A few weeks back I turned 30. A milestone in itself but probably even more so given the troubled little shit I’d been a decade and a bit ago.
The revelation that one has spent a grand total of three whole decades hurtling through space on the surface of a tightly pack dirt ball that holds fast in its universal position simply out of organised chaos is enough to give even the most severe ADD sufferer pause.
Fortunately however for myself, that pause lasted only as long as it took a page full of questionable meme’s to load. At which point I went back to my existence of existing.
It wasn’t until the social celebration of the aforementioned birthday that I really had a chance to be slapped with an existential revelation as surprising as a ham steak to the face in the middle of a vegan cookout.
As I sat, in the company of friends, discussing my gradually increasing loathing at the majority of humans bought about by my current employ, a lone voice carried across the chatter. A friend formerly of the same occupation shouted to me from six foot away (the music was as loud as we were inebriated, you know how it goes) ‘Mate, you don’t belong in that place, you’re a writer.’
I’d like to say that the comment caused me to shup up very quickly but that’s hardly appropriate as my mouth was just kind of hanging there. Swaying gently from my face like a marionette puppet as I looked between my wife and another close friend. The only two people I have ever shared any of my work with.
I whispered a small apology to the person next to me whom I almost knocked out with my wayward jawbone and queried him as to why he would say such a thing.
He explained that he really loved reading some of the things I post on social media, which was equally stunning as he did not have a single social media account. He then went on to tell me that his wife lets him know whenever I post something good just so he can read it.
He enjoyed my writing and I wasn’t even trying.
Imagine what people would think of the stuff that I actually put some passion into.
A few days after this my long suffering wife, after finishing up the final edit of short story that turned into a Novelette, threatened to start submitting my work to competitions and publications behind my back if I didn’t get off my ass and do something with my writing.
The jokes on her though because most of my stuff is only half finished (ref: ADD).
And so it came about, after several years of stuffing about, that I finally got around to starting a blog.
I am by no means a real writer. Put me in a pop quiz and I still have trouble telling the difference between a verb and a noun. But I have a passion for storytelling and an imagination that I like to think hasn’t been crippled by the creative bludgeoning that is adulthood.
I have no illusions that I will ever achieve my goal of seeing my name in print but I can only hope.
Hope that one day, I can walk into a book store, grab a copy and hand it to my kids and say “See this book? You should totally read this one over daddy’s because daddy’s stuff doesn’t really make any sense.”
I do hope, however, that if I achieve my goal, there will be people out there that enjoy my work. That can pick it up and use it as a distraction from their lives. To get lost in something wonderful to distract them if they’re not enjoying where they’re currently at. Or to in the very least inspire them to give writing a crack because if someone as godawful at it as myself can do it. Then by golly, any idiot with a word processor can do it to!
I hope you enjoy the words that I have collected and carefully moulded into sentences just for you.
P.S. Apologies for the wall of text. You’ll come to discover that I can prattle on a bit.