Tag Archives: fear

Are you a writer? Well? Are you?

You can’t do it. You lack the inspiration, the drive, the capabilities or the creativity. You have the time     management skills that the White Rabbit would have if he was off his furry little tits on absinthe and weapons-grade ganja. You’re never going to get published because you have three pounds of goat shit where your brains are supposed to be. Your typing fingers are greasy, flaccid nubs, incapable of creating superlative prose or pleasing a woman. You have the creative aptitude of a two inch rubber cock. You suck, like, really bad, you dumb fuck. Put that pen down and back AWAY from the writing industry and go do something you were born to do. Wanking yourself silly into a paper bag on Wimbledon Common or something, like some sort of filthy-minded, indecent Womble. If you’re female then substitute the last few details for Smurfette, Alan Carr’s back garden and a rolled up copy of the Radio Times. It doesn’t matter. You’re still rubbish.

I very much doubt anyone has ever said any of the above to you but these are the sorts of things that go through my head after falling into the negativity traps that lie all over the bleedin’ shop when you’re an aspiring writer. It often feels to me like you’ve got a writer or interested party on each hand pulling you up, while an entire PACK of bastards are either yanking you back down or standing there with their foot on your head. Everyone has an opinion on what it takes to be considered a writer and a lot of the time, you’re going to find out that you’re not it. In their opinion, at the very least.

My advice to you is two-fold. Firstly, define and describe yourself however the fuck you want to. Fine, you’re going to come over as a twat if you introduce yourself as a writer and will look a prize cock if they ask what you’ve written and you have nothing to tell them, but you can qualify it however you like. Writer in my spare time, shit-house poet or the man with the golden pen. If you love to write, like to write or just do write, no matter how much or how little, as far as I’m concerned you are a writer. How good you are is your fucking problem, right? But that brings me on to the second piece of advice: fuck’em. Conceptually, not actually. Unless you want to, you sick puppy. “Writer” is a vague term. Just because someone else’s personal definition precludes you, don’t let that ruin your day. There are a great many people that I both respect and like that would not consider me a writer and, on that one key point alone, I couldn’t give a flying basket full of tortoise turds what they think and neither should you.

YOU know what you consider makes someone a writer. If that is your goal then aim for it and go balls-out to get it, and don’t allow self-doubt to creep in because some asshole has a different set of criteria. Let’s use a crude analogy, shall we? What makes someone a good lover? Some like it long, some like it quick and some like it while being hung upside down by the ankles while being shot repeatedly in the ass with paintballs. One term, millions of definitions, and only one set of criteria that you should value in any way: YOUR OWN.

The best inventors in the world create a few great things while standing on top of a fucking MOUNTAIN of failures that would fill a hundred sheds, stacks of blueprints for daft things like grape-toasters and thermal-imaging goggles for aphids and dozens of rejected patent applications because the patent office couldn’t be arsed to register the “intercontinental ballistic hamster magnet.”

As and when you get to where you want to be, you’re going to need a thick skin. Those who love your work might praise you but they will be drowned out by those that don’t like it, and who have the many tools of the internet at their disposal and will do their best to stop you ever producing anything else, simply because they mistake their own opinion for cold, hard fact. Oh, that and because they’re pricks.

You have a hard enough path ahead of you and, believe me, it is LINED with bastards. At some point you will need to realise that you must judge yourself on your own terms, identify the helpful noises in the deafening cacophony of bullshit and ignore the twats. Might as well start as you mean to go on, really.

 

 

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Just fucking DO IT.

I was going to blog about family today. I was going to talk about working your writing around your children, your career and your home life in pursuit of one day being able to call yourself an actual writer and not a pretender or a hobbyist, but I’m not going to do that. Not today, at least, because there is only one thing in my life today that I can bring myself to even consider writing about, and that is just getting your head down and writing when you feel like you really don’t want to.

Right now, as I write this, I’m at work. It’s lunch time, I have a sweet potato and some chicken, and I want to throw them across the room. Things are not going my way, people are asking me questions and not listening to the answers, I feel thoroughly trapped and that is ALL that is stopping me from trashing my desk and walking out.

I am looking at the stats for my blog and realising that those closest to me, with a handful of exceptions, are singularly uninterested in reading anything that I’ve written. They don’t take the time to read the blog, to take an interest in my writing, my hopes, my dreams or my interests. They didn’t say anything when I got published for the first time, don’t respond to any mentions of my recent advances or successes, don’t voice any form of support at any time and are in no way helping me to achieve my dreams of being a writer, full time or otherwise.

Is this a tantrum? Nope. This isn’t me trying to get any help or attention because, as I’ve already said, I KNOW those people won’t ever read this, only those who do support me will, plus the randoms from the internet who happen upon my blog by whatever means.

To those fine people, thank you. I really do appreciate everything you’ve done, the small gestures of love and support and believe me, those are invaluable to me, but this isn’t why I’m writing this. I’m writing this to say that there will be days when you want to smash things, throw things, scream a massive “fuck you” into the face of those that are making things harder for you, and on those days you may well not want to write. Maybe someone’s upset you or you’ve had bad news, maybe you’re just not in the mood, whatever. Write.

Maybe you can’t bring yourself to write what you’ve started? Fine. Write something else. Maybe you’re too mind-bogglingly happy to write about the harrowing sex-crime that you’re in the middle of detailing. Fine, go write about fluffy bunnies. Maybe you’re too pissed off to tell the world about how Cotton-balls and Mr Plim are having such jolly japes at the Wiggly-Piggle Circus. Fine! Write about feeding Piers Morgan into a bacon slicer. Just WRITE.

Writing is freedom. It’s also captivity. If you want to do it and be successful at it, by whatever measure of success you are applying to yourself, you have to just keep on doing it. Don’t spend your life reading lists of spurious facts that will make you a success, just go out like anything else in life you want and fucking GRAB IT. Bleed for it, live for it, do it because it is what you have to do. Pour your heart, blood, sweat, tears, fury and sadness into it. Nurture and love it while you curse it and wish it would die. A real story that lives and breaths and is honest is a sliver of your soul distilled in prose. You can’t create something so vital and truthful by waiting to write until a day comes along where you feel wonderful and everything is going your way.

If you do, you’ll never, ever fulfil your potential.