THE TITLE IS MORE DIFFICULT THAN THE CONTENT

Picture the scene, a woman sits at her laptop trying to think of something interesting to write and because she can’t she instead writes about not being able to find something interesting to write about. It’s a never-ending downward spiral into the unworkings of a borderline brain. And yes I know unworking isn’t recognized by my spell check, but at this point in the creative process, I’m not above inventing new ways to cofound the device I’m writing on. It helps to keep things spicy. And while we’re at it, can my laptop please stop trying to Americanise my words by slipping z in where it’s not wanted and taking u out when it is.

It’s Friday, it’s a vent day. Things need to be gotten out of the system before the weekend hits. And I’ve just read this back and realised I haven’t taken my medication yet.

Right, I’m back and medicated.

I’m being hard on myself. I’ve already written upwards of 700 words this morning. I’m as yet un-caffeinated and I’ve written. I should be happy with that. But of course, I’m not.

And the reason I’m not is that I’m still devaluing my “work”

You see, I did it again, it’s not “work” it’s WORK Goddammit.

Here’s a question, for me, because there’s nobody else here…

What advice would I give to someone who had taken the HUGE and possibly irresponsible step of deciding to put all of their energy into doing something full time, that they weren’t getting paid for yet but that brought them joy and happiness? Well, yes apart from the obvious questions about, how will you eat, pay the rent, etc I’d say “That’s great, I’m so happy you found something that fulfills you and at some point, someone will see your work and you’ll be so glad you made the decision to do this”

However, I’m not getting paid to do this. I have decided to spend all day, five days a week writing. I don’t even know if I’m any good. I laugh at my own jokes, I read back what I’ve written and think I’m the greatest wit of my own generation and several more, but am I, really?

Why am I doing this?

What good can possibly come from living the life of an impoverished and unpublished writer starving in their top floor flat in East London waiting to be discovered and become a national treasure?

Delusional, perhaps I’m delusional. Perhaps this is just a really elaborate way of avoiding

everything else that I should be doing. I mean, that’d be pretty ridiculous even for me because writing is actually much, much harder than anything else I have to do and the other things actually, would probably feed me, well, they’d get me an emergency shop at Lidl but that’s not the point. And, answers on a postcard please to anyone out there who may have figured out what the point is, and can tell me because I’ll be buggered if I know.

The fact is that I’ve been denying my need to write my whole life. Growing up, it’s all I ever wanted to do, in fact, I used to get up two hours earlier than I needed to just so that I could get some writing done before I went to school. Thankfully none of those scribblings have survived, or at least I hope they haven’t. Fate may have one last victorious blow for me and my mother will have them all stored away somewhere waiting to surprise me with them when I’m least able to take it.

Who knows, maybe my route to the national treasure dome will be an easy one, it might also be a hungry one… but I’m here for that. God knows I’ve got nothing else I’d rather be doing.