God damn it: This post will make me so popular I won’t see you for dust.
Drawn to my attention by the amicable Paul of blackwatertown fame, and he is not the only one: The writer’s lot. For heaven’s sake: What makes a writer? Anyone who can write is a writer. People write. I write. A lot. It’s like saying “I breathe therefore I am a breather”. “I speak therefore I am a speaker”. “I clean the toilet therefore I am a charlady” or “I cook therefore I am Anthony Bourdain”. It’s complete rubbish. Just as sleeping with your husband – when you don’t feel like it – doesn’t make you a prostitute. Or may be it does. There is too much angst among all those aspiring to be published. Anyone can write (rubbish), whereas few will take up a paintbrush or compose a bit of Beethoven and expect it to be seen or heard. Sweethearts, do what you enjoy and don’t paint yourselves into a corner. Did Kafka ever call himself a writer? Don’t think so. He was an insurance clerk who wrote in his spare time.