I’m actually an aspiring writer!
Imagine living a life where you have a a sneaky suspicion everyone thinks a large chunk of your time is spent sitting, staring into space. This is, of course, the life of an aspiring writer.
How is it if you’re a fledgeling start-up, trying to build a business from home, people consider that a purposeful, admirable venture, but if you say you’re an aspiring writer you get the sarcastic ‘yeah, good luck with that’ look. I remember people laughing at me when I told them I write humour. Well, no one’s laughing now.
The other day a family member asked me if I’d done any writing lately. What he was actually asking was, “have you spent any more time sitting on your arse in front of your computer trying to make it as a writer instead of working full-time in your day job?” Although to be fair, he did then ask me what it’s actually like to be an aspiring writer? I told him, it’s difficult to put into words.
Non-writers appear to not understand the amount of work it takes to become a writer. To muster the amount of procrastination needed to sit in front of a keyboard all day is exhausting. More exhausting than that one time I took the trash out.
The art of writing is taking me on a wondrous voyage of self-discovery. I’ve discovered I’m an expert in not finishing any stories. To be honest, I should have a black belt in partial arts. That reminds me, my landlord called me yesterday. He needs to come talk to me about how high my heating bill is. I told him, “my door is always open”. Maybe that’s why I always feel cold in my own home; I’m surrounded by drafts.
I’ve acquired somewhat of a writing orientated routine in the mornings. I like to have synonym buns for breakfast with my coffee. But sitting drinking coffee in your slippers gets you nowhere. It’s always better to have some clean cups about.
I have also learnt that some writers can be really offensive. I was talking to one the other day, about World War Two literature. He was telling me that apparently Hitler was also anti-semantic. I then asked, “who was that famous writer killed during the war?” He replied, “I don’t know Anne Frankly I don’t care.” Then he accused me of plagiarism. His words, not mine.
As an aspiring writer, your whole life becomes inextricably entwined with the creative art of writing. Whether you want it to or not. Last week I attempted to take a break from writing. I paid a stranger to knock me half unconscious, shove half a foreign object up my arse and film half of the procedure. Or as my doctor insists on calling it, a semi-colonoscopy.
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