Saturday, 5 November 2011

forgetting to blog

I'm laying 'forgetting the time' to rest.

To be fair, I've been having a rest from it for a few months now, with the occasional post. But, the truth is, I'm forgetting to blog.

Originally 'forgetting the time' was a writing blog, a space for my writing, others writing, books, readings and other literature events, and to explore my inspiration. As time has gone on, I've written blog posts that have covered all different areas of my life from depression to redundancy to films and plays to friendships. Sometimes, I've written blog posts that on reflection seem far too raw and personal. But, then some friends have commented that these are the ones they like the best.

I'm nearing the end of 2011, and life is less about writing sadly, and more focused on just day-to-day life. I seem to have less and less to say about writing and even the allotment is dying back for the year now, so a lot of my inspiration is hibernating.

I've written this blog since December 2008 and have written 284 posts (285 counting this one). I'm not sure whether it's the end or just time for a break.

When I started out as a writer, I had huge ambitions to write a novel, to get published, and to BE a writer (whatever I thought that meant). Over past years, I have had some publications, I've not written a novel, but I've written stories and prose poems and letters and poetry. I used to feel I might die if I wasn't a writer, I felt as if I was meant to be a writer and if I couldn't be then it was a catastrophy. But, now I'm more realistic. I've no agent, no novel, not much promise of publishing a book, and to be honest I'm on the peripheries of every part of the writing world.

Recently, I went to a couple of writing events, and saw people I've met many times at readings and workshops etc, even had lunch. I said hello and was talked to politely as if I didn't really belong there.

So, I haven't been to writing events recently, wanting to avoid some of the charade about it. I dislike the way someone reads and people say great, wonderful, loved it, whether they mean it or not. I hate the way sometimes, people who know me, don't say hello or even acknowledge they even met me before. And I hate the way at these events some of the interaction is on such a superficial level.

There are many exceptions. I have a small number of friends who are also writers and they always inspire me. I love meeting with them and talking, and I love reading their work. And there are a mass of writers around me who I don't know very well, but I admire.

Maybe I'm just tired. But, my experience has been that it's difficult to find a place for myself as a writer. I often feel socially awkward amongst other writers, even though I feel socially confident in the rest of my life. I often feel as if I don't fit in, as if there is some big club that I don't have enough merit to join, and sometimes when I do get a little positive feedback I'm not sure whether this is genuine or the kind of crap I see going on between other writers... you pat my back and I'll pat yours.

Obviously, I'm being a little catty.

There are many people who have been supportive of my writing, who have followed my blog, bought my chapbook, come to readings and given me inspiration. I feel very lucky to have shared conversations, ideas, enthusiasm and I'm grateful for all the opportunities I've been given.

But, I feel it's time to retreat for a while. I will still write, explore ideas, feel inspired and creative, but I need to retreat from the writing world. It feels like too harsh a place, and not as friendly as I might like.