Posted by: docdenbow | March 10, 2016

Pointless Or Futility

Well I really should know better than to start writing, than to start writing without any clear idea of what type of thoughts, ideas, emotions and opinions I wish to convey. That just goes to show that I can from time to time be impulsive. You know, act without any thought of consequences or with any logical raison d’etre behind my actions. Of course all of this is all very well and good but ultimately pointless because I’m not really saying anything now, am I? Yet who am I to express opinions, to pontificate on subjects that in reality I know very little about. I have my truths and beliefs but sometimes feel unable to share them these days for fear of ridicule.

You see my standard of education is not good just a few “O” Levels, an HND and an OU Foundation course. My command of language and punctuation is greatly inhibited by the fact that I have never read any proper books. All I’ve read are detective stories, Adrian Mole books and James Robert Baker’s brilliant Boy Wonder. I bring this up because if I ever want to express myself, even on digital paper, I find that I make no sense. I’ve had ambition to write something weightier than a blog and have written thousands of words to that end. When I read these words back I realise that they consist of nothing more than sixth form musings. In other words piss poor. Over the past 10 to 15 years I have written in excess of 250,000 in abortive attempts at writing a novel or even a novella or even a long short story. Each and every one has been crap.

I can’t bring myself to pick myself up and try again at the moment. I find that it’s bloody difficult to get motivated to write something that I know is complete and utter tosh. It’s a bit like building a shed knowing full well that it well it will collapse onto itself leaving nothing behind but a pile of wood, planks and nails. Nevertheless, it still burns me, that desire to actually write something that begins at the beginning and ends at the end with a tale in the middle. I’m bereft of ideas that aren’t trite or hackneyed and full of false emotion and unfunny humour. I feel like my wish to write is like my wish to draw or sing or play guitar. Ideas above my station.

Perhaps I just need to grow up and realise my best days are well behind me. Having dreams at my age are just that, dreams.



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