Monday, April 24, 2017
I know I have two small children, and only one day a fortnight "to myself", but still I feel that this little time has been a worthy test of my fortitude and actual commitment. And I have to admit - to both myself and my small, but very supportive, readership here at the Pickled Pear - that I am most likely not going to be a professional writer.
Please, PLEASE do not spare a moment's pity for my making this declaration. For it is I who must apologise. Several of you have made a point of openly complimenting me on my writing, and encouraging me to make a living from my talent. Which has possibly gone to my head a little more than you imagined. I am afterall, in real life, a reasonably shy and awkward character; you would be forgiven for believing me at least a little lacking in self-esteem and therefore worthy, if not actually in need, of overt praise. And while a bit of praise has been a welcome antidote to the bullies of the schoolyard and the critical-mother of the home-life of childhood, you should probably now cut it out. I actually think I'm pretty fantastic.
I think this so much, that it is not to my 30-odd fans to whom I feel an apology is owed, but to the world. I actually believe in myself so very much, that I think it is a shame for HUMANITY, that I will be squandering my incredible talent as a writer.
And there is one simple reason that I will be denying the world my brilliance: abject laziness. It is the reason that both my house and my children are cleaned with far less regularity than is generally suggested; it is a major reason that I am currently so fat that people just assume that I am pregnant again; and it is THE reason that I doubt I will write for a living.
I tend to think of laziness as inate, perhaps even genetic. Some people are natural-born go-getters, and some of us would really just rather have been born rich enough to live on the sofa. Forever. With wine and cheese brought to us on a regular basis. I have always, against my politcal ethics, quite fancied the idea of a sedan chair, with a group of burley males to carry me about the place. (I am sure that if I DID have a sedan chair, I would be even fatter than I am today, so it is probably just as well I am not insanely wealthy.)
Anywho, as far as I can tell, the key to success in anything worth doing, is a combination of: innate-talent, a fair dose of luck, and a good dose of GRIND. And while I have no troubles with the first two, the major ingredient is lacking. I love to blame my star-sign (yes, yes, an atheist shouldn't even entertain the notion of star-signs... whatever!) My favourite book on the subject by Mystic Medusa, the Surreal Field Guide to Astrology (now sadly out of print... and no, you can't borrow the THIRD copy of it husband has acquired for me) states that "duty does not call to these people, duty carps at them in a low and grating monotone." Sigh... so true. Star-signs being accountable or not, I totally feel that way. Fuck duty; bring on hedonism!
So while I may have decided that the most enjoyable thing to do with a slightly tipsy evening with family early-to-bed is to write this post, it's not something I'm ever likely to do with any stamina. Yes, I will keep writing this thing (with exciting upgrades and expansion of audience planned for the future!) And yes, I even have a wee book on the go (it may well take YEARS). But I once read a poignant suggestion that if you don't do it ("it" being WRITING) while you're busy with work and life and what-not, you won't actually do "it" anymore by having loads of time. You either write, or you don't. I am 36 and haven't done it. I am 36 and have an entire day off a fortnight and am not doing it. I would rather spend occasional days pottering, daydreaming, and occasionally getting high... and pay for it with an easy, uncreative, salaried day-job.
Which, dear reader, is what I (currently) intend to do.