There’s Always Something…

There’s Always Something

I awoke early, drove 80 miles, did a day’s work, then drove 115 miles back. There were moments of joy, frustration, outright anger, humour, boredom, satisfaction and desire.

I have just lived another day.

I lived another day, 13 hours of it away from the house. And yet I come home and suckle the bitter-sweet, familiar digital teat of the internet, desperate for its faux-nourishment, desperate for it to give me some clue.

My little black book was two pages richer by the time I left the office. And yet still I fumble around the grossly offensive and bile-laden abyss of the World Wide Web. I want confirmation that I can write. I find half the planet is already doing it. Then I feel disheartened. This is where, dejected and hopeless, I am supposed to navigate to YouTube to then watch three hours of people less intelligent (and dexterous, for that matter) than my girlfriend’s dog fail at all manner of inane activities. I resist. This time.

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It Kept Me Sane…

Yes, it kept me sane.

That’s the main thing I really got from writing. It would help me to acknowledge the triviality of my grievances and lamentations by providing the time to reflect and laugh; it was only when I wrote them down and read them over in the editing process that I realised how ludicrous so many of my complaints are: striped toothpaste, for example.
It also helped me to find the humour and joy in the most mundane things: a pigeon in a bush becomes a target of paranoid suspicion.

I have not written in a long time. My sanity is failing.

As a writer, and so many fancy themselves as such nowadays – I gather it’s quite trendy to be a writer. What is a writer anyway? Is there something specific one has to do with the medium to be able to call themselves a writer? Does one have to be a professional? Does one have to be published? (And, no, self-published doesn’t count.) It is simply a case that I write, therefore I am… something like that?

I digress, as I am wont to do.

As a writer, one of the most difficult things in the world for me is writing. I can ramble for hours – it’s very therapeutic – but to write with any other aim or purpose is very challenging.

I have a heck of a story in me, but trying to tease it out is nigh on impossible; rather than writing, I spend most of my time on Wikipedia or YouTube ‘researching’. I’ve learned about military technology and the production of circuit-boards but not written much. So far.

I do not focus well enough and I spread myself too thin. I know it, and try to remind myself. Katie knows it and she tactfully reminds me. Even the universe knows it; it has been screaming at me to simplify for about 5 years now, however, like a defiant toddler, I simply fold my arms over my chest, furrow my brow, purse my lips and contrarily declare ’No!’, while I continue to flit from activity to activity…

They say ‘the universe knows best’, or something like that, and I’m sure it does, but my brain is dead set on getting in the way: ‘ooh, look at that thing over there; hey, wouldn’t you like to have a go at this thing’; ‘oh no, don’t worry about that, you can do that later, why don’t you check this out instead’; yo, stop what you’re doing immediately, I have something important to tell you: remember how much you like biscuits’; and so on… it’s truly exasperating.

I’ve gotta write more. If only to spite/appease my damned brain – the truth is, I have no idea what it really wants aside from biscuits, lots and lots of biscuits.