On (not) Writing

Here’s the truth: I’m not a writer.

I wish I was a writer. (Was? Were? I think was).  I love reading, especially novels but other stuff too.  I love language, particularly English with all of its infuriating irregularities which, when you understand them, make perfect sense.  I like to share my thoughts and I’m quite fond of the process of writing.  I’m also rather keen on the idea that if I could get something published it would be literally out there making money for me of its own accord – not that I truly believe I’m ever going to be able to make a living from writing, but a man can dream.

But I have a problem: I’m not creative.  At least I don’t feel like I am.  You read about people with stories in their heads just burning to get out and onto the page, and that’s not me.  I have some ideas that I reckon would make decent stories. Is that enough?  I think I would really struggle to write something of novel length but I suppose I won’t know until I try.

I also have the issues of being both a perfectionist and highly self-conscious, meaning that it would be very difficult for me to consider something good enough to share with the world.  Then again, maybe that’s why pen names exist.

One time, at school, I had a flash of creativity in an English exam. We had to write a story about a photograph (with some prompts) and I remember as I wrote that I knew I was going to get a good mark. To the utter surprise of my teacher I think I came second overall out of about 150 pupils.  I don’t know where it came from and I’ve never recaptured it since, but it’s in there somewhere.

Anyway, I read something yesterday that said writing something every day, even as little as fifty words, can really help your creativity in the long run.  So that’s what I’m doing here.  Hopefully I can keep it up and maybe one day I’ll write something worth reading.  You never know.


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