the sound of green

Writing. There’s something alluring to it, something that calls to me. Writing has been a part of most of my enlightened life – ever since early primary, I was a big story writer. That continued and flourished into high school, with English being one of my biggest and best subjects, and one of the easiest. I could churn out an essay in the period before it was due, and know that I was guaranteed at least an A, if not an A+ for my last-minute efforts. In my spare time I wrote fiction; countless half-started plots that never amounted to anything more than a collection of hand-written pages sitting in a folder.

Writing gave way to blogging, soon after school finished and my time online increased exponentially. I’ve had a blog in some form or another since the end of 2002, and although the name, location and content have changed several times in the following seven years, there has been a blog of some description with my name (or at least a name) to it.

Here’s an admission: I used to write Star Wars fan fiction. That sentence alone completely outs me as the geek I am deep down, though I at times hide it behind the outgoing/creative/photographer exterior that I put forwards. Through the end of high school and into the first two years of Uni, I wrote my fair share of fan fiction. Most noticeable was a piece that spanned some 140-odd pages, something that I began in mid-high school and last contributed to during my early days of post-school freedom. Yet that, like most of my other work, sits in a folder. Collecting both physical and metaphorical dust.

My last attempt at writing any fiction came in 2005, when I attempted to participate in NaNoWriMo – National Novel Writing Month. Each November, participants are encouraged to write a 50,000 word novel in 30 days. I started on track, cranking through 2,000 or so words a day for the first few days, before the time and inkling to force myself to write wore off. I swore that even though I didn’t get it finished in the 30 days, I would at least do that idea and concept its fair duty and finish it – yet four years later, It’s still a Word Document that ends mid-paragraph. Since then, any writing has been solely limited to postings online, client contracts, the occasional training manual for work, and letters to Beth in the early days of our relationship.

Writing has been a part of my life for a while; that much by now you’re well aware of. And while I’ve never held the dream that I would become a writer, or even write anything that would be of a level to be published, I’ve realised I’ve always taken it for granted that writing would continue to be part of my life. For a long time though, I’ve had neither inspiration, desire, or the two combined to actually sit down at a desk, cafe, or anywhere with my laptop, and put more than a hasty post together. Recently it’s begun to change. Ideas are coming to me, lines of dialogue are popping into my head at the most random of times. Murder-thriller plot ideas coming to me whilst hanging up the washing in our roof void are one recent example. Yet I struggle to know what to do with any of this.

I’m not entirely convinced the ideas ever left me – more that they took on a different form or outlet. Studying Media and majoring in television production meant that a lot of time during my years at Uni were forcing myself to visualise concepts and ideas – and that translated to the following few years, as I continued to do the odd piece of production work. Yet that work has well and truly stopped for me – and thinking in terms of a video piece is now something I have to force myself to do, rather than something that happens of its own volition. These days, I also realise that writing comes under the overarching umbrella of creative direction and inspiration – but that’s a matter for further thought some other time.

I struggle to know what to do with the ideas now. My creative time is a lot less than it ever used to be. That in itself is not necessarily a bad thing or wrong thing (I for instance no longer find myself at a loose end wondering just what I’m going to do with my time), it simply means that I don’t have the time to sit, be still, and write. I struggle, because I wonder about the audience – whether certain things get or even merit one, and about how much of it is for sharing, and how much of it is an exercise in creativity and mental acuity for myself. Let’s be honest here – my job is not the most mentally draining or stimulating, more a matter of task & project managing, and being able to manage myself effectively with the freedom my job brings me. It boils down, therefore, to a matter of a few simple questions I need to work through. Do I make myself write? That’s something I’ve tried to do over the last few weeks, as I’ve felt my writing powers coming to the fore at certain times of day. Do I write simply as an outlet, as a way for me to continue to keep my mental and creative juices flowing, saving each file on my computer but taking it no further? Do I write, making the most of the micro-publishing that the internet allows us, and sharing all with what little audience I have? Or do I take that creativity, that time, as quantifiable measures, and direct them into other avenues – of which there are many I could see as inherently more useful and productive.

So I continue to try and sort through why I write. Whether I write. What I write. When I write. Who I write for. And wonder whether all the words produced amount to any, even infinitesimal, worth. Or whether they’re simply a slow, slow way of filling a hard drive.