I have a room of my own. I have a laptop, a bottle of wine in the fridge, inspirational pictures on my wall, a thesaurus at my side and the choice between stark silence or music to get the brain cells pumping. I have no obligations, no responsibilities, there is only just me. Yes. I coulda been a writer. I coulda been a contender. But I’m not.
I sit down to write. I prepare the way, I clear my diary. And I end up reading a magazine, heading down the pub, settling down with a DVD and that bottle of wine and suddenly the weekend is over and I haven’t written a line. After all. Who really cares? Does the universe need another wannabe writer? An ex journo with a novel itching to be written.
Thing is. Every book I pick up, I can’t read. Every movie I see, I start to drift off. And therein my lovely is the rub.
Some are so bad I think, can’t I do better? Some are so good, I think this is what I want to write. I want to take words and breathe life into them until they splutter and cough and scream into being. If you close your eyes and sit still for just a moment, you can feel them writhing and slithering into your consciouness, whispering into your ear, sliding down your throat, those sly, sprite-quick words.
Either way, whether the book, the movie, that damn HBO series is good or bad, as soon as I start, the ideas inside my head take shape and grow until I can’t read or watch anymore. I want to write.
The only obstacle stopping me is the fear that if I can’t write, I am nothing.
And time is running out, slipping away like water swirling down that literary plughole. It’s now or never.