17

Writing is surely the hardest thing. You sit alone in a room in front of a computer, and then you hope. You hope that words are going to come out; that those words are going to form sentences; that those sentences are going to be good. You're looking for plot and characterisation. You want to "show not tell." You want to have meaning and depth, originality, a spark. And you want it to appeal to others, and to one day see the light of day, in printed form. You have all this in your head even before one word has taken shape on the screen.

You start to type – suddenly, all the great ideas you've been carrying like babies in your head don't seem so good after all. Nothing is you want it. You press delete and try again; this time it's worse. You decide, instead, to get up, make a cup of tea, surf the 'net, play some games, go to town, take a nap, chat. And nothing gets done. You feel bad about that, and determined to be better next time, and then do the same thing over and over again. You tell other people you're writing – but the truth is, you're not. It's a horrible, horrible thing.

One day you make a breakthrough: something clicks and words start to appear. The internal editor has taken a day off; everything flows; and it's okay. Before you know it you have several thousand words on the screen and the hard part has been done. Now, the work. You edit, and stitch together, and cut and paste, and eventually you're down to obsessing about one very last comma, whether it needs to be there or not, and then you're finished. And maybe it's good and maybe it's not, but that doesn't seem to matter anymore, because it's out of you and there's a joy in that, and you love it because it's yours, perfect or not, as a child. And then the whole thing begins again.

I wish I was a singer. I wish I only needed three minutes of inspiration, or sang other people's songs, or could show my stuff to people so easily, in the living room, in the street, in a pub. Everybody likes music. And all they need is ears. People can even talk when they're listening and they still clap at the end. Everybody loves a singer.

Or maybe I'd be a painter: to see an image in your head and go at it, something again to show the world, instantly. All they need is their eyes. And if it's no good, start again, have another go, it only takes five minutes.

But a writer is alone. How can I show you this sentence and ask you if it's good? How can I share my half-assed paragraphs and get your feedback? How can I stand up in public and be applauded and adored, even for other people's work, and receive my recognition that way. It's either publish or be damned – and being published is no easy matter. And, of course, none of this is fair or true. It's just a reflection of how I feel.

I have some ideas for the stories I need to write this month: one of them is based on some of American hitch-hiking experiences, culminating in my little (yet life-changing) epiphany in that Montanan diner; it was sort of where I went from being bad to being good. I want it to end there, and I want it to be dramatic, in its tiny way. I want to have some sort of build-up to show that I was bad, but also perhaps contained some seeds of good, and to gradually work my way towards that diner. I also want to get some stuff in there about hitch-hiking, about life on the road. It could be good, perhaps. And, as ever, it may not be good; and it may fall into my usual traps of trying to base everything on myself and not really have any characters other than the narrator. Also, it may be shit shit shit.

Another idea I have is about this bloke who is feeling down, and maybe slightly mad; I've got the story beginning in his flat where he's been laying on the floor for several hours staring at a pile of CDs, focused on his copy of Blur's 'Modern Life Is Rubbish' and kind of repeating strange things to himself. Then maybe he'll talk about things that are going wrong, with his boss, for example – based on my real-life boss, sure – and his girlfriend, and maybe one or two other things. And then he goes out, just 'cos he's sick of being in, which isn't like him, and he meets this kooky girl and they have some sort of interesting dialogue – though I don't know what that is yet; just maybe talking about getting caught masturbating by their parents. After a bit they go back to hers – maybe a sex scene; why not? – and then she does something in the middle of all that that makes him angry, and he releases it all on her – ie, he goes mental and kills her – and then he sort of hangs out in her flat playing with her body, biting bits off and sticks various things in it, in a sort of detached, curious way. Finally he goes home and notices that he feels better, and his girlfriend notices it too. He never gets caught and it seems to have improved things for him.

Those are my two ideas that I want to have done before the end of the month; I've others too, the most exciting of which is this idea of a small group of bored people deciding they're going to jump in the Thames somewhere near Oxford and make their way down it in various floating devices, to London. Along the way there'd be various dialogues and stuff, and maybe some encounters with dangers/boaters/the police (not knowing whether or not this would be allowed). It'd be some sort of comment on whether it's possible to have proper adventures – thinking a very watered-down form of Huck Finn/Lewis n Clark – in this day and age of health and safety, rules and regulations, google maps and conformity. It's mainly exciting because I'd actually have to do it to get the locations, and to get some input into the kind of things that might happen. What about weirs, for example? And what about weir-wolves? :-) It'd be research, ya know.

So that's about it; I guess writing about writing has helped me to feel better, and more positive – though whether it helps me actually get down and do something remains to be seen. It's good to see something appearing on the screen though; it's a little bit less "aaaaaghhh" and a bit more, "okay". If you know what I mean.

Cheers!

Rory