There’s a phrase, you may have heard of it, that goes,
“A face for radio.”
I’d like to say that that phrase particularly applies to me, but there’s also a corollary which I can add for even more “truthiness”,
“And a voice for mime.”
I’m not an attractive man, neither physically or mentally, and it’s taken me a long time, too long, to realise this.
The last post I wrote on this blog was all too long ago, and declared something I didn’t have the commitment for. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to create a nice design that was entirely personalised to myself, it was simply that I didn’t have the taste, style, or creative ability to do the job properly and to my own satisfaction.
Another realisation… I am not a creative man.
Now that last one is kind of fucked for me, because since the start of this year I have been focused full time (except for this month when I had a part-time job as an Assistant Tradesman) on writing a book. Well, eight books really, but there’s one in particular I want to get written and published (under a pseudonym) so I can continue the trilogy.
Yeah, a trilogy. I had an idea for one book, then I needed a prologue, and then the first book didn’t finish well and there was all this other stuff… so it’s a trilogy.
But it’s fucked! I keep writing and re-writing, and you know something, it’s a big steaming pile of shit.
In between bouts of shitting all over my computer I’ve been vomiting out other shorter chunks of acidic prose that I’ve been trying to use for “practice”, and the idea behind them is fine, it’s the tool which is fucking broken.
This tool, up here. You can’t see this but I’m tapping my skull.
Somewhere between being five years old and full of imagination and now I seemed to have lost my imagination and, most importantly, the piece of my brain which facilitates the output of my imaginative processes.
I’m a stubborn cunt though. I’m not ready to give up on trying to be creative, because it is one of the only things I have in my life. I have ideas, I dream about the fucking things, and I’m going to get them out. They will be published one day, even if they’re self-published, and they may stink or they may be glorious, I don’t know.
I’m not smart enough to know if my ideas are complete shit or not. Other people tell me they’re good ideas, but they could just be saying that because they know me and don’t want to hurt my feelings.
So where do we go from here? I don’t know where you’re going, but I’m going to walk proudly into oblivion, knowing that when I get there, I’d have tried my fucking best, and anyone who doesn’t think that’s enough can go fuck themselves.