“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’”
It’s only been a couple of days, but the need to write something new has been growing and growing. Perhaps the signs have been there for a while now and I had not noticed them. I was trying to write twice a day as a way of getting my skills into some sort of shape that would be worthy of calling myself a writer. First thing in the morning, I wrote silly stuff whilst in the evening I would try to write something more serious. It seemed to be working. But the more I wrote the deeper my addiction went.
It wasn’t writing that was my addiction. My desperate need for views and likes drew me to the computer again and again, staring at the screen, trying to make the numbers click over, trying to work out why nobody was reading my stuff; my very special stuff. I was dependent on acknowledgement and appreciation and that was when I knew that it had to end.
I reached the point of thinking about what would appeal to those who read my work and then I produced a post that was meaningless. It was about serial killers and cults, inspired by a programme I had seen on TV. In truth, it had nothing to say. It was a vacuum of nonsense. Even nonsense would have made more sense. And I posted it.
“I have made it appear as though my motives in writing were wholly public-spirited. I don’t want to leave that as the final impression. All writers are vain, selfish, and lazy, and at the very bottom of their motives there lies a mystery.”
So, I posted some less-than-nonsense just to post it. I wanted to scare out the views, to add to my figures, to make me feel a little better about this venture that had started to appear to be fruitless. When I got big views, I felt good. When I didn’t….well?
Really, the writer doesn’t want success… He knows he has a short span of life, that the day will come when he must pass through the wall of oblivion, and he wants to leave a scratch on that wall — Kilroy was here — that somebody a hundred or a thousand years later will see.
When I write a novel I’m writing about my own life; I’m writing a biography almost, always. And to make it look like a novel I either have a murder or a death at the end.
As I have said before, the blog business was there to help me through a desperate time. It did so. Unfortunately after being saved from my breakdown, I lost the essential reasoning behind blogging. Do people climb mountains to reap the rewards of amateur reviewers of the feat or do they do it just because they do it?
From this day forward, backward, or sideways (in any direction), I shall write in order to write.
If you like it, that will be good.
I won’t lose my head about it either way…