraction.
I’ve had it for a few days now, and can honestly say I might not be so hesitant with writing now. My keyboard playing and writing seem to go hand in hand. When I couldn’t muster the energies to write, I’d find energy in creating random tunes, teaching myself various skills and what-not. Then, often, inspiration would find me again, and I’d be back to writing. It was a wonderful relationship. I have to renew it, hence the purchase.
You see, a long time ago, when I wanted to write, I was sat not far from where I currently am (which smacks of irony to me) and I was reading a book called Pandora’s Star by Peter F Hamilton.
I bought it from Waterstones, a UK bookshop, purely because it was a big block of paper that seemed more exciting than all the other blocks. I desperately needed some wild distraction from life back then – nearly seven years now, and I had it in written form.
Thank you, Peter. Thank you kindly.
I still want to write. Really, I do, and I still read Peter F. Hamilton. Especially now with Great North Road sitting in big, beautiful hardback next to my bed.
In some ways, I’ve regressed back to the state when I initially started this adventure. My plans to become a writer took me places, gave me some form of identity, something to be; to achieve!
I’ve achieved little, but met many fascinating people, and though no competitions have been won, I feel I’ve won the hearts and minds of my family and friends, which means a lot more. Or… does it?
Parts of me want success. Parts of me don’t. The parts that do say I deserve it after the weird life I initially started living upon birth. Parts of me that don’t want me to slink away from the previous me, the me I don’t want surfacing again.
Oh sod this. Really… so much introspection and not a hint of satisfaction. I bore and tire myself, and I’m sorry to have inflicted the world with my opinions. Sadly, I’m also masochistic enough to keep doing it. You will hear from me again. I’m not giving up. I’m just going back to the drawing board.
Kind Regards & 17 Kisses