I’m a man with a problem. I can write, but I don’t like writing. Correction, I don’t like writing blogs. I don’t like writing copy.
I find “copy” boring. To do it well, you have to structure an argument and work through a logical sequence of explanations, and yada yada yada, give you something for your troubles.
Well, I refuse to play ball. I refuse to play by the rules. And yet, here I am again. And here you are, and now I owe you something.
So here, you see, is my entire problem in a nutshell. I can’t form an opinion on demand for your enjoyment.
Is Writing Without Emotion, Still Writing?
I’m officially a writer without a clue, or perhaps it’s more precise to say a writer without a point. I just turn up and start churning out the words, and they come. And what happens next? I shape them, and I write more, and I shape those too, and sometimes they fall into a pleasing pattern which people like to read.
But those readers are readers of fiction. I’ve had plenty of people tell me that they like my writing. I’ve had lots of readers of my debut novel encourage me to write more. I can certainly write. There is no question.
So I am lucky. I am well educated, well read, opinionated and erudite, and yet I have a problem I can’t live with, and, more importantly, I am letting you down.
I have a crisis of confidence. I know that I suck at convincing you to read my stuff, but I’m also desperate for your approval.
What is My Problem?
I’ve come to understand why this isn’t working.
I could kick myself.
It’s as simple as this.
I’m not a character in a novel.
I’m a real person who needs to have real opinions. If that sounds dumb, then let me demonstrate just how badly I’ve been overthinking this.
When I write as a character in a novel, I can say anything. I can rant, I can swear, I can imagine everything that I can’t do in day-to-day life. But confronted with the blank page and no filter of a character between my opinion and your brain, I falter.
So my block is not technical. I have no writer’s block, but I have the very real fear that you will find me out for knowing nothing.
I live in fear that you see me, and I have nothing to offer.
So how can I learn to trust myself enough to write down what I know? Because you deserve to hear what I actually think.
I am sitting outside on a breezy day in June. The clouds are high, and the air is thick with the early-summer perfume of flowers. I hover unconfidently over the laptop, which is sliding from my lap as my feet burn in the direct sunlight of the late afternoon.
I know how to make you happy. I tell you the secret by whispering it in your ear.
You look at me quizzically, pull out the revolver you keep in your pocket for executing writers and pull the trigger without conscience.