I’m supposed to be writing.
I’m a writer, that’s what I do., right? Only it turns out it isn’t. Most of my time is spent thinking, jotting things down in notebooks, drinking coffee, gazing idly out the window or getting annoyed with fellow thoughtless passengers on the tube (put your phone away while you’re walking you tosser!). Oh yes, and working.
It’s a wonder I get anything written at all.
What am I writing? Screenplays. Novels. Interchangeably. Simultaneously. Only usually I’m not.
That’s what this is. All the not.
There’s plenty of advice on writing out there. Structure. Character. Look I’ll even throw in a blatant plug for my structure and character apps (here) but I’m not going to talk about it much. I’m not trying to teach anyone (unless you’re offering money). That’s not what this is. This is what most of my life in writing looks like – namely anything but writing….
I think I can sort of justify it…. Writing is about life isn’t it? So its those moments that aren’t creative – the reflective, the observational, the angry the emotional that actually make up the substance.
And if I’m being honest, it’s a lonely world too. What does it mean to have thoughts and view the world in a certain way if you don’t share it with anyone. Maybe you’re interested and you’ll leave me a comment, share your own view or point out the appalling and blatant hypocrisy in everything I’m saying. That’d be nice.
Either way I hope you get something from these little rambles even if you just think: “I know I’m an unproductive daydreamer but at least I’m not him.”
I really should be writing….