Turns out
that I need to write at least 400 words every day in order to keep my mind from
moulding into rot while I struggle to find a job as trainee reporter or something. In all
honesty, the idea of blogging has never appealed to me. I’m driven
by deadlines and often the enthusiasm of the team that I’m working with on a
particular project. While freelancers the world over have to motivate
themselves to come up with extraordinary pitches all the time, what’s the engine fueling the bloggers?
A lot of people like to hear their own voice clattering through
their skull and that’s an honourable hobby. I’d be lying if I said I didn't look back through my writing with the occasional pang of pride ricocheting around me. That is not the problem. I think bloggers for whatever reason love
writing but, crucially, they have the discipline to sit in front of a computer
and slog out their ideas everyday, no matter how scrappy those ideas might be.
I have two problems here. Firstly, I don’t particularly enjoy writing. I have obsessive interests in other areas of culture that have brought me, in my own obsession, to write about them. Whether it be a piece of music, a film or a story that’s set my senses on fire, I don’t usually like the relationship to end once the credits roll or the last track plays. I’ve formed an attachment to that thing in the time I spent with it and feel much like I would with a new partner. I want to express my adoration to others: “I’d love you to meet them” “They’ve taught me so much” “I never knew I could be this happy.” Just because you can’t sleep with it shouldn’t mean that you’re partnership isn’t any less intimate in its own way.
I can’t unfortunately spend my career waxing off at strangers without a pittance behind me. Writing is the conduit to this. As much as I therefore appreciate that there is an opportunity for spoilt cretins to natter on about whatever four star masterpiece they caught up with on a 241 Wednesday, it means I have to write. I have to do a lot of writing, which for a while I thought I enjoyed. But inhabiting your own thoughts for so long feels simultaneously meditative and destructive. Anyway I’ve written 400 words now which feels pretty good. I guess I’ll do the same tomorrow picking up where we left off then.
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I have two problems here. Firstly, I don’t particularly enjoy writing. I have obsessive interests in other areas of culture that have brought me, in my own obsession, to write about them. Whether it be a piece of music, a film or a story that’s set my senses on fire, I don’t usually like the relationship to end once the credits roll or the last track plays. I’ve formed an attachment to that thing in the time I spent with it and feel much like I would with a new partner. I want to express my adoration to others: “I’d love you to meet them” “They’ve taught me so much” “I never knew I could be this happy.” Just because you can’t sleep with it shouldn’t mean that you’re partnership isn’t any less intimate in its own way.
I can’t unfortunately spend my career waxing off at strangers without a pittance behind me. Writing is the conduit to this. As much as I therefore appreciate that there is an opportunity for spoilt cretins to natter on about whatever four star masterpiece they caught up with on a 241 Wednesday, it means I have to write. I have to do a lot of writing, which for a while I thought I enjoyed. But inhabiting your own thoughts for so long feels simultaneously meditative and destructive. Anyway I’ve written 400 words now which feels pretty good. I guess I’ll do the same tomorrow picking up where we left off then.
Here's some relevant content:
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