I’ve never thought of myself as much of a writer. Sure, I can string words together and make myself (and sometimes others) laugh. But I’ve never been able to successfully dissect the very meaning of a piece of literature (or a game, more realistically), I’ve never been able to set myself out in a logical, academic fashion and I absolutely cannot write essays. I can write to the extent that I can churn out reams of bollock on command – that much I’m sure – but give me a one sentence statement of academic leanings with the word “discuss” at the end and I’m pretty much fucked for what to put.
At the same time, I know of many people who are more than capable of spunking out an essay of literary worth without so much as a second thought, but to whom the thought of waxing lyrical about nothing in particular for a few hundred words off the top of their head is absolutely alien. As well as the thought of writing sentences as long as that. To me, it is these people who are the freaks. But it still doesn’t mean I really think I can write.
See, making a thousand words appear on a screen when you’re working from thoughts and instinct isn’t truly writing. Or is it? One of my most preferred authors is Charles Bukowski, a man who professed a love and respect for the art of sitting and letting the words come. But I’ve been through a life of schooling that has taught me otherwise: research, planning, structure and a lack of opinion is what makes something truly good to read. No one wants to read the opinions of others – and no one wants to read shitty blogs like this.
There are many types of writer, many types of reader, but so much gravitas is placed on those who can formulate the stuff of academia that I’ve always felt somewhat second-class. Thing is, I just realise I can work in an awful pun, thinly-veiled knob gag or put on my wank hat and go to town on something I truly love without caring about if my words will impress. So it’s all good, I suppose.
Apologies for the self-doubting (Thomas), rather confused entry; I will return to my usual ball of self-confidence and respect for all tomorrow. It’s just something that springs to mind when you’re meant to be a writer (not a journalist, as this what I do isn’t journalism) and you’re in one of those daft, reflective moods.