Writing wrongs.

There's a writers' festival happening in town at the moment and so we have a veritable flood of famous authors. Working in the media I get to meet some of them and this week has reinforced a view I've held for some time now. I've long thought that writers - even successful ones - seem to have a small black cloud hanging over them. Certainly the ones that don't have that cloud are in the minority. Matthew Riley is one that springs to mind - an effervescent, enthusiastic type who seems more than happy with his lot. Ben Elton is perhaps another, but everyone else seems to live with a metaphorical lance in their side. That is not to say all writers are morose or depressed (although it wouldn't surprise me if they were). But they do convey the impression that their lives are a little sadder than they had expected. Perhaps it's knowing that having succeeded in their quest to be published they find it's not the purpose of life after all? I don't know. But I'm sure there's something intrinsically sad about being a writer, even a funny one.

Other famous, successful people seem to have a confidence about them that writers lack. Even other artists - musicians or painters for example, have a determination that's missing among authors. Oh, writers may well have discipline; they may even have that headstrong drive to be brilliant at their craft, but still there's a Sisyphusian shadow over their persona in the way they seem to sense an endlessness to their quest, whilst yet remaining compelled to continue.

I (if you hadn't already guessed) wanted to be a writer. In fact I was one for a while. But although I was published, and made some (not much) money from it, I was crap at my trade. The stuff I wrote way back then is embarrassing to me now. In recent years I've been able to meet a great many writers - even got to know my favourite writer quite well - and I learned very quickly that I am not a writer. Apart from an acute shortage of talent on my part, I lack the ... compulsion to write to the exclusion of everything else. I suppose like many people, I have a desire to write that goddamned novel that's been kicking around my desk for years now, but I am continually distracted by other worthy ventures.

Always, I lose motivation if I focus on any one project for too long. It's an ADD-like syndrome - unable to focus on one thing for too long, yet finding life fascinating in so many ways, I jump from one thing to another, continually excited by life yet paradoxically frustrated at my inability to complete any major project.

My fear about this blog, of course, is that it too will lose my interest after a while and it'll all come to nought. Still, that would most likely be appropriate. It's not as if I expect anyone to read it of course - I'm hardly that presumptuous. It's just a need at this point to get a few things out of my head and written down if for no other reason than to clarify my thinking to myself.

Most probably there'll be a small flood of thoughts over the next few weeks, and then it may well dry up. Like my feeble attempts to keep a diary since I was a small boy, it tends to finish with a few full pages and a smattering of single lines or paragraphs and large amounts of blank space for the year. Some years there was simply nothing at all.

And yet! And yet, sometimes a simple sentence written many years ago in a moment of unconsidered naivety provokes such strong and pleasant memories! And so we begin again. But hopefully this will be a more considered blog.

We'll see.

Hunter S. Thompson once said, "Buy the ticket, take the ride." I'm on the mystery bus now. Let's see where it takes me.