Who Would Want to be a Writer?

Hands up? Well, me.

Although I do realise that I have a complete lack of discipline when it comes to writing, I want to be a writer and I often make notes of things I would like to write about, but I lack the will-power and the confidence to sit and write.

There is often a strong element of self-reflection when writing, and since I suffer from the worst case of head-in-sand-burying you have ever seen, I often fear what I would write. And in equal measures, I fear what someone would think if they read it.

This leads naturally to the question I ask myself: why do I write? Why does anyone write?

Often it is to fulfil an egotistical urge on the part of the individual who believes that what they write is of some importance, possibly even of intrinsic value, to society. Others do it to assuage their feelings and to see their thoughts in words to analyse their thoughts, feel a sense of release; it can be comforting. It is usually these latter people who rarely get published. And it is also difficult to know how many of them there are out there that do this, as it can be a secretive business.

I like to write. I am an old fashioned paper and fountain pen type embodying a Jane Austen-esque approach, but in a way that I would not want my letters read etc apart from the intended recipient. Like Cassandra burnt her letters, I would like to think the same. Perhaps it is this historical and literature precedent that I adhere to that terrifies me from writing more in my diary? On the other hand, what I think may be more accurate is the fear of writing what I actually feel and facing up to it. I feel that what I write is inconsequential because what I write is a facade of what I want myself to believe.

Then the question arises... why I am I writing on here? Egotism? Probably. Feel that what I have to say is important? No. Not really. Seeking reassurance? Most assuredly.

So writing is this self-illuminating and terrifying ordeal, often prescribed for those with mental and/or psychological issues.

The next question then comes- are all those who write writers? In my mind, yes. In some bigoted literary view, probably not. But as Margaret Atwood states: "Pen is Envy".

A mock on the Freudian phrase 'Penis Envy', Atwood in The Handmaid's Tale shows how the ability to be able to write, to transcribe one's feelings is a feeling inherent to the human psyche. We need to share feelings. We need to express ourselves. To take that away is to deprive ourselves.

Therefore, this blog, which I waffle so much on, is more of a build up to writing, privately, what I want to be able write. To write publicly on topics distanced from myself, like to write or not to write, can allow me a cathartic assuage of thoughts which will one day amount to me finding the truth within myself.

Over the top? Yes. Over wrought? Oh, definitely. Feeling better? I can honestly say yes.

Even writing about the unimportant things in life can be the most rewarding process. Just to order thoughts articulately and convey them = one of the best gifts that make us human. From Charles Darwin to Charles Dickens, they would be proud...

(By the way, the catalyst to this waffling yarn? See here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2012/feb/09/author-film?CMP=twt_fd )

Unsurprisingly it has been a while...

Well, what can I say? It has been a while.... AGAIN.

I will make no promises to blog into the void anymore, but only sporadically at best... and at worst, which as it so happens is more likely, when I feel like it.

I often think of being a writer but I think I lack the discipline to follow through my thoughts and certainly lack in writing them down, which I am sure I know is an epic fail in attempting to be a bit of a writer.

Anyhow, no blog of mine is incomplete without a bit of an excuse as to why the blogging void on NotSoSpotlessMind.blogspot.... so here it goes...

Well I have a new job. At the V&A.... go woooo-ooooooh. But it is taking some settling into. I have been here over three weeks now and I am as confused as I was when I started. There is very little structure in what I am expected to do, since my job role seems to move its boundaries depending on the need. Then there is the lack of banter. From a job where they bossed me around to one where I now am a ringleader and have to herd the troops into action. And by the way this is soooo out of the remit of my job description.

I have also witnessed the worst public speaker. Worse than me. And trust me I have been bad, but there is something about working as a tour guide for two years that just shocks that shyness and fumbling awfulness as a public speaker out of ya. Either that or it cracks ya. For me, thankfully, it was the opposite! still this poor bookbinder was hosting a talk on her exhibit and if she rifled that through that pamphlet one more time for an answer or what to say next I would have cried.

It is not her fault. But it was one time in a lot the past three weeks where I just feel slightly... I dunno... I wanna say superior, but that denotes a sense of harshness that I just don't feel. They are no worse or better than me. They just need to be trained.

Still, I am just waffling here... Needless to say, I have had a rough transition of being in the world of crazy eccentrics, tourists, banter from fellow wardens and great laughs...

Still enough bemoaning my status. It just takes time as everyone keeps telling me. I actually like what I do. Not taxing but quite good fun! Plus I get to stroke old and priceless thingies :)

Now I am watching Harry Potter 1 and harking back to my year 8 class when we tried watching it in French. I tried setting this one in German but it wasn't having it, which was a shame. Hearing Hermione say "That thing has a name" in German is classic... "Das Ting hat ein Namen?!" The French just sounded very swish and unfunny. Shame.

Anyhoo that is enough waffles from me after a a near two-month absence! :)