I don’t have anything to write about today. Usually, by this point in the evening, something has grabbed my attention, or annoyed me sufficiently, or made me laugh so much that I have a whole post prepared in my mind. Ready and waiting for the calm after the storm, when the children are in bed and the house is tidied. When I can sit down, drink tea and knock my ideas around until they make some sense.
But not today.
There were a few things that had potential:
The not-quite-two year old at the childrens centre, whose t-shirt read “In search of the perfect man.” Seriously, I have no words.
The magic of the internet pixies who make it possible for me to check the weather, the potential side effects of antidepressants and what films the latest Miss Moneypenny has been in. On my phone. In the garden.
The growing mix of excitement and terror that comes from Wes booking me into a hotel on Friday. By myself. For an entire night.
They’ve all got potential. Maybe one day they’ll find their way here as posts in their own right. But not tonight. None of them were ready.
And yet here I am. Writing anyway. Even though I don’t really have anything to say. Why? Good question. Here’s the honest answer.
I want to be a writer.
I’ve never really admitted that before. Not properly, and certainly not in front of so many people. I want to be a writer. I always have, for as long as I can remember. Apart from a brief spell as a child when I wanted to be a librarian. Mostly so that I could sit in peace and read all the books. I love words. I love playing with them, moving them around until they fall into place and say exactly what I want them to. It’s incredibly satisfying.
On Monday, Wes took the children out, and I got a taste of what my life could be. In a few years time when they are both at school. Spending my days writing; sitting in my kitchen, drinking tea. Popping out to pick blackberries or work in the garden when inspiration dries up. Admittedly there were no deadlines or angry publishers or writers block. I know that not all my days will be so idyllic. But I would love the chance to try.
My problem has always been one of confidence. It’s hard to be a writer if you can’t imagine why anyone would read your work. I’ve never been able to drown out the little voice in my head that tells me “nobody wants to listen to you.” Until now. It’s getting quieter every day. Thank you for that.
Everything I read tells me that in order to be a writer, you need to write. Even when you don’t think you have anything to say. It’s all about the discipline. About seeing it as a profession rather than a hobby. So I’m writing. And being disciplined. Because there is nothing I would like more than to do this for a living. I promise that one day, if I pull it off, you can all come to the launch party.
You and those little internet pixies.