Sometimes, I lie in bed and think: "I know, I'll be one of them 'writers'. I like writing, it's good; it makes me happier than anything else, ever, apart from gentleman callers and eating crisps".
Unfortunately, I think that means I have to write something. I've got a sort of idea for a thing, and I often enjoy an excellent fantasy in which The Guardian phone up and beg me to write witty little pieces about squirrels and phlegm (i.e. like I do now, except good); sometimes I even talk about an idea I've had for a novel, even if it does make me sound like a knob.
I do try: I go on special missions to Borders to buy The Writer's Handbook 2007 and fuck-awful things called How To Write A Novel. But when I get home, they sit fatly on my bookshelf muttering "I told you she had no right to buy us", whilst I lie on the sofa smoking a pipe and reading £2.99 novels from Sainsbury's. And every day I write my blog.
But I don't think writing a blog makes you a 'writer'. (I've never been sure what qualifies you as a writer though; do you get a badge and a certificate from somewhere? Do you have to write well?) Not that that's really the point; the truth is that if I didn't write my blog every day, I'd be cracking open the sherry by 10 o'clock and dwelling on the fact that I might be unemployable.
When I stopped working 61 days ago, it was good. I needed some time to sort myself out, and I needed proper time - not pissy little weeks off taking work phone calls and being stalked by a TwatBerry. But it's been over two months now, and the novelty's worn off. If I 'forgot' the original point of this blog - which was to write about what it's like not-working - it's because I didn't always enjoy it. There was so much about work that I hated (doing what I'm told, being in the same place every day, being civil to fuckwits), but there were bits I liked too (having money, having something to do, seeing other people). More to the point, being by myself all day with nothing to do was starting to make me go weird.
So I think it's time to get a job. Except I don't really want to. And I sort of really do. Be good if The Guardian got on the blower, though: apparently they really like stories about squirrels and phlegm, and I've got loads of those already.
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12 comments:
Go to bed.
A bit rich, my sweet.
Good one.
This hour of the night is no time for introspection. As I'm sure you know as well as I.
Hey. This is good. Is this like that Messenger thing I hear so much about?
Introspection? Surely not.
Yes, exactly like it, but without the pinging and smileys.
I'm not sure I'd read a blog called "Working Monkey".
Not sure I would either, come to think of it. Phew. That's that sorted.
x
How to be a writer when it's tough even to define what a writer is? Aye, there's the rub.
Does writing a blog qualify one as a writer? I would say not. But I suppose it's closer to being a writer than not writing anything and sitting around watching daytime telly, dribbling into a pack of pork scratchings and downing a 1.5-litre bottle of Coke every hour.
The drag is, even if one can write well, the chances of getting an agent are pretty fucking slim, I've heard. So... good luck with that, eh?
Just don't resort to writing about meaningless sex cookie!
Meaningful yes, that;'s fine, though I'm with Boy geordge of yester year in that I'd rather have a cup of tea, he moved on to stronger stuff, maybe celebacy was harder than he thought ;)
Arrh sorry that was rubbish - typing fast as my chicken is burning.............
Mr *: yes, exactly ... to all of it.
Dearest Apprentice, is the chicken burnt? I hope not. I like boys an awful lot, but at the moment, for lots of reasons, I am best to steer clear.
xxx
What you need is a friend to visit for lunch in Croydon. Any day. Say someone who had just been to a Tunisian safety shoe factory (tho any North African protective equipment facility would do I suppose).
It wouldn't solve all your problems but it would pass a few hours, with the 250 bus journey door to door. And who knows, you might even get a quick visit to turtles (estab 1897) the finest and largest hardware emporium in the South East, where they still sell nails in little screws of newspaper.
Or Madeira, the Portuguese delicatessen round the corner in the shopping mall that time forgot, where they sell serrano that's better than Brindisa at a third of the price.
Just a thought monkey, if you could think of anyone who fitted that bill. x
Dear Anonymous Monkey
I accept your fine offer.
Yours ever
NWM
x
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