The less than stellar quality of writing on this blog in recent weeks has been down to a variety of things. Depression, obviously, plays a part. The dark cloud of COVID-19 that hangs above our country, even when the sky is blue. And, as time goes by, a reminder, which I really don’t need, that my writing ‘career’ is never going to take off. Let’s be honest: if university graduates can’t eke out a living in the world of writing, then what chance me?
The nearest I got to ‘making it’ was in 2006 when I was hired for no money by the Bristol Post to write about Bristol Rovers. Sadly, certain individuals conspired to have me removed from the paper when there were internal issues at the club and I have never looked forward.
20 years ago, you could, if you were lucky, earn a crust if you worked for a newspaper or magazine. The problem was if you couldn’t get a gig writing, you were stuffed. Now, as most people consume their news for free, there are few paid writing gigs. The big change is the internet where anyone can set up their own blog or website, write what they like and not get paid a penalty. The trade off for being able to publish your own work is there is no money in it.
I wrote an admittedly rubbish book back in 2015 called Corfu, not a scorcher. (Still available on Amazon but nowhere else.) I am still over a grand out of pocket due to the cost of writing it and the lack of buyers. I knew from the start the book would not rock the literary world but at least I had the satisfaction of publishing a book, even if hardly anyone bought it. Where now?
Well, a follow-up book, that’s what. A series of essays about growing up in Brislington, which if it’s as boring as it appears to be from a very early proof-reading, will not trouble the Sunday Times best sellers list. It’s going to be a short book, too, because I’ve only got to around 60,000 words so far, and there are few funny stories. Maybe, when I get to the point of actually publishing the thing, I should recommend it on the grounds it will send you to sleep. I could even write an insomniacs special edition. Perhaps, the Bristol Post will serialise it for me to make up for axing me back in 2006, the bastards? (I did get my own back though: I never bought another copy.)
The writing might get better as time goes by. I might just get my mojo back. Then again, it might just be shit, just like this one is. In which case, I don’t expect to be retiring on the proceeds.
