This blog is a bad thing.
Firstly, I’m a writer. Or rather, I like to write. These very words, and this one, and that one, are keeping me from writing the stories living in my head. And because these words are easier to write than those attempting to measure up to my imagination, it places blogging at Procrastination Level Ten. Move over Twitter, I now have paragraphs to play with.
This brings me to my second point – when I write, the pace is glacial. Blogging would be fine if I didn’t deliberate over. Every. Single. Word. Twitter’s 140 characters drown in the metaphorical tears shed during the composition of this paragraph. An Ice Age may be upon us before a stranger’s eyes glance over my current WIP, which *clears throat* began in 1994.
I don’t tell people I write because I’m not an author. Which is OK except it has that edge of failure about it, like saying you’re a dreamer – it appears meaningless unless you are a doer. I know this is not true. There are plenty of writers out there well worthy of the author title, and there should be no shame in those, like me, admitting they’re not there yet (as an aside, I’m also aware that getting published doesn’t guarantee recognition, just like talent is an optional ingredient in popularity).
I don’t tell people I write because they might expect me to write something, and then *gasp* might want to read it. Shhh. I know. It’s scary. I might be judged. And on this basis I convinced myself that I didn’t need to be a author and I was quite happy writing for myself. Me, tucked away in my little niche where I can’t be read, stabbing at my computer, finding satisfaction in the sound of the odd sentence and re-working all of the others. Who am I kidding? I’m thinking about this all wrong.
This blog is a bad thing for exactly the same reasons that it is a good thing. I’ll be criticised and I’ll learn. I’ll write slowly, but I’ll get faster. I’ll procrastinate anyway, so it might as well be this.
I’m a writer and this is practise.