Having been blessed with precisely no artistic skills, I remain in awe of those who do have them. I don’t just mean painters who come up with something from nothing on a blank canvas, but musicians and writers who do much the same thing. The imagination of a writer of fiction is something I can barely begin to fathom, creating characters that somehow come to life when you simply read the words. I am so lacking in imagination that I struggle to read fiction at all, never mind write it. How can I bring about change? I must be missing out on so much great writing.
A close friend and voracious reader tells me his strategy. He alternates. He will read one non-fiction book, followed by a fiction book, then non-fiction and so on. And he finds it works brilliantly. My partner, possessed with the imagination I so clearly lack, as adopted the strategy as her own. It seems to be working for her, too. I wonder if I should try to follow suit?
The blank canvas is not something that scares me per se. For the best part of 20 years, I wrote a column for the Bristol Rovers matchday programme, The Pirate (RIP), called Eclectic Blue. I am not suggesting for one moment that it was any good but the fact that I was kept on for so many years suggests it wasn’t that bad. My modus operandi for writing it was the same for every issue.
I would always write the column the night before the publication deadline. Sitting in front of a blank screen, the words would somehow emerge from God knows where. 900 words, or thereabouts, usually in the right order and hopefully different from the 900 words I wrote before the last home game. The difference between what I was writing was that I was not inventing characters and situations: I was writing about them. I suppose I was still creating original content but I was not writing about things that weren’t real and making them feel real.
My partner, bless her, possibly in an attempt to humour me, wondered out loud how I did it. Sit in front of a blank word document and fire out an article, usually off the top of my head, almost always in around an hour. I don’t know, either. I reckon I settled into a routine that worked with my limited creative skills and gave my work a kind of distinctive nature. Having a recognisable “style” (I can’t think of a better word: sorry if it looks smug and self-satisfied) sustained Eclectic Blue until I finally walked away from Bristol Rovers, having lost the emotional link to the club. When my heart was no longer in it, that was the time to walk away.
I refer to my writing as my “work”, which you may find laughable since I don’t get paid for any of it, except from those kind enough to buy me a coffee through this blog. I use the proceeds to cover the costs, and frankly losses, I incur while pretending to be a proper writer. And, having retired from the wacky world of working for a living and living off state benefits (the state pension, that is), part of me still carries the distant and irrational hope that one day I will be spotted and awarded a lucrative contract with a well-known publication. That part of me, I should add, is vanishingly small, but the flame of ambition still burns dimly and if it was extinguished I wonder what I might do next. (I reckon the honest answer to that is I’d still write for nobody, which is not a million miles away from the reality of today.)
I do wish I would write fiction, but the ship was never there to sail, so non-fiction it is. The non-awaited follow-up to my first dreadful book is well underway, telling the lack of story about my life through the music I have listened to throughout my life. Just imagine if I’d had the talent to make up stories about a fictional character involving music, but sadly I haven’t. I’ll carry on with my lone furrow towards oblivion, satisfying at least my own soul with the writing I need to do. Yes, I don’t just want to write: I need to.
Thanks for reading this woeful blog where I can clearly be seen wallowing in a pool of self-pity. This is the best I can do. And I suppose I can’t ask for any more than that.
