So this week has marked the beginning of something many people live with every day. The commute. I have traveled each day via train from the Home Counties commuter belt into London for work. Admittedly my travel over the past week has been incredibly” easy with no problems and a satisfactory experience. However it has brought to light the question that no one particularly wants to have answered. What the hell am I going to do once this is all over.
The obvious answer is to be a writer. Therefore it is also the most pointless. I could spend a lifetime trying to become a writer, but I could also spend just as long trying to recover from what I have written. For example, J.K Rowling will forever be tainted with “this isn’t as good as Potter” reviews. It’s best not to think of these things and just let them happen.
The question that seems more pertinent is: What kind of writing do I want to do and how can I make a living from it? Somehow I have become a journalist. I wrote a blog once on video game music I like, that led to writing reviews and opinion, that led to sports punditry which has led to submitting articles for the London Evening Standard and The Guardian. This is all in the space of two years. When I started this mad quest for further education and dream following, I had had the grand idea of writing for TV. I still have that idea, but so much has happened in the past 2 years, to me and in general, for me to really know what I want to do.
This problem translates itself to my writing and to the story. How do I write it? What kind of voice will tell the story? Is the story funny, sad, endearing or just plain dull? What perspective should I write from? In essence my entire confusion on life, my insecurities and my eternal question of “What do I do?” is copied into my work. It is shown by the text and the way the characters behave, speak and how I fill the gaps in between. One thing is certain, both me and the story have an ending pictured. It’s just trying to get there that’s the trouble. If Stephen King was reading this right now, he’d probably tell me to get on with it and don’t be afraid of the beast you produce, just let it flow. So I will.
Since writing this, I got a train home… Drunk. Of all my commuting experience, that is by far the worst. Naughty alcohol.
Word count: 10
Reading: Bright Lights, Big City – Jay McInerney