June 2nd 2015
Today I’ve indulged in everything that I’ve missed over the last few months of revision. Books, blogs, videos, films, TV Shows. I stayed in bed for the entire day and just… divulged. I have a stack of books as long as my leg that I’ve wanted to get through since the turn of the year that I’ve just left to collect dust, and I have another stack of books as long as my Kindle (they are books on my Kindle) that’ve been sitting (in) there collecting binary dust. Which probably isn’t a thing.
I have about seven TV programs and four hundred films to catch up on, (figures are only rough estimates), as well as a load of online video, audio and written content to get through. I also want to start writing again. Because now that I am dabbling in post-student-ness (I’m still refusing to use either of the terms ‘graduate’ or ‘unemployment’) I have very little to do commitment wise.
Here lies a problem though. My end/career/life goal is to become a writer. But I’ve begun to doubt myself. I’ve begun to doubt the realisticness (realism is a word that would work, but I like that one better) of my career ambitions. I’ve begun to doubt my credibility, talent, ability as a writer. I don’t think I’m any good. I’ve managed to maintain this blog pretty successfully over exams, but I haven’t written anything worthwhile in a long time. These posts are just ramblings. I was going through my posts on here from last year the other day, posts from before I started this ‘Post Every Day Even If You Don’t Want To And It’s Going To Be A Waste Of Words’ challenge with myself. Wait, where was I?
Oh yeah. Anyway. I was going through my old posts and I saw (from this) that it has basically been a year since I finished my novel in it’s current form. I finished the first draft in November of 2013, and throughout that year I worked on it until it was ready for printing (and by printing, I mean a stack of A4 unbounded paper) That post was written on July 5th 2015, and since then nothing has changed. With the only exception being that it went from being printed on A4 unbounded paper, to a printed, bounded A5 copy with a cover that I had made for my Mum’s Birthday.
That book is something that I am no longer particularly proud of, mainly because I don’t think that it is any good. I’m proud that I finished it, and I proved to myself that I could do it. But I’m not proud of what it contains. I read it and I hate it. And it makes me doubt my talent, and ability as a writer. And that worries me because writing is all I am hanging my proverbial hat on. I know I’m not a bad writer, I’m a good writer, maybe, to some, but I am not an exceptional writer. But I really want to be.
I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know.
Until tomorrow, I’m just going to keep putting words on a page and hope that some of them turn out okay.