Christmas greetings to you all, this cold and wintry day.
Okay, let’s admit it. Somewhere along the line some aunt or uncle, some friend of the family, maybe even your mother or father, dropped you on your head. That’s the only explanation for the countless hours you spend writing away in that darkened room, your fingers bleeding as you pour out all that excess angst onto the electronic page.
You’re a nut job, pure and simple.
Relieving your inner dullness
Now here’s one to get you hot under the collar. You’re not suffering from brain damage. Here’s the breaking news: writers are dull, DULL, DULLLL!!!!
There, I’ve said it.
Take a look at Wilbur Smith, take a look at Dan Brown, JK Rowling, or even Stephen King. These are not the kind of people who stand out in a crowd and neither are you. They are not amazing raconteurs who can hold the attention of a room with their humorous tales and accounts of personal daring do. You probably won’t catch old Dan swinging naked from the cherry tree (though I may be doing him an injustice, the talentless little feck).
Writers, for want of a better way of putting it, live almost exclusively inside their own heads. They venture out every now and again to say hello to the unsuspecting world (look world, here’s a story what I wrote!!), but more often than not, they’ve got the curtains drawn and they’re hidden in the corner, maybe with a bottle of the strong stuff, far from prying eyes and doing their imaginarium thing. That’s why their skin is as pasty and grey as a three day old zombie.
For writers, the real world sucks
It’s not they who are dull, it’s the world around them. For chrissakes, they could have been anything! But to be born into a world so lacklustre and devastatingly puerile – what a terrible thing to happen. They could have been hobbits, they could have been Sixteenth Century lotharios, they could have been battling zombies and vampires with Van Helsing like vigour. They could have been a devastatingly suave secret agent battling megalomaniac bad guys.
If only the world was like that. If only the world wasn’t so dull.
But the world is not dull. It’s vibrant and terrible, fantastic and terrifying. It’s colour blinds those who can see, its noise rages for those who can hear. And yet the writer wants none of this unless it is on paper , forged from the depths of his insipid mind. He hides away, creating his own world. His own beautiful, terrible world that he controls with god-like munificence.
And to what end?
As you sit and type away at your computer this evening, ponder on this: What is your purpose? Why do you spend so many of the few seconds and minutes that you’re allocated in this life, sitting at a PC terminal, making stuff up? WTF is the point? Why aren’t you out there doing something more important? Like saving the world for real. Or doing the garden.
The answer: It’s simple. All writers are scaredy cats. And that’s the bottom line. They define their imaginary worlds, they meet death without the consequences, they change the way things turn out. All on paper. All pretend.
So why do people want to be writers? Why do those feckless others, when you say you’re a writer, go oooh and aaaah and their eyes fill with gooey self-respect? Who put the sexiness into writing?
But…but…but…I hear you mutter into you Tiahuanaco Egg Nog…
Writers are intelligent – they have an insight into people that other, mere mortals can only dream of.
WRONG: Writers suffer from what is commonly known as OCD – if they weren’t tapping away creating their own little words they’d be scrubbing their hands every 30 seconds to ensure they were clean.
Writers dare to dream – exploring new ideas and the possibility of new worlds. What about Bradbury? What about Asimov? What about Orwell?
What about them? Writers generally rehash what is already there or has been done before. Very, very, very rarely, like monkeys in a room full of typewriters, they’ll come up with something original out of sheer luck.
Writers explore the human condition, making us think, making us philosophise, they raise the questions we all need to answer.
Bollocks: The human condition is already there. It has been since the year dot and we still haven’t got the hang of it. We meet it every day we step out our front doors of a morning. All writers do is take something akin to tracing paper, copy the damn thing and pretend they came up with some astounding insight.
Christmas Greetings: So now you’re depressed
You’re looking at your work and now you think it’s all worthless. And it is. Add together all the pages ever written and what have you got?
The world’s longest toilet roll. That’s what!
How many of those zillions of pages actually contain something that is earth shattering and meaningful and rich and beautiful and…
Hell, I may as well just launch into my Christmas jingle…
Dashing through the snow on a V8 wonder sled,
Crashing into trees cos I’m off my fuckin head.
Been smokin santas pipe- a dozen beers or more.
I’m heading to the red light zone to get myself a whore.
Oh Jingle bells, jingle bells, Santa’s smokin’ weed.
Mrs Claus is on the floor, she’s overdosed on speed.
Blitzen’s fucked, the elves are too, they’re trippin’ off their heads.
If Rudolf snorts another line, the c**t will wind up dead!
There, I rest my goddamn case…