My primary focus between 2003 and 2010 was writing fiction,
and then the stories ran out so I took to blogging instead. The only thing that
overlapped was the novel, and that was finished about three months after the
blog started. Since then I haven’t felt inclined to write fiction, apart from a
few things with a personal angle like McCafferty
Wants a Horse, A Fairytale of
Philadelphia and a couple of 100-word flash pieces.
Well, now I’m feeling the urge to write fiction again, which
is unusual for me since I rarely, if ever, go back once I’ve moved on from
something. The trouble is, there are no stories coming along with the urges. It’s
a bit like being thirsty and finding an empty bottle. So what to do?
Two people suggested I write my memoirs, but that wouldn’t
suit at all. For a start, it’s far too grandiose for a simple bloke like me.
And then there’s the fact that people only want to read the memoirs of somebody
who’s already famous, not somebody who’s never been of any consequence, bumbled
along a variety of different roads, and ended up believing that life is about
little more than passing the time in accordance with your rules, principles and
sensibilities. Of course, the best reason for writing my memoirs would be
because I wanted to. But I don’t want to. I tried writing an autobiography
once; I got up to about 8,000 words and found I was boring myself rigid. I sent
it to somebody to read, and it bored her rigid too. Well, it would, wouldn’t
it?
All of which means that I’m waiting for lady luck to deal me
an exciting and fruitful hand. And then, who knows?
2 comments:
Well, you could always blend your memoir/autobiographical material with some embellishments and write a fictional piece.
I suppose I've already done that in a manner of speaking. Most of the short stories have some episode of my life, or maybe an isolated incident, bound up in them somewhere. Bits of my life provided most of the ideas for the stories. Maybe I'll remember some more one of these days.
Post a Comment