Monday 3rd December 2012
It really is all about me
Today I am writing. No shit Sherlock. I haven’t posted on this blog for ages: many reasons, some too dull to list. (Most, probably: health, boy & school crises, gloom, house disasters etc)
Anyway. Today my photo is simply of me, because I realise that one of the reasons I stopped writing was the wrong one. I forgot who and what I was writing for.
In a purely selfish way, I just write for me. I write because it teases out strands of my thoughts and gives a little patch of order in the chaos of my brain. I write because I love the rhythm of words and sounds in my head. I love to tell very small stories. I love to find connections between unrelated happenings and things and thoughts. Writing gives me great pleasure & quiet satisfaction.
But one of the reasons I stopped writing here was because of the original reasons for starting this blog. It was on the recommendation of a friend who is no longer a friend: suddenly everything here seemed a bit pointless. It was a project we embarked on together. My friend has continued, being a very disciplined kind of person. My motivation is always closely bound to my emotional state however, and I have had no desire to write for weeks.
Sometimes I have a lapse and it’s because there are such mixed events happening I don’t know where to start. Or one thing is filling up my head so much that there’s no room for anything else.
The trouble with that is that when I stop writing, the clutter of my brain is inclined to spread into the tidy corners. My motivation gets diluted with doubt and I start to think that I’m probably the most useless writer that exists. When I’m writing every day, I still doubt my ability but it becomes less paralysing. I just think, “yeah I’m producing a massive pile of shit, but at least it’s my shit and nobody else’s.”. When I’m not writing, I just think, “who needs more shit written?” And my brain shuts down.
So today I think I’ve come to a decision. It is perhaps, not a decision, but an understanding I’ve reached with myself. I need to write because it’s good for me. I’m not writing this because I think I am benefitting anyone else. I’m not sending messages to anyone or communicating in abstract. I am writing purely for me.
I appreciate that if I publish a blog post then it’s with the intention that it’s a piece of the public domain. It’s written to be read. And that is true. But not because I think you should, or it’s going to improve your day or inspire or instruct, but just because it’s there. Why not? I’ve written and you can read it. Or not. I don’t mind.
Don’t get me wrong, of course, I love it when my writing occasionally hits the spot and someone likes it. I also like it when someone argues with me over it. It’s a kind of discussion. Just a little bit of me that’s put out there. It’s a small piece of risk taking that I like.
This post has been a little bit meta today. Tomorrow I shall choose a more interesting topic. Oranges or asperger meltdowns or how much I hate phoning boiler companies and complaining or suchlike. All topical.
But today, it has been about me and my head. Which, every now and then ks fine. Seeing as that’s where all this baloney comes from and after all, I’m writing it for ME.