14 March 2013

A labour of love

I want to become a writer. Some of you knew that, most of you probably did not.

My motivation is such that I feel I need to share my dreams and ideas with the world, and that If I choose not to I have failed myself. I want to die knowing my words provoked feelings in people I may never of even met, even if it is just one person.

Sometimes I journey into a place so far removed from my daily life I leave reality behind. Entire days and their labours go unnoticed, the guilt I feel at missing such time is considerable. Indeed I seem to have an uneasy relationship with the passing of time, regardless of what I do I always feel I have pissed away this most precious of gifts.

It would be worth it, at least I hope it would if my time spent searching the void of my mind for inspiration bore fruit. As of yet I do not believe this to be the case.

To write honestly I risk pain. Pain to those I love, to those I have loved and also to myself. Yet I am compelled to try. I can only hope the readers forgive my sacrifices and understand their necessity.

I am reading "Stephen King -On Writing" at the moment, and I would say to an aspiring writer that this is a must. One of the key ideas he promotes is the idea of a 'writing space', free from noise and distraction. As a full time father, this revelation has left me feeling a little flat. I have no quiet escape in which to concentrate my thoughts to paper, nor can I see one in the future.

I yearn to write. It helps me to feel human when most of the time my mind is set on auto pilot. I miss so much beauty, so much simplicity as its buried in layer upon layer of the mundane. I feel the majority of us do the same.

Writing sets me free, its a feeling I wish to share with the reader. I fear whether this will ever be possible, but then I always was a worrier.

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