On Writing

I am not a quitter.

Those words, metaphorically, are tattooed on my forehead. I think, they have appeared there some time in the last six years or so. Before then, well yeah, I have been a quitter, a glorious, gadfly. Try this, try that - flit from one thing to the next.

I did, for a long time want to a be a rockstar. I wasn't going to be held back by the fact I couldn't really play anything and had no aptitude for music. Not at all, I mean, I had great hair after all.

But I could never shake the feeling when I held the bass in my hands that it was an alien thing. A thing apart from me. Practice was a chore, a task I had to do to stand any chance of keeping up. When I finally gave up it was with a sense of relief. I never enjoyed sitting in a van for hours on end, I am a creature that enjoys comfort, or waiting around for hours to go onstage and be 'not quite good enough'. Those odd times when it clicked and everything came together were becoming less and less frequent as the band I was in got better and better. It stopped being an escape from work and instead became more work.

So I had a think about what I really wanted to do, about what I really loved.

The answer was the book in my pocket.

Can't remember what book it was, could have been crime, SF, fantasy, 'serious literature' or poetry; I dunno. It was just a book. Except a book is never just a book, every one is a little window onto a world. A place I have never been and never will go – the mental landscape of another.

And I knew that was what I wanted to do. Was what I had always wanted to do.

So I do it. I think, on occasion, it's good. It's often very very frustrating; mentally and physically. But even when I was really ill it was the thing I kept doing. Intermittently, yes - but it never stopped.

So on days like today, when words are slow and I doubt anyone will ever buy the novels I am (or have) slowly constructed I remember that I am not a quitter. I may feel like giving up, my fingers might be stiff with pain and my head fuzzy with painkillers and tiredness but I will carry on. It's not even really as serious as that makes it sound. It's gone from a conscious effort to a compulsion and unlike the bass guitar the words are never alien. They may be wrong, or uncomfortable, or infuriating or leave me exhausted but they are also a source of joy. It's the only thing I do where time vanishes, one minute I'm trying to think of what to write the next it's a couple of hours later and one thousand or so words. And if I'm not quite good enough? Then that's fine as it's primarily for me and one day it will be good enough. It will.

So. I might be really ill. It may be infuriating that the words on the page are never as clear as the world on my head. It may feel like no one will ever buy the last book and that like finishing this one is an interminable task that will have no reward. But that is not the point, it is partly the joy of writing and partly the escape it provides.

Also, I am not a quitter.

More stuff.

This was published, a long time ago. Before I was ill anyway. After publication it was nominated for the James B Baker award for literature. Didn't win, which I think was the right decision. Anyway, then I lost it. I think it was on an old computer and didn't copy across for some reason. But... yesterday I found an old floppy disk and there it was. Not sure I like it now but thought I would put it here in case someone else did. If you do, pass the link around, thank ee kindly. *tugs forelock*


The Social Diary of a Ghoul.


Monday is soup day.
Fiendish nails clikker-clack in the bottom of the cauldron searching out bone and gristle to chew. Eager mouths gulp down wet warmth and dribble liquid down dirty clothes.

Tuesday is plant day.
All morning I, kabbkikkorack, Maushaleya and Rishtatish dance in the dusty earth of desiccated gardens, throwing up clouds of parched earth which give a pleasing smell to our ragged clothes. We steal roots and forage for berries. Tuesday is a hungry day but the warren is brightened with pale colours and glorious red.

Wednesday is a quiet day.
Wednesday we rub old fat and small dead animals into our glorious lank fur. We sit quiet and stonelike. Maushaleya tells stories and we laugh until tears roll from our single eyes. Sometimes we shred each others wings as we are low and forbidden the sky. We are not allowed to forget our ancestors sins.

Thursday we try to catch rats.
Rats are quick and hide well. The warren is loud with our cries of frustration. My throat throbs as I join my brothers in our endless sad song.

Friday is fish day.
There are no ponds anymore and the brotherhood dare not venture too far from our home. We seldom have fish.

Saturday is a day of hunger.
Saturday we hunger so badly that we think the creatures in our bellies are scratching at our insides, trying to escape. Saturday is a hungry day and we eat dirt.

Sunday is glorious.
Sunday the furless ones come and they wear evil smelling garments. But they bring us joy. They bring the great boxes and bounteous harvest for us. They lower sustenance into the ground we are bound to and we know we shall dig tonight. Dig and feast.

Monday is soup day and fiendish nails clikker-clack.