Oddities
I’ve written my book. It isn’t as written as if I’d actually written it yet, but writing is the easy part of the deal. Ideas, a story line, a decent beginning and end, they’re the things that have previously managed to elude me. But I did it. Sort of. I didn’t realise I had. It was just a notebook in which I noted down a few ideas, etc. But I looked through it last night and was riveted. It wasn’t intended as a story, it wasn’t intended as anything. It is probably the only place I write that I am completely and utterly honest about everything. I’m honest in my blog, but it’s easy to be dishonest by simply leaving things out. I do that a lot.
Maybe it’s the honesty that riveted me. Maybe because I’d started out writing something that wasn’t even about me, and realised how much it told about me without my meaning it to. Whatever, it gave me a shock, and it will work. It’s… different. I guess in a way it’s a memoir, and it’s strange. I love it. I want to write it. And it’s already written. It needs padding, bulking out a lot, it needs to be written in a way that is slightly less expectant that the only person who will read it is me.
I’m not so certain about selling it. Given how revealing it is I sort of don’t want to. There are just too many inadvertent references. To sell a book you need so many readers, and to be properly successful you need to be at least heard of by ninety percent of the population. That’s too many people. It’s too private. It’s too much me. Does that make any sense?
But that’s okay. I can reel off fiction without any problems if only I have the time and energy. But I don’t have an interest in it at the minute. There isn’t anything I want to write like this. So maybe I’ll just write this one for me, maybe I’ll disguise it a little, though I think that would make it less powerful. Maybe we’ll just have to see. But whatever happens, I will write it.
Maybe it’s the honesty that riveted me. Maybe because I’d started out writing something that wasn’t even about me, and realised how much it told about me without my meaning it to. Whatever, it gave me a shock, and it will work. It’s… different. I guess in a way it’s a memoir, and it’s strange. I love it. I want to write it. And it’s already written. It needs padding, bulking out a lot, it needs to be written in a way that is slightly less expectant that the only person who will read it is me.
I’m not so certain about selling it. Given how revealing it is I sort of don’t want to. There are just too many inadvertent references. To sell a book you need so many readers, and to be properly successful you need to be at least heard of by ninety percent of the population. That’s too many people. It’s too private. It’s too much me. Does that make any sense?
But that’s okay. I can reel off fiction without any problems if only I have the time and energy. But I don’t have an interest in it at the minute. There isn’t anything I want to write like this. So maybe I’ll just write this one for me, maybe I’ll disguise it a little, though I think that would make it less powerful. Maybe we’ll just have to see. But whatever happens, I will write it.
Labels: Introspection
