The keyboard and the coffee made me do it…
The urge to write is a strange one, it’s a queer yearning; as much the need to be heard, as to confess, as to teach. To imprint the world with a singular point of view, constructed from an intricate piece of wordplay singular to oneself, at the same times aesthetically and mentally pleasing and at the same time not contrite.
It’s a struggle, some say as much with yourself as with the world. The difference being that you can shut the world out, to an extent and fill your mind with words, it’s a damn sight harder to shut yourself out of the world and work that way.
I remember when a one-time colleague of mine decided one day that they were no longer going to be writer. The urge to be a journalist and critic couldn’t defeat the practicalities of everyday life. So they simply said enough was enough, and with no little fist-shaking at the sky, blaming the industries, the world, society and even the recession, scampered off into the sunset.
I sometimes wish I could do that. Sometimes I want to simply be a person with a job, a mortgage, two-point something children and a weekly date witha comfortable chair and the Sunday papers. That isn’t me. There have been times when I have all but forgotten the written word, thrown myself into other pursuits however the burning desire to simply make permanent some thoughts or story remains. At such times I’ve occasionally looked back through old blogs and diaries of mine and tried to understand where the urges to fill screens and pages with my thoughts have been born
I think the need comes to write simply from itself. It’s self-perpetuating and fulfilling. It comes from absence as much as from plenty. It simply is.
Just a thought.