‘But I’m Really A Writer’

typewritterThe walk to number 57 was a good half an hour away but after a night on the beer and a sleepless night he felt good to be out on early on a summer’s morning. Not that the alcohol had much to do with keeping him awake. Insomnia had been a part of him for as long as he could remember

The late nights of trying sleep, trying to write, too much caffeine and an overactive imagination were beginning to take it’s toll. The old sports injuries seemed to be joined everyday by some new ache or pain and the daily dose of Nurofen just wasn’t cutting it anymore. His low moods also seemed to get longer and harder to shift and no amount of CBT, mindfulness or positive thinking seemed to make a blind bit of difference

Even though one of the more junior guys should be doing this it was nice to be doing something different. Just do an inventory of the place, take some photos then back to the office for the handover to the client’s solicitor

‘Christ I’m getting too old for all this’

This was the usual thought now that everyone looked about fifteen and spoke in a language that might just as well been Mandarin. Everyday they made him feel older. Everyday he felt more and more like life was passing him by and the thought that at fifty, he’d have done a bit more with his life, was a recurring one.

Five years ago he thought take this job, write on his days off and evenings and soon be earning enough to kick it into touch. Five years later, he was still there. The money wasn’t bad and as long as you could put up with whinging tenants and complaining landlords it wasn’t exactly hard work. Just another year and then he’d be ready to jump ship and let his writing support him

The writing was still there though mostly in his head. He’d tried all the routines, writing so many words a day, always carrying a notebook. It wasn’t the writing that was the problem more the thought of people telling him it wasn’t any good. That’s what the kicker was. That’s why he wasn’t putting of it out. He’d tried hard when he was younger. Punting articles out to magazines but all he’d ever got back were rejection letters. His therapist and writing coach had been working on his fear of rejection but it still scared him the thought that people would think his writing, his precious writing was rubbish

It was when ‘the sadness’ crept over him and the questions kicked in that he really struggled

Why he was still living in this fantasy world? It was pathetic that a fifty year old man was still working with a bunch of kids in a job he hated all so he could pretend it was paying for his ‘real job’

Why did he still trot out that old line that he was working as an estate agent ‘but I’m really a writer’ when anyone asked him what he did for a living?

Was it any wonder he was still living on his own in a friends house? Still relying on favours and making excuses as to why after all these years he still hadn’t made it

He knew that everyone spoke about him when he wasn’t around. He knew they all pitied him more than liked him. More than that he felt that people put up with him more wanted him around

How many opportunities had he wasted over the years? Why couldn’t he just accept he was a crap writer? Who’d want to read the shit he was peddling anyway?  Christ if he was any good it would have happened by now

How much money had he spent on courses, books, coaches trying to turn him into a half decent writer? Every time it was going to be different; this was going to be the one

No wonder everyone just rolled their eyes or changed the subject when he told them what he was working on. That was a joke right there! He’d been working on shit all for years and just talked a good fight

Approaching the gate of number 57 kicked his thoughts back into work mode. He’d just walk around taking photos to confirm the condition they’d be handing it back in. He let his mind drift to the idea he’d had for a collection of short stories that he thought he’d put out on the blog he was going to start. Even his writing coach had liked this idea so tonight would be the night he’d start on it.

This would be the one, he thought, this time he’d do it


The Cleverest Man In The Room

group‘This is without doubt the worst book I’ve ever read. Please don’t waste your time or money on it.’

This was how he pretty much spent his days now, writing his pithy, spiteful Tweets from a bedsit in Brighton. He felt it was his artistic duty to bring down those authors who thought they could write but obviously had ideas way above their station

He knew what good writing looked like and when he finally got around to putting his work into the world people would finally recognise his genius. He would give up the menial,minimum wage jobs to make ends meet and live a writer’s life, doing book signings and readings. He’d surround himself with other literary intellectuals who’d understand what he was talking about (always knowing however that he would still be the cleverest man in the room)

Today he’d get dressed in the tatty cardigan he wrote in and sit down at the laptop. Writing was in fact a daily struggle and time was mostly spent looking out of the window for an hour or two

Still, there was no need to mention it in his therapy sessions. This would just show weaknesses that he prefered to cover over with talk of writer’s block and hint at deep spiritual hurting that would take an age to cure

One day he would break through and start getting words down onto the page but for now he would have to bear this particular intellectual cross

Today though, there was always Twitter