amwriting

Author Stats of an Amateur Writer

#Authorstats is a wonderful hashtag I discovered the other day – published writers are sharing the statistics of just how many years it took them to succeed. All of the garbage books they had to write, all of the rejections they conquered, every step of the arduous journey which kills off so many in the first couple of steps.

graph

This graph represents the number of stock photos I look at over time

When you start writing it’s not finding the time to sit down and get words on paper, it’s not learning some of the finer details of grammar, and it certainly isn’t thinking of ideas. The single hardest thing an amateur writer has to contend with is the malicious voice that lives within all of us:

You don’t know how to write. Delete the whole thing and start over. In fact, don’t bother. Your writing has no message. Your characters are pale imitations. Your dialogue doesn’t sound authentic. Have you even formatted it properly? Is any of it even formatted properly? Learn how to do that, and all the other stuff you’re not sure of. Learn all of it perfectly before you write another word. You’re going to embarrass yourself otherwise.

For me, that voice froze me solid for almost five years. I hear it every day when I’m at work in my office. It’s often the first thing I hear when I wake up, and after a bad day, it’s the last thing I hear before I sleep.

Today, I’m going to give you my author stats. Unlike the great inspirations, my story doesn’t come with a happy ending, because spoilers, I’m not a published writer. It’s not wasted time though, the last eighteen years have helped me find my formula, not for success, but for perseverance.

If you make it to the end, I’ll even share it with you.

2000 – I’m eight years old, and I’m in English class. The teacher got us to write a story. The first constructive feedback about my writing I remember: Have you ever thought about writing a story without guns or knives? I was also chastised for drawing periods much, much larger than they needed to be. Intellectual snobs.

2001 – I write a rap, not featuring any guns or knives. The teacher loves it, so much, in fact, they tell me they’re going to put it on the school website. I don’t have the internet, but I’m given a printed copy, and to my horror, I see some the words have been changed to help the piece flow better. I asked them to change it back, but I lose my first editing argument.

2003 – My sister gets a computer for Christmas. It very expensive, and she’s not really sure how to set it up or what to do with it, and bless them, neither are my parents. Eventually, I find some sort of word processor on the thing and I’d use it to write. One day my dad discovers a poem I’d written about marching soldiers. He tells me it’s bloody good, and him saying that sure made me feel bloody good.

2004 – One of my friends gives me a floppy disc with a story he’d written. I find this act of transfer amazing, and I’m quick to reciprocate, for a brief time we start swapping stories.

fire

We were just like cowboys around a campfire, only with floppy disks and without the constant fear of dysentery

2005 – My parents enter the 21st century and finally get the internet. Like any teenage boy with his first access to the web, you’ve guessed it, I engross myself in reading and writing Harry Potter fanfiction.

2007 – I move on from fan fiction and, amazingly, begin an even more embarrassing hobby, the world of fantasy wrestling leagues, or e-feds, as they were known. For those (everyone) not aware, an e-fed was a roleplaying website where you would create a wrestling character, be booked in matches against other people, and for some the reason the winner would be determined with a writing contest, of all things. Think Dungeons and Dragons, but for wrestling nerds.

2009 – I enter a local writing competition, you can read more about this one here.

2011 – I’m a year into studying a Business degree at University, I’ve not written anything for a long time. The malicious voice has seemingly won. I don’t know it yet, but a lack of a creative outlet is making me pretty miserable. I go into my second year determined to join a society, and I find a small improvisation drama society. The voice is hating this, it’s determined to convince me I’m an imposter in a sea of creative types. It urges me to quit before they find me out as the fraud I am.

But I don’t quit. I don’t quit because for the first time in my life I am surrounded by people who are nurturing and encouraging my spark. Instead of expelling me, they welcome me with open arms. I start performing comedy, I start acting, I start writing again. The voice isn’t quieter at this point, it’s gone.

2013 – I have the winning pitch, and so I’m selected to write and direct the societies of end-of-year production. It’s a tremendous amount of responsibility. It’s the biggest show they put on all year; the whole thing is a whirlwind which definitely deserves a blog post of its own in the future. The show ends up being, in my opinion, a modest success.

2014 – University is over. I move back home, away from my friends, away from their encouragement. I job search, I start work, I stress. I gain weight.

2015 – The voice is back. Thinking about joining a local drama group? They’re filled with an older crowd, you wouldn’t fit in. You were never any good at acting anyway, everyone was just too nice to tell you otherwise. Even if you could act, you’d need to lose weight before you got back on stage. The show you produced and directed wasn’t even good. You were an imposter. Quit these dreams and live in the real world already. Quit. Quit. Quit.

duck

Quit

2016 – I quit.

2017 – I create this website. I write the first post, ‘A Moment in Inferna.’ I think it’s OK. But try as I might, I can’t seem to write anything else I consider better than awful. I start looking at it again, and I wonder if my first post was OK at all. Actually, I start to think it’s quite bad.

2018 – Well hey, you made it. My sad, sole post was the only thing posted on this blog until three weeks ago.

The voice is still there. I didn’t fix it, because I don’t think it’s something that can be fixed. You have to accept and ignore it and move forward.

It’s nagging me even I as write this sentence, to delete this whole post and start again, or even better to quit the whole damn thing. 

I’m not going to though, not this time.

I’m energised. I have big plans for my writing and for this blog, and for the first time in a while, I’m getting stuff done.

It’s time for that formula I promised. Not for success remember, but for perseverance:

Fear of Unfulfilled Passion > Fear of the Malicious Voice

Something for you to think about until next Friday. Now, how about you give me something to think about, or even better something to blog about, in the comments below.

– H. L

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My Struggle with Notebook Addiction

No, not the film.

I’m addicted to notebooks.

Family holidays when I was younger inevitably led to the souvenir shop. It’s a place you’re probably familiar with; it’s filled with mugs, coasters, key chains with your name on them, a general assortment of fine crap. My personal favourite, to the ever disappointment of my dad’s wallet, was notebooks.

An empty word document on a glowing computer screen can be intimidating. We’ve all thought the flashing cursor was mocking us at some point. It breeds doubt, insecurity, and fear; at times it can be a petty, evil little thing. I hear the guy who invented it actually end up being arrested for elder abuse.  

old man

Charles Kiesling invented the blinking cursor and he was actually a wonderful family man, this is also not a picture of him, it’s a stock photo that’s free for me to use without any legal repercussions

I find a notebook to be different. It’s a blank canvas, an invitation to create, the promise of endless possibility and freedom.

You know, on paper.

I have a lot of notebooks, and I’m ashamed to say there’s little to nothing in all of them. It sounds very vogue, but I think I’m more in love with the idea of a notebook, rather than the notebook itself.

Truth be told, there is (as often is the case) a dark side to my addiction. If only abandonment was the worst of my sins when it comes to my innocent paper-filled friends.

I actually treat them quite cruelly. The sad same story happens again and again and it’s only now, writing this blog, that I can see the error in my ways.

I complete the first page with meticulous care and a steady hand, like you do with the first page of a workbook in school. Inevitably though, I’ll make a mistake; a smudge, a misspelling, some abandoned idea. This is where the crazy starts. I think to myself; crossing out is messy. I’ll just rip that page out. I’ll be careful, maybe it’ll give the book something of a shabby chic look.

It doesn’t. It always, always, always, looks like crap. Often it’s a fatal decision that just destroys the entire book. To avoid crossing out a simple mistake because I think it’s messy, we now have other pages falling out, jagged protruding staples, and the book spine equivalent of sciatica.

notebook

No, I clearly don’t buy the books designed to have pages ripped out. They don’t look as good. Shut up.

Cards on the table: I’ve very recently bought another notebook. I was shopping with my friends, and one caught my eye. We all bought one, we made a pact to fill them in a year, or suffer each others judgment and scorn. But how exactly am I, the Patrick Bateman of notebook writers, meant to accomplish this? My notebooks have a worse life expectancy than a mayfly.

The answer, I’m actually pretty proud of: I intentionally trashed the first page.

Well…I say trashed, the first page is an agenda of what I want to do in the next year with my writing and with this blog, and number two on that agenda is:

2.) Not destroy this book because of one mastake

That is a bonafide spelling mistake. It happened, I didn’t tear the page out, I didn’t destroy the book, and the world didn’t end.

That’s the self-sabotaging out of the way, now I’ve got a year to fill this bad boy up, and I sure could use your help. I’ve had a google and I’ve entered into a world with terms like morning pages and dream journals, but I know I’ve only scratched the surface.

Do you own your own journal? Do you have any ideas what else I can do with this sexy thing? Please shoot me a comment below.

– H. L