I realised about 7 days ago that setting myself a target of writing a blogpost a day was a) overly ambitious and b) illogical. I think that perhaps I’d expected to spend a few moments every day whinging about my self-imposed abstinence. But neglected to consider whether anyone might actually want to read it.
The real reason I set myself that goal was aspiration by proxy. I had started upon a path of righteous self-improvement and the part of me that would like to do more writing decided to hitch a ride.
Sometimes it’s easier to give something up than it is to take something on.
I was out tonight with a friend of mine who published a book last year: Quantum Confessions. It’s good! A dystopian future involving faith, absence, quantum mechanics and protagonists that have gone through puberty.
It’s a little nerve-wracking reading a book your friend has written, mostly because you so want it to be good and therefore create a micro-climate of anxiety around the experience, but also because you’re aware you may learn things about them you hadn’t expected. “Write what you know” goes the maxim, and then you read a sex scene written by someone you’ve known for years.
He has a full time job, a successful marriage and he’s already finished his second novel (due out in Summer in case you’re interested). It’s all rather impressive. And here’s me struggling to publish 200 words of an evening. I had hoped to kick-start a habit; stop sitting on my hands like a cowardly could-be.
Michael McDermott’s song Great American Novel is about a girl who has lots of ideas, lots of self-belief, who “someday” is going to write the great American novel, but she never quite gets around to it. I worry sometimes whether, apart from the blue eyes and Britishnss, I’m that girl. Whether in years to come I’ll be nursing a glass proclaiming I could have been a contender.
But here I am at 10pm at night writing. It’s a start.