For
ten years and one day I've been putting one's fingers on the keys and
writing these - what would you call them: articles, pieces? I
generally refer to them as blogs since that's what this site is
designed to host but really they're too long to be termed as such. As
well as too diverse in subject matter. Essays?
This
isn't the place to debate it. Or maybe it is...? But I don't feel
like getting myself into that tangle. Perhaps they don't need a
label...
Anyway,
as I was saying it was ten years yesterday. And yes, I'm going to say
it: it doesn't seem possible. I never thought that when I signed
myself up to this that ten years on I'd still be going. Though it's
true, I sometimes have that thought in regards to life too: still
here then. I'll no doubt be thinking that later on in the year when I
turn 40.
But
ten years of doing one thing is a different milestone to that of
existing.
A
decade of doing anything, as opposed to doing nothing i.e. just
simply being, with no cares in the world beyond your own, can be a
slog, if input from you – mental or physical - is required. Even
the things you choose to do you can reach an impasse on.
But
ten years is pretty good going when you consider my usual bail-out
is, at the most, eight, and moreover because in this instance there's
been very few misgivings. I was tempted to say none but I'm sure
there must have been some, though I've never, even if it's proved a
struggle, been lost for words. How I put them down is my problem.
Because often what I want and how they actually come out is very
different. What works in my head doesn't always work on
computer-generated paper. The end product is rarely my original
design. Even this isn't...
I
want to rip this up and start again, but though it might be
different, would it be better? And well, it's not paper in the
nineteenth and twentieth century sense, and tearing, ripping is so
much more satisfying.
It's
just typical that I'm experiencing writer's problems on my ten-year
anniversary. You, however, wouldn't know if I weren't. If I were just
saying it for effect, if it were part of what I had in mind all
along, when in reality I'm sailing through. This sea, well, okay a
small rock-pool, of words is pouring out of me. They know exactly
where I'm headed and are taking me there, not in the most direct
route, but there all the same.
Ah
me, I wish that were true.
Crabs
keep pinching my fingers so that I frequently have to stop to blow on
them, which lessens the pain but interrupts the flow (is there one?)
and induces stumbles i.e. more hits of the delete key.
Perhaps
I should do as writers do and start from the beginning. I would, but
I don't know what the beginning was or why there was one. Greek
mythology had chaos and I had, well, nothing; no epiphany of
anything, no light-bulb moment, just this desire to write that like a
crazy fool I followed, not that in these ten years I've profited by
it.
Can
you die by the pen? I guess it's more feasible than by keys of
letters. I mean, how lethal would they be if they were thrown at you
for example? Well, if it were the full keyboard and a screen were
attached, then it would, I imagine, do some damage, as would being
made to swallow the keys individually. Swallow the alphabet
literally. Poison letters, poisonous letters, poisoned by letter,
take your pick. Okay, so I was wrong. I don't think I just write, and
as I write I think.
No,
you're right, it's not the best method. The results are too varied.
But planning in advance also works against me. What to do in those
kind of circumstances? Close your eyes and hope for the best. Open
sesame! Ooh, that's a new thought. And ooh, there's a new word.
If
I told you I was a serious writer I'd be kidding you. I'd doubt you'd
fall for it anyway. I read lots of serious writing, quite boring
stuff actually. Histories and tragedies, as well as all the notes at
the back. Stuff that nobody under or over a certain age much bothers
with, unless it's on a reading list or they've developed a late-onset
interest. Grandiose ideas that my mind can entertain but my fingers,
with their hopping nature, can't.
Picture credit: The Letters, 2007, Arsen Savador (source: Wikiart).
