I am long beyond the self-pity that can accompany the life of, in this instance, a failed writer and blogger. There was a time when I believed people who said I was a good writer and deserved a better platform and at the time it gave me reason to carry on. Eclectic Blue has been in existence since around 1999 and as stand-alone blog for more than a decade. The better and bigger platform never came along and I am in a happy writing space.
I am reminded of my limitations as a writer when I read the work of great writers. The late Clive James has a God-like status in my mind, except of course that James actually existed. I am currently reading Bernie Taupin’s memoir Scattershot, a quite brilliant book about the life of a man who wrote the lyrics to Elton John’s songs. In truth, Elton’s music is not my favourite, although I love and admire the man, but Taupin, obviously, has a clear gift with words. I can’t compete with the likes of James and Taupin and neither would I even try to. I just have to be myself.
I learned long ago that Britain is not a meritocracy. While the writers I have mentioned were so good they were always going to see their work published, those of us of, shall we say, lesser ability rarely stood a chance. I went to the wrong school, inhabited the wrong class, didn’t have any connections and all these things, added to my work – and I do refer to my writing as my work – not being top notch meant that that newspaper column and that book would never be published, unless in the case of a book I published it myself.
In Britain, it is not so much talent that can help you reach the stars, but confidence. How else could you explain Piers Morgan’s ‘Uncensored’ internet show being worth a staggering £100 million? A modestly talented interviewer, for sure, though not in the same league as the likes of Andrew Neil, Jeremy Paxman or especially the late, great doyen of interviewers Michael Parkinson. And then there is the former prime minister Liz Truss, who has just launched a frankly unhinged programme on YouTube called The Liz Truss Show. You know, the Liz Truss who crashed the economy, lost her seat in the general election (majority 26,000) and then blamed the non-existent deep state. The world is full of modestly talented celebrities – Roman Kemp, A J Udodo, Ant and Dec – who achieve fame because of their ‘gift of the gab’. Where you come from, which school you went to, who you know all matters far more in almost every aspect of life.
Writing, however badly I write, gets me up in the morning and the world of blogging allows me the opportunity to write in a way that never existed before the arrival of the internet. It wasn’t that long ago that if I wanted to write anything at all, I’d have to scrawl in an exercise book. Now I can self-publish my ramblings to a potential audience of billions to my heart’s content.
Am I bitter? A little bit. Jealous? Again, a little bit. But neither to the extent it makes me upset and angry. When I see someone like Boris Johnson being paid a million quid a year by the Daily Mail to write lies and nonsense or Florida-resident Richard Littlejohn to pen pure venom that could have been produced by a particularly dim 10-year-old, I genuinely think I could do better, but in the end it doesn’t matter.
At least I can write, self-publish my work as often as I want to and feel a little proud that in just over a decade I have written and published 6487 blogs. Unlike Piers Morgan, my work isn’t worth around £100 million. In fact, it’s worth the square root of fuck all but at least it’s all my own work and no one can stop me, apart from The Grim Reaper. And as someone once said – I think it was me – it might be crap but at least it’s my crap.
