WORDS AND PICTURES

I don't write for myself anymore. I don't when (or indeed why) I stopped, but over the past year or so I've found my capacity to put my feelings into words slowly slipping away from me. Perhaps this is what happens when you make a living out of the only thing you can successfully market - you increasingly look at this skill through the eyes of a capitalist. After all, time = money. And why should I be throwing my words away for free when I could be convincing someone to pay me for them?

But oh, I do so miss writing for fun. For no one else apart from me and the odd person daft enough to stumble by my Livejournal. I miss the thrilling rush of blood when I manage to put all the jumbled thoughts and emotions I carry around in my head on a daily basis onto a blank screen. I have a horrible habit of reading through old entries on my blog after a few drinks and thinking 'Christ, I used to be such a good writer. What happened?' Well, of course, life happened. That's the thing. Whereas I previously had the time at my disposal to write down all of my deepest darkest thoughts and present them to a specially selected audience to suck up, it was because I was chronically unhappy and unsure of myself. Now however I am happy. I adore my life - and finally feel able to say this confidently, knowing that it won't all come crashing down around my ears if I admit it to myself. I wake up each morning ready to suck up all the challenges and trials that life throws at me with a vigour I would never have envisaged myself being capable of five years ago. I'm engaged to a man I adore, I have a job (or indeed two) which pays me well and keeps me on my toes. I experience the joys of friends, love, life, laughter and success on a daily basis. Why complain when I have the world at my feet?

Yet. It feels that I spend so much time living, I have no time left for myself. How very self indulgent, eh? After all, I've yet to write that epic novel I've been carrying around in my head. Although, to be honest, the only person I really have to blame for this state of affairs is myself.

It's strange. Every day I sit on Twitter and throw 140 character pithy vignettes into the wind and towards complete strangers whom I've never met. Yet when I sit down and try to write something personal, I clam up. My fingers go numb. My brain goes blank. It all floats away into nothingness.

I read something a few months back about a bloke who had decided to erase his presence off all of the social networks he frequented on a daily basis and start again. He was one of those bigheaded internet impressarios who'd managed to make a lot of money and a good career out of doing nothing much. But one day, he woke up and decided to sever all ties - delete the blog and the Facebook and Twitter accounts - in a desire for permanence. He didn't want his life to disappear if someone accidentally snipped a cable. I liked the idea of that.

Of course, I'll never go that far. My internet addiction is too ingrained for me to ever take such a drastic step. But I think it's time to get rid of some of my distractions. It's time for me to start choosing my words carefully. It's time to write.