Observed, to the Angel’s feigned delight, that if life were a business proposition few would invest - and your accountant and his bottom line would be in despair. The calculation does not add up. What, in the end, do you get for your continued efforts, and despite swallowing the whole of a Vitamin B capsule to smooth the ride? NOTHING. That’s what.
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.
People say we all have a book in us. Complete nonsense. We don’t. Why not have a painting, a symphony, a dish, a sculpture, the next hybrid of a Paeonia (the tight balled one) in us?
Just because we can make ourselves heard doesn’t mean we can write. Most of us can’t. Let this not discourage you. The artist’s soul needs to be tortured. Think constipation. I will stand by you with a spoonful of Castor Oil. Oh my god. You will thank me in the short run. Later you will forget.
Hello Sweethearts, you miserable lot forsaking me. How am I supposed to keep going without fuel? Never mind: A weed is a plant in the wrong place and, if lucky, either a cat will nip you or you’ll die unnoticed.
This minute I have surprised myself. I do this periodically by clearing up my desk. My god, here is Ms Perfection personified, or so I was told a long time ago, and I find a handwritten note of a telephone number. Unfortunately there is no name with it. That’s the optimist in me. I will write down anything – on hundreds of little bits of paper – deluding myself that I will know one week on what they mean. I truly love myself on that note alone.
I also have so many notebooks I can’t find anything I noted. But when I do I am surprised. For the amateur psychologists among you this can only mean one thing: Before my first sibling was born, and in between being entertained by my enchanting grandparents, my mother and my uncles and their then respective fiancees, I entertained myself. Old habits die hard.
I love my handwriting. I love it I love it I love it. When I see my handwritten notes (Staedtler Noris HB2 with a rubber tip in case I want to erase something) I am reminded that I exist.
Yes, you can tell can’t you: I have just tidied my desk. Which amounts to tidying AWAY myself. Whenever my desk is tidy I feel I am my father’s daughter. He is anal about his desk. It’s quite awful really. He used to call, probably still does, his waste paper basket (huge) “File No 13″. Naturally, it was always full. To be emptied promptly. I don’t know how my mother lives with him.
Yes, so everything is in order. Post it notes stacked, pencils sharpened, staplers refilled. All I need now is some action.