I heard this on a film, Skin, the other day.
I don’t know why I would consider my problems worth a wank (yes I did say a wank, ac tu a ll y) after seeing such horror but there you go, such is life.
I know a girl who can barely hold herself up most days due to her illness and yet I still moan about my problems like the whiney little tosser I am but let’s get back to me, it is all about me; my blog, my rules, okay?
Ennn eee waaay, what I was going to moan about is the fact that I keep trying to get my work noticed and it’s still not happening so when should I finally call it a day and give up, or…is that not an option?
My thinking is that, as I’ve tried and so far failed, eventually I’ve got to accept that perhaps I’m just not quite up to the grade I need to be to get the recognition I crave. Yes I could carry on smashing my face into the steel gates of failure forever only to never achieve whatever it was I thought recognition: fame, fortune; whatever, might bring. (Is it some sort of issue unresolved from childhood, this craving for attention, this need for recognition, for applause from strangers: needy or what?)
I think I’ve reached the point where I’ve got to begin to take on board that though I may well achieve a reasonable level of ability, just as I have with music and photography, I’m never going to be one of the high-flyers. I don’t think there’s any shame in accepting the fact. After all, I’ve been at this for five years now and okay I’m good, no denying that but…realistically I’m not the Jimi Hendrix of the literary world and if the spark was there I would have started to see results by now I’m certain.
Of course when I say give up I don’t mean to give up entirely; what I mean is I’ll continue doing what I do but back off the publicity side. Writing is an art not a business and just as I found with music and photography I have no ability when it comes to equating the two together. I don’t even think the two should go together, unless by public consensus.
The fact is the pleasure doesn’t change, probably the enjoyment I get would diminish massively if I had the pressures of agents and publishers involved. That buzz I got from mind to pen to paper permissiveness yesterday might disappear and life is for the buzzing, not the buying.
Having work sat here that only I have access to is almost like having cash in the bank; same difference.
A secret, my skills hidden away that no-one can see unless I agree to share. Two whole novels stashed, another soon to be added to those and another partway through and the ideas still keep coming. It’s like having a safe of gold to hoard except I can read my work any time I choose.
No point showing it to those who won’t appreciate it eh?
So, the answer is never give up, just give up sharing.
It’s my ball and you can’t play, nur ne nur ne nur nur.