It was mid Line of Duty binge. As usual I was lying on my bed, candle flickering, engrossed in the twisted plot when it suddenly came to me. I could write about that, that’d be a great title. I could say x and y and z.
12hours on and I can’t for the life of me remember what that idea was. I’ve put myself back in that place, closing my eyes as I try to recall the sights, the sounds and smells of the moment in a bid to trigger the recall of that great idea.
But no, it won’t come and so instead I’ve decided to randomly write – kind of stream of consciousness stuff and just see what comes out.
Ironically, since moving to Kampot to, amongst other things, write, the ideas for blogs have become fewer and farther between. The ability to see a story in a situation diminished, my faith in being able to write something of interest contracted. And so, when an idea does pop into my messy old head I usually hang on to it for dear life.
And I have to hang on to it because, as well as having a diminishing supply of blog ideas I have developed an aversion to opening up my laptop to write the rare ones that do appear down.
Somehow, I have turned my writing for pleasure into a work or study like exploit. Something that I need to think endlessly about but avoid doing at all costs, something to beat myself up over with a huge metaphorical stick, a thing of pain not pleasure.
I do this with work stuff. If there’s something I ‘have to do’ I will obstinately not do it. Waving two fingers to complicity whilst bingeing and brooding and generally making myself feel shite.
Why oh why do I do this? Why do I make life harder than it needs to be? What on earth do I get from not doing it? What do I stand to gain?
As an unhappy teenager I did it for attention. Not doing my homework, skiving off school and being deliberately obstinate elicited a detention, or even better being put on report – an opportunity to get acknowledgement without being ‘bad, written praise for my good behaviour and one on one time with authority figures.
But in my life now this no longer makes sense. If I don’t write, the only person that notices is me. Putting my writing out there gets the attention, the praise, the plaudits so WTF is going on?
Maybe it’s more akin to why I do it in my working life (and my University study too). I know I’ll meet the deadline, I know I know what I’m doing and have everything I need in my head and I have accepted that not committing it to ‘paper’ until the very last minute is just part of my process.
But no, that doesn’t make sense either. There is no deadline for my writing so I can’t be waiting for that moment to creep nearer before I commit. I don’t always have it all ready in my head – sometimes I genuinely just don’t know what to write. So what the hell is going on?
I truly don’t know. But if you do then: Answers on a postcard please to……
And that’s where, 24 hours ago, I was with this blog. A glib close to an unfinished exploration. Maybe with a small element of despair attached, but glib none the less.
An all to regular scroll through my Twitter timeline yesterday led me to the discovery of a post that made me challenge my dismissal.
I have been given the lemons in the form of a talent and a passion to write.
And it’s really a no brainer! There is no choice!
I don’t want to be that procrastinator filled with regret.
I choose to make lemonade.
I really , really want to make lemonade.
But I think I need help.
I have to understand whatever is stopping me. To know why I’m sabotaging myself will help to reduce the hold it has over me.
And so I’m putting out a plea. If anyone thinks they can help me work through this, or knows someone who can then please, please, please let me know.