On Writing a Blog

You, who writes a blog, I looked down on you.

You were not a serious writer. You skipped the rejections, the struggles, the heartaches—everything that makes a writer a writer. Did you think you were too good for us? Shame on you. We, the real writers, were thirsting for a small indie magazine to notice us, just to get the next rejection, while you just set up a website, posted what you wanted and drowned us in your not even that funny travel stories. You are not better than us. You are not special. Get back in line and try like us.

That’s what I thought. But I was a fool. I couldn’t read. It was in the name: “Writer.” If you write, you are one. Period. There is nothing more to achieve. The work is the title. A world where one had to be published to be called a writer would be a world without good writing. It is the feeling, the urge to write, that does it. You can’t contain it—you have to get it out. It is about sitting down and typing away.

And then? All writers have a pile of work sitting on their desktop (or in their drawer if we’re old-school) that is unpublished and catches (digital) dust. I’m one of them. And sometimes that work might actually be good.

My dad always said, “Just throw it out there.” I always said, “I don’t know how.” But if I was being honest, I didn’t want to “throw it out there.” I wanted to be a real writer, taken seriously. Writing, struggling—but through my own brilliance, I would pull myself out of that slump: agent, editor, the whole thing. That meant anything I wrote had to be publishable—perfect.

I mean, what was a blog other than a glorified public diary? It was just so self-absorbed, wasn’t it? It was all about you, you, you. You pick the web design, you pick the colours, you write the text that people are reading. It is inherently narcissistic. I wanted to be a humble writer. A writer that is not so arrogant as to think he is good enough to publish himself.

Still, even at my most pretentious, there was one thing I had to admire about these self-published writers: they were fearless. Even though most self-published stories or articles wouldn’t win a Booker Prize or Pulitzer, they carried an innate spirit of “Fuck you, I’m doing my own thing.”

It was when I read Stephen King’s On Writing that something changed.

I wanted to find confirmation in what I was thinking. Surely one of the most famous authors of the modern times would have some reassuring words to say to me. At that point I had written a couple of short stories but was writing when I felt like it (maybe once a week). Then I read this line in King’s book:

“But it’s writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can’t or won’t, it’s time for you to close the book and do something else. Wash the car, maybe.”

Yes, I thought, this is it. I would be ready to do everything that was necessary. I would not wash the car. I read on and King wrote, “when I’m writing, I write every day,” it’s “just another job, like laying pipe or driving long-haul trucks.”

I realised it was about consistency. And I also realised how much I struggled—still struggle—with that.

Sometimes I had a burst of energy and would write 4000 words in one sitting, only to then not touch the text for three weeks. In all my thinking about what it meant to be a writer, I forgot to do the one thing that would earn myself that title: write.

This is where I realised that writing a blog is not as self-absorbed as I thought it was. Not writing one and feeling smug over others for doing so, is.

In fact, that was probably the most pathetic thing, right? How could I call myself a writer, if I wasn’t writing? Twice a month is not enough—heck, twice a week is not enough. If I want to be a writer, I need to sit down at my desk, and write every goddamm day.

In the end it all came down to one thing: I was scared.

I would tell myself that a piece wasn’t perfect, because I couldn’t bear the thought of someone criticising it. I didn’t have the fearlessness of a self-published writer. What if people didn’t like it? What if they made fun of me? I was able to send out submissions to journals and short story contests because it was easy. I didn’t see an immediate reaction. I just got an email a couple of weeks later, saying yes or no (it was always no) and could tell myself, “Well, you tried.”

It’s not that there is anything wrong with submitting stories - I will continue doing that until I finally feel what that yes is like - but being afraid all these years made me realise something. I’m missing out on having stuff published that actual people, real people in the real world, could read. Not just editors at some magazine.

I came off my high horse and was alone in the desert, directionless. I didn’t know how to tackle this newfound understanding of myself. Yes, I wanted to write and, yes, I wanted others to see it (voluntarily or involuntarily) but how?

The first step was easy and took me thirty minutes: creating this account. The second step was hard and took me two months: writing this piece.

Not the actual time to write it, but to sit myself down, look at the website and go, “Right, this looks like shit, I need to have a blog post on here.”

So, what is this blog about? I guess, this is a redemption of some kind. Me trying to redeem myself as a writer. I will try to write as much as I can and publish it here. The goal for now is one piece a week. From fiction to articles, and maybe even poetry (although I’m quite bad at that).

And what I want you to do (if you have made it until here, congratulations, you just finished my first ever Blog post) is to hold me accountable. I will do so myself, well, try to at least. But with you by my side, there is nothing that could stop us. I mean, we are an incredible team now, right? Grass roots community and all that—what the internet was made for. And a team helps one another.

Even if you just say: “Hey man, forget the writing, and wash the damn car.”