Despite feeling under pressure to earn a serious living, my desire to write has never fully gone away. It doesn’t matter how much I try to disregard my former love affair as a whimsical self-indulgence, I continually struggle to cope with a desire to be creative. What remains is a simmering frustration at how I have let my writing habits slip.
Gone are the days of when I would scribble thoughts, proverbs and sensations into a notebook or spend hours sitting in front of a blank screen hoping I could conjure up a sentence or two. Writing for me is partly fuelled by my desire to see my own stream of consciousness appear on screen. The physical sensation of articulating private thoughts to create an aesthetic spectacle is something I have always loved to do.
This creative process is not static and can be magically conjured up in a letter, email, blog, tweet or even an online conversation with a like minded friend. The danger with the transient nature of modern communications is that any prose will be lost at the time of delivery and there will never be an effective method of preserving the CCTV of the mind. In truth I don’t think I’ll ever have a recognised calling because my writing style, flaws and personality have never truly aligned themselves to a commercial medium.
In the past I had kept various online journals and last year I closed them because I felt they could be potentially damaging to my future relationships and career. Burying my desire to write and subsequently not being able to find a suitable medium to express myself creatively, I found myself frustrated and increasingly agitated at not doing anything other than working and indulging in leisure activities such as going to the cinema or watching football.
Perhaps I’ve grown out of the routine of documenting my thoughts but I do regret the loss of a daily creative stimulus. The naive joy of confession is something I find strangely comforting and in moments of silent anguish, I continue to pine for that late night tapping sensation.