Today I have realised that I feel I have less to write about than I did before, and the reason is that I haven’t read nearly as much. Reading a really good book makes me want to write, in the way that hearing an excellent band makes me want to pick up my instrument, but both are often demoralising since I’m automatically comparing the product to whatever superlative creation has spurred me on in the first place. Inevitably, the venture feels doomed to fail.
I also think that many people might be reluctant to write in this manner (i.e. me until about a month ago) because they feel that whatever they have to say isn’t sufficiently important. I’d be lying if I said that, even now, I’m not acutely aware of how my writing is lacking a particular twist of humour or originality that I seek out and admire in others. Still, the ego jump-starts most creative endeavours, and the only reason I got good at, say, drawing, is because my childhood self didn’t care about what others thought and probably had more reasonable expectations of herself. This meant I got to practice for weeks on end without crippling self-doubt rearing its ugly head.
So, if I haven’t been reading, what have I been doing instead? Good question. I’ve re-watched the Crown in its entirety, got a filling at the dentist, went to see Vice in the cinema, and am now glued to Deutschland 83 on 4oD. Smart TVs now seem as essential as sliced bread these days, I love mine. It doesn’t judge me the way my parents do for consuming visual media like it’s a competitive sport.
Anyway, Deutschland 83 got really dark lately. I enjoy the soundtrack, much as I’m enjoying a lot of 80s-themed things lately. Synths seem especially magical at the moment, which I think is partially the effect of the season.
When you step outside at the moment, it smells like cut grass. Merely the fact it smells like ANYTHING is a sure sign that winter’s chill is relinquishing its grip; although slightly unappealing, I find the faint stench of fast food during summer evenings highly atmospheric.
To tie things up as neatly as possible, I suppose this was written to prove to myself that it’s probably worth forcing something out, regardless of its quality. If it helps reveal the lack of inhibition and self-doubt my younger self buried around the age of sixteen, so much the better. I will, therefore, be making myself write and post! Admittedly, its an ambitious proposal, since we’re still on half term and I’ll be teaching again come Monday. At the very least, I might be able to churn out models of writing for purpose at a nippier rate than before.