Writer, interrupted

Death writing

I came here to write a blog post. Then I changed my mind.

I had the subject worked out, I was even quoting sentences out loud while making coffee. Then I opened WordPress and it all vanished. Sometimes, I do slightly better than this. One look at my drafts folder (although, you will never get a look at my drafts folder) will confirm that I could, in theory, blog several times in a day; the number of passions and irritations that fly through my head on a daily basis would mount to screeds of appreciation or invective. I have started so many posts, gathered images to complement them or distract from them – but, more often than not, they lie abandoned.

This is a source of deep, long term worry for me. You, dear reader (as ever, singular) are my psychologist, so, I am lying here on the couch trying to connect the dots and work towards a solution.Writing is the only profession I have ever shown any promise at. There are those who say I should be a chef but I always reply that cooking is a personal passion that I want to share with my family and friends, not something I want to force an unsatisfiable public to pay for. The written word is my living – this ‘skill’ provides just enough to at least partially keep a roof over our heads and stew on the table, but not enough to stop my children from being awestruck by their friends’ significantly wealthier parents.

I would, if I was to make an excuse, put this down to my hatred of mathematics – in my experience, people of numbers tend to be richly rewarded for their skills in business, while people of letters are left to excuse, albeit eloquently, their heroic poverty.

Me, I am writer, interrupted. Stalled, but in the process of being repaired. To analogise: I made a wonderful, critically acclaimed debut album; the second proved difficult and disappointing but didn’t stop me from wanting to continue; however, I became a recluse and decided to make the third album very gradually – and it won’t be coming out until it’s a masterpiece.

Now, I’ll tell you what I was going to write about it in my abandoned blog post – language. I was going to say to how sad it was that many 40-somethings in media-related industries are using the same pulverised, low-brow American English as their teenage children. I was going to suggest that grown men speaking like tweenies is the new dad-dancing. What stopped me? I’m not sure. Perhaps it was the realisation that those sad dads are managing to express themselves in a manner many understand and are comfortable with, while others are far more tragic, in that they fail to express themselves at all.

Well, that was a quick conclusion. I’ll hop off the sofa now, happy in the knowledge that I did, somehow, manage to complete a blog post. I said a good deal of nothing while I was at it but that was possibly the whole point, dear reader.

Oh, you’ve already gone.

 

 

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