I can recall when, back in March 2006, that I began to fall out of love with the thing that had, up until that point, been a reason to get out of bed. It happened one evening, after work, in a small, overly hot room, on the City University campus near Silver Street, Islington.
I began to fall out of love with writing.
Ever since my college days I’d written, for pleasure. In 1996, facing unemployment, I turned a hobby into a job, which then became a career. By day I was a copywriter for large, global brands; in my downtime I wrote poetry, short stories, headlines, opinion pieces and whatever else I wanted. Much of it was poor, but some of it was worthy of publication (as judged by an editor).
However, I got stuck. The corporate writing was reducing me down to a small vocabulary. Structure overtook prose. Which is fine – no one wants to wade through poetic language when it comes to buying their next car (or perhaps they would?) and ideas became my stock in trade rather than the words themselves. So, I signed up for a short story course. 10 weeks. 25 other writers.
I was excited. So much so I took myself off across London after a day of writing and meetings and more writing, to learn how to get better at my craft. To sit among other writers reading their output, offering critical but helpful advice within the group.
And that was when it happened.
That moment I began to fall out of love with writing.
I’d written a short story. I was experimenting with tone and style. It didn’t go down well with the group. While the teacher gave me some great feedback, one person said to me, out loud, “This is shit, I couldn’t be bothered to read it.”
Then someone else chimed in with, “Why are you bringing this nonsense to the group?”
I remember my eyes prickling with tears. Was it that bad? Was the teacher just being nice, or had I actually written a shocker? Or were the other students projecting?
It didn’t matter. I got up from my seat, thanked everyone and left. I didn’t go back for the final two sessions, although I had apparently done enough to ‘pass’ the course and received a certificate in the post.
The next day I went to work. I didn’t write anything in my notebook on the commute, like I had done every day before. In fact, I never picked up my notebook again. That’s how I know the date so well.
For six years, I still wrote for work. Yet, I often found that my heart wasn’t in it. And then after working for a particularly overbearing person who beat what little self esteem I had for words out of me on a daily basis, I stopped entirely.
Over the subsequent years, I’ve blogged but my output has largely been for work purposes. I’ve not written for pleasure. I’ve given up.
Since then, I’ve found myself being critical of my writing before I’ve even put pen to paper, or fingertips to keyboard.
Today, I decided enough is enough. If ever there was a time for change, it is now. My study is slowing down as I come to the end of my first module. I am stuck at home, not just because of the lockdown but because of my underlying health conditions.
Today, enough is enough. I should write for me, not for anyone else. I should simply get the words out. It doesn’t matter if they get read, if anyone cares. They’ll be terrible to begin with, but after a while they’ll get better. And better.
There is but one good way to get over a writer’s block and that is to write. To not overthink things. To simply let fingers and words flow. To not concern myself with ideas on the perfect length of a blog post, or whether this word is right or if it should be that one instead; I only need to write and write and write. Every day.
Day one: complete.
