I was thinking today that I’m not at all bothered whether people think me a good writer or not. I don’t even know what a good writer is in definitive terms. I wrote stories because I wanted to, and because I had something to say that was valuable to me. I get pleasure from thinking that somebody else derives something from them, be it entertainment or whatever, and I’m happy to be considered ‘thoughtful.’ But I have little interest in, or sympathy with, an establishment that feels it has the right to set models of creative excellence for others to follow. Why should I mould myself to other people’s standards when I can establish, hone, live up to, and be content with my own? What else should matter to me?
And the same is true of life, I suppose. My standards pertaining to certain aspects of life have gone up quite a lot lately, or at least become better clarified. I’ve come to have a lot more respect for the concept of standards generally, but I don’t feel it entitles me to be thought a ‘good person.’
This post needs to be about ten times longer to explain it fully, but I can’t be bothered. It’s one of those situations in which I feel the need to talk to somebody in person, rather than by blog post or e-mail. It’s the old problem of my mind becoming impatient with the speed of my fingers.
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