I was eighteen when I first decided to become a writer. I had a job in a typing pool, where all I did all day was type. And type the same thing over and over again. It was mind-numbingly boring, as you can imagine. So, to ease the boredom, I’d make little notes on scrap bits of paper. Scribble down anything from my daily life that sounded as though it might fit nicely into a short story or maybe a novel or a play, further down the track. Up until this point, it was so easy. I still have most of those scrap bits of paper. I also have an unbelievable number of unfinished short stories and plays. And now, it’s not so easy.
I don’t know whether I’ve finally realised that maybe I’m not so good at writing, or whether I’m just too lazy to get down and do it, or whether, now that I’m no longer eighteen, I’ve come to accept that you really can’t do everything in your life that you once thought you could. Sure there are other factors to consider. I have small, demanding kids. I co-run a theatre group. I’m trying with all my being, to keep our house tidy. But in the end, either you do it or you don’t. And even if it’s not very good, you still do it. And you keep doing it. Even if, like me, you sit in front of the computer and try so hard to write that blood comes out of your eyes or nose! Yet for all your angst, you still have a blank screen in front of you.
But one thing’s for certain. I know I’m not the only one. There is a great online writing community over at Absolute Write, and I know for a fact, that there are more of my kind over there. Many much better too, but that’s to be expected.
So, on I go. I’ll just make sure I have a cloth ready to wipe up the blood.
