Nah, Didn’t bother. But I could have.
News flash – There are things that irritate me even more than short people with umbrellas, leaf-blowers, and people who go to the gym.
Top of my list of grievances – and it’s a long, long list – are people who, largely in their own opinion, are more than capable of doing something but instead do absolutely nothing other than criticise those that do.
It’s become our national sport. We embrace celebrity for its own sake, people who are famous but no-one can remember why. But we absolutely crucify our artists and politicians and sportspeople.
And, yes, I did put politicians in there. Because whilst most people seem happy to criticise our elected and non-elected representatives, most people do not seem to be willing to put themselves forward as an alternative. I know some people will talk about the ‘privileged’ classes and those with contacts. I hear you, but if those are the barriers in front of us and we choose not to be smashing away at them with whatever tools we have at our disposal then surely we cannot criticise. Conversely, those that don’t simply rage but act and think and do – well, I have so much admiration for them that it hurts.
Leaving politics behind (phew), it’s the writing thing that bothers me most though. I can pretty much guarantee you’ve heard my least favourite statement before:
I have a great idea for a novel.
It is absolutely marvellous that the idea exists. BUT – and this BUT is a very large one indeed – it does not exist until you have written it. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but here is the comment that often follows:
I would do it if only I had the time.
If this person owns a leaf-blower and is carrying a gym-bag I have to be dragged away in tears.
Ok. I confess. The reason I hate this conversation is because it took me so long to realise all this in myself. For most of my pretty pathetic existence I didn’t really do anything at all. I didn’t produce anything. I had great ideas, dreams of paintings I would paint, music I would write, and most of all novels I would pen. And it took me half a life to realise I actually had to spend the time doing so. Or else it was all hot air. I still talk too much about the thing I am going to do, the piece I am going to write. BUT – another sizeable BUT – I am a writer that writes. And I have been for long enough to write hundreds of thousands of carefully crafted words.
Part of me wants you to read those words and think they are the wisest and most fabulous words you have ever read. I want you to cry or laugh or sing or dance down the street chanting my name. But another part of me is more than happy to know this:
I needn’t have bothered, but I did.
And of that I am very proud.