One of the things that allowed me to enjoy writing when I was younger, was that I didn’t have an audience – other than myself. I could write what I wanted to write, and this meant I wrote more often. The mechanics of my writing (if nothing else) improved, because I was practicing more regularly.
In the beginning, I was mostly writing comics (like the Beano); then it was love poetry, because all of a sudden I found myself becoming infatuated with girls (I felt like Romeo, but had the outward appearance of an inbetweener); then it was plays, musicals, because I was acting and obsessed with musicals and the stage. Then I went a bit mad, had a breakdown, and so much of what I wrote was about that. I also read a lot of books about writers who were mad – or went mad and died young – and that spurred me on. It gave me permission to carry on writing in this way, and I enjoyed it. And why wouldn’t I carry on writing like this? After all, the advice that every writer hears is "write what you know". It’s not only a super common maxim, but it was the first thing they told us when studying Creative Writing at Uni. Then they challenged it, then came back to it.
But something changed along the way. First, and least importantly because I haven't embraced it, I decided I wanted to try to do this as my living. Second, the bigger hindrance, because people started telling me they liked what I was writing. There’s a real risk to it, because suddenly a part of writing is not just about writing what you want to say, but writing what you think other people want to hear. The risk is that then the writing ceases to be true.
I appreciate truth isn’t necessarily the goal of writers, especially if you’re writing… fiction. But I think truth – and this obviously isn’t about writing factually – is kind of crucial to writing successfully. For me, at least, the best things I’ve written (certainly to this audience of one), have come from a place inside me that feels honest. The writers that I’ve admired over the years appear to write like this too. Or, at least, convince me they are – there’s a feeling of soul in the writing.
Ironically, the one thing I’ve written that has been sort of successful – by that, I mean, sold over a thousand and still inspires comments about it six years after publishing it – is not strictly the sort of writing I’m referring to here. It was the truth, yes, the naked truth; factual in fact, despite masquerading as fiction. But it doesn’t have the same depth of soul, not to me, anyway. I was just inspired to document this ten day period in my life, and I guess some people found that interesting (it was an interesting and emotional experience, I guess).
I realise there’s something about this that all feels a bit like a Hemingway parody, and I’m not quite sure why I’m writing it - other than for truth and practice. It was partly inspired because a couple of people liked yesterday’s blog post and I was aware of a part of me that wants to replicate that, to please an audience (no matter how small). Since publishing Drinking the Moon, I’ve had all sorts of ideas of writing sequels of one kind or another, in the hope it pleases an audience, but the truth is I’m not sure how it’s possible. Sometimes I wonder if that’s my one book, the one book from that other famous maxim that we all have in us. Sometimes I wonder if my life would be easier if I could make my peace with that and stop writing.
But it’s just not that simple. Writing is like that intense lover that breaks up with you, then keeps getting back together with you for brief, exciting affairs, and just won’t leave your life. She stops me from moving on, because I know we’ll get back together again. It all sounds a bit sad putting it like that, but I don’t think I know how to have it any other way, and I’m not sure I want to.
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