Confession of a Literary Fraud

Whenever I try to write, the words rushing around my head never seem to translate onto the paper as I’d like them to. My ‘true voice’ is drowned out by the incessant chatter of a million excuses. Every day is a constant battle just to do the basics. I live in my dressing gown barely seeing the world outside these walls, just tweeting and  face booking, reaching out into a virtual world with my false persona. I call myself a writer, what a joke. Weeks melt into incomprehensible blobs of time and not a coherent word has been written. Projects begun only to fizzle out with alarming speed, strangled at birth by the malignant tumours of procrastination and fear.

I delude myself with the promise that things will improve just as soon as I can get my psoriasis under control, or my home furnishings in place or even as soon as my erratic love life reaches some sense of normality. But, deep down, I know that is bullshit, lies that I feed myself so I can save myself from facing the truth. I’m not a writer, the spark has gone. That once genetically programmed ability to ‘zone out’ , to lose myself in the throes of wild imagination has disappeared into the ether.

How I envy others whom, amid chaos greater than my own, seemingly churn out ream after ream of brilliance. How would they feel if they knew that my heart sinks when I read their blogs and their flash fiction? How I envy their dedication to their craft, a craft that I lost in the frenzy of a rollercoaster existence. They know themselves whilst I can only seek, and fail, to reinvent myself over and over again. What shall I be today? A poet? An erotic siren? A comedienne? I can be any of these things in just one tweet but, when I switch off, I go back to being nothing, an unremarkable greyness clinging on the fringes of life.

The night means nothing to me. It is, as the day, just hours ticking away and when I finally climb the stairs, weary in body and soul, it is just a prelude to an equally weary descent.


Christmas? Bah…humbug?

As Christmas draws closer my usual apathy has been replaced by a sense of urgency and excitement. For the first time in five years I will be spending the festive season with my daughters under my roof and so ensues a mad rush to decorate. Having now found myself settled for the first time in years my ‘nesting’ instinct has kicked in and the need to create a real home is becoming the dominating feature. I want the girls to see this as a haven, an inviting place full of warmth and happiness, the lines firmly drawn between a painful past and a brave, new future. And , if I’m honest, I need this too. So, all my usual gripes about an over commercialised, outdated event are swept aside at the prospect of seeing my family laughing, eating, bickering and generally being normal again. Religion tells us that Christmas is all about the hope of peace and happiness centred around a child. Perhaps they weren’t so wrong after all.