It occurred to me today that, consciously or otherwise, I may have suppressed the urge to write in order to arm myself with the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune. Whilst not entirely convinced of the truth of this, there have been moments when I have wished to write and not done so, as once again it has been butted down the list of priorities by various other endeavours and commitments I must fulfil.
Last week I was enraged to the point of devastation by an email message I received which detailed (with pictures) the disgraceful Italian artist who starved a stray dog to death by means of an exhibition. Research indicates this information was correct and granted the opportunity I will, no shadow of doubt, ensure the individual in question gets precisely what he deserves - if someone else doesn't first. The heartless lunatics who visited the exhibition are quite possibly so low in morality as to not be worthy of mention, let alone vengeful reaction.
The consequence of my self-imposed silence results in one scathing paragraph rather than the full 1500 word rant status it might have attained had I put fingers to keyboard before now, and there are genuine obstacles facing my writing career, but none so big that I should have done this to myself.
I'm unsure whether the day job is causing me to re-assimilate or to fight harder but it's somehow getting easier to live with. I don't know if it really takes three weeks to build a subscription based streaming service. I imagine that walking the dogs, going to the gym, visiting family and friends (yes, I have left the house a few times of late) do not have the temporal requirements I have afforded them and all the while the one and only thing left for me to need in this life drifts further and further away, along with all that is associated with it.
Today is the last day of ScriptFrenzy, which, like National Novel Writing Month, requires the writing of a piece of work within the calendar month. I failed, with irritated dissonance and not an ounce of sorrow. I remind myself that once upon a time I said I was a script-writer, not a novelist. Self-preservation, with some meagre supporting evidence, indicates otherwise.
If by next Monday I don't have ten articles on Suite 101 I will no longer be one of their authors. Now I could, at a very big push and ignoring the total count of zero articles so far, achieve this. It would also mean going into some kind of isolation chamber where no other jobs can come my way, no meals require cooking and all the other excuses that have littered this post so far lose their grasp on my current and entirely self-destructive, anti-writing stance.
There. I've done it. I've written something and, paradoxically, admitted failure in this regard. It serves me right for naive beliefs in the possibility of it all to begin with. Maybe. I hope not.