As someone who claims to be a writer, it can be quite shameful, even shocking, to admit how rarely you put pen to paper, however metaphorically.
As 2016 drew to a close, a year spent perpetually on the cusp of outrage and despair, I realised that away from my professional undertakings, my most widely read article in the public domain was a derisive review of a pongy London hostel on Trip Advisor.
Cultural icons died. British politics was turned on its head. America elected the worst candidate ever nominated for anything, ever. And I couldn’t bring myself to express an opinion longer than 140 characters on anything other than a shit-reaking room in Kings Cross.
Closer to home I began the year under the threat of redundancy and ended it on a professional high, suffering heart-aching personal loss and venturing on all new adventures in between. And yet the pages of my journal contain little more than scribbled reminders, doodled to dos and the occasional well-intentioned paragraph that peters out into an illegible scrawl.
Like I said, shameful.
Admittedly, this all might sound a little familiar, in fact I begin every January with the same new year’s resolution to “Write More”, but this year, this year, will be different.
Ohh Good Grief…
This optimistic venture was originally inspired by my own tired apathy in the wake of the 2014 election and renewed in the beginnings of 2015. It was meant to be a personal call to action – do not go gentle into that good night! – I needed to rage, to rattle the bars of whichever cage I imagined myself or my peers to be confined to at the time. I couldn’t allow to pass unchecked all those little things in the wider world which made me despair or rejoice.
So I return to the words I penned when I first created this space to rant and rave, which still ring true.
Another reason, and this is the thing, is because I found myself in my distracted contentment, responding to all the blood boiling things that usually would have provoked such a strong reaction with the simple, passive and defeated lament: “good grief“…
I know that a few words on a blog won’t change the world but a writer simply can’t give up writing just because they’re too busy or too happily distracted or even too disenchanted, there will be always things to get one’s goat and biting one’s metaphorical lip will only go so far. As insatiable needs go, the need to write is quite a satisfactory one. So I am coming out of hibernation. I cannot, for my own sanity, sit back and simply say “good grief” when there are so many more words that should follow.