For the past three years I have told anyone that will listen that I want to be a writer. They don’t have to listen. They don’t even have to be in possession of full use of their ears. I’ll god damn tell them anyway.
The fact that in that time I have been a Chanel PR hack, craft beer pourer, cancer charity lobbyist, celebrity cricket match coordinator, English teacher, Great White shark cage diver, Sexpo doll, debt recoverer, drunken bartender, baby alligator-sitter and cleaner of the toilets of the rich…is besides the point. I still want to be a writer. The problem is, in the past year, I have done anything but write.
I sit down to commit some genius to paper. I end up turning the paper into an origami velicoraptor. I write more fluently when inebriated, so try that. I end up throwing up on my desk tidy and passing out under the chair. Travelling by public transport inspires me to write shit poetry. What I’ve scribbled whilst pitching and jerking on the tube is illegible, and looks like a suicide note jotted down by a Parkinson’s sufferer.
I started a book about my life, got to 100,000 words and realised that I’m an arsehole. I started it again from my new worldy wise perspective and realised that I want to be Jack Kerouac. I have no money and no car for a transcendental physical and mental journey, so I went up the high street and ended up with nothing more than an ode to the Waitrose deli counter.
I want to write about the things that make me rant, but work myself up to the point that I’m rocking back and forth in my chair, dribbling and gibbering at a coffee cup.
I want to write about the changes that I want to see in the world, but am usually too hungover to look past the changes I see each time I hurl.
I want to stand up at an open mic poetry night and bare my soul in iambic pentameter, but I can’t quite seem to find the time between trying and failing at Bikram yoga, supping on pale ales and staring out of the window.
I started a short story, and at fifty words, it was just that. Fucking short.
I began a post-apocalyptic novel, words spurting forth in fits and starts, until I became so disheartened that I wished my ragged tangle of survivors had died when the rest of my fictional world bloody had.
I wrote the last verse of a poem about a prescription drug addicted 50s Stepford wife, and stared at it for so long with no other verses forthcoming that soon morphine was the only way out for me, too.
I read my heroes – Hunter S. Thompson, Jack Kerouac, Ken Kesey, Tom Wolfe, Oscar Wilde, Lord Byron…spot a glimmer of inspiration and chase it headlong, weaving through a maze of inspired prose, until it dives down the rabbit hole and I lose all trace.
Writers Block sounds like a small hulk, one obstacle that sits firm whilst you throw yourself at it until you realise – Bloody Hell! It’s a block! I can walk around it! What I seem to be suffering from is Writers Berlin Wall. It will come down at some point, and who knows, perhaps the Hoff will sing to mark the occasion, but at the moment it stands tall, seperating my ambitions from any dwindling semblance of talent I may have.
The first block seems to have shifted however. I am sitting here. With a blog. Writing! Whether this post will be joined by a happy little post family, or remains here, alone, lost in WordPress while more circulated, followed blogs sneer at it, remains to be seen.
As Jenkin Lloyd Jones said, “You have typewriters, presses. And a huge audience. How about raising hell?”