Day 1,648.

Like many fellow earthlings, I beat myself up on a daily basis, for many reasons. My list of internal self-hammerings is endless. If I’m honest, most of the things on there, are out of my control. But there they are, existing and judging me anyway. The sodden, grey sponge in my head doesn’t seem to recognise the absurdity of some of these mental squatters that mess up my mind with their ethereal graffiti.

Our brains (a supposed wondrous biological miracle of evolution) often fall desperately short when we really need them. With its organic logic, and lightning-quick problem-solving components they can be a master of dodge and weave. When we need its full functionality and capacity for all the things that give us joy and harmony – Bam! All current thought patterns are replaced with that of a bored Panda swinging in a car tyre.

Are our brains simply too big and complex for us mere mortals to handle? The author, Kurt Vonnegut seemed to think so. I’m with him! ‘So it goes.’

There is one recurring subject on my ever-spinning toilet roll list of regrets. It always bleeds its way to the top. The one regret that demands attention, like the constant knock of a Jehovah’s Witness as I hide behind the curtains. This regret?

Writing.

I’ve been a bookworm for as long as I can remember. I began taking my writing seriously in the mid-nineties. When I say seriously, I mean actually writing it instead of thinking about writing. Slowly, I began to learn the craft. I read the things that did and didn’t work. I read the good stuff to learn, study and improve. I also read bad stuff to know what to avoid like the plague. Whether the latter succeeded is another matter. I’m told I do ok at knocking the odd sentence together. I must be doing something right or you wouldn’t have gotten this far.

Anyway.

As a child, I always loved horror films, comics, and books. Naturally I went down that route first with my writing as I already had some knowledge of the genre. I haven’t read any horror fiction and fantasy for over twenty years. I don’t really know why. I guess I struggle with suspending disbelief that far anymore, which is such a shame. I miss that side of me. I tend to read literary fiction these days. Novels written about the human condition. Also, a lot of non-fiction. Maybe the horrors I experienced with alcoholism killed my fantastical side. It may come back. It may not. I hope one day it does.

Anyway.

I began writing short dark fiction. At the time email was still in its infancy so I would physically mail them to the various horror zines of the time. They were a wonderful and fantastic source for budding writers like myself. They were filled with amazing artwork and short horror and fantasy stories by talented beginners and professional writers. I waited.

The rejections plopped through the letterbox like waterfalls of pulp. My early stories were not very good at all. I’ve re-read a few lately – they make my guts cringe and tighten inside. They were bad.

But the rejection letters were unbelievably kind, friendly, supportive, and offered lots of constructive advice for improving my writing. I took it all on board and carried on. I learned with each failure. I’d love to brag that I learned quickly, but it took some time. My writing gradually improved. After about a year of constant rejection, advice and perseverance, I got my very first acceptance letter. Then I got another, and another, and another. Apart from the odd rejection here and there, most of the stories I wrote were accepted into the zines. The tides were slowly turning for me.

Most Zines could only pay very little money (by cheque in those days), if any at all. I didn’t care about payment. Simply seeing my words in print amongst the other writers I admired was payment enough.

Networking.

I joined the British Fantasy Society and began physically meeting and talking to the people whose novels and short stories I had on my shelves. They normally organise a Fantasycon once a year in a hotel somewhere. I highly recommend anyone to join them if you write horror/fantasy/sci-fi fiction. You will meet the cream of the crop of British writing. They are the most kind, generous, decent, and supportive of people. The things you’ll learn from them are pure gold dust. You’ll also make good, like-minded friends. The British Fantasy Society is still going strong. Give them a Google and check them out. So yeah, I had all that going on.

There’s the writing autobiography you didn’t ask for or want. Sorry about that.

Things were looking good for me as a writer if I carried on – extremely good!

And then . . .

All the writing stopped. Virtually all the reading stopped too. Ah, Alcohol was the culprit?  Nope. I hadn’t even developed that particular nightmare addiction at this time. So then, what?

I met a girl. I moved down south. I got a job. We got married. We had a wonderful son and life together. So why no writing?

I let life get in the way.

I was so busy living, and getting on with my new life. My promising writing career became a rapidly lengthening shadow. I loved and adored my new life exactly as it was. My bubble. A bubble that I wasn’t keen on stepping out of, or letting people into. I didn’t realise at the time how incredibly bad and toxic my way of living was. After 5 years that bubble burst. During those 5 years – no writing. Zilch! The rupture of that life had absolutely nothing to do with the word-vacuum. I simply didn’t write. That’s it. Nobody to blame but yours truly.

True writers and artists never let life get in the way. Life becomes their art. Life feeds their art. Life is their art. Their art is their life, be it professional or not.

Writers write, painters paint, musicians play, sculptors sculpt – and nothing, but nothing gets in the way of creating. It’s the way of anybody in the arts. It’s always been the way. A part of you  feels bereaved if it goes away. It’s in the blood, the bones, the heart, and the soul.

Art is life.

So, at fifty-six years old – where does that leave me now? Do I, could I consider myself a writer?

Not so long back, in my journal (my only constant source of written words since 2005) I wrote this admission to myself: ‘as much as I adore the idea of being a writer, and the fact that I’m not half bad at it – my life’s output has been worse than dire, to be totally honest with myself. I could never, ever call myself a writer. Ever! I guess I’m merely an avid reader of interesting books who can string some good sentences together now and again, which some people like.’

I wrote that to myself to let my creative brain off the hook. To stop it beating itself to a pulp and melting down with guilt.

I didn’t become the published writer that I wanted to be. But I lived a life!

I lived it as creatively as I possibly could with what I had at the time: music (I’m a drummer), art (I’m a decent artist when needed), and literature (see all the above). I strive to live my life as decently as I can, without knowingly hurting anyone. I’ve not had the best or easiest of lives, but I’ve certainly not had the worst.

But I do write. Writing that has no deadlines or pressure to be published or read. It doesn’t demand an audience or payment. It dawdles, Idles, and turns up whenever and wherever it wants. I make my own rules, bend them about and take a lot of liberties (especially with my ridiculously bad grammar).

What I write is important, to me.

So, what does all this have to do with alcoholism, addiction, or sobriety? Absolutely nothing.

When you’re sober, everything in life isn’t all about hardcore sobriety 24/7. Hopefully that’s all running nicely in the back of your mind like trusted software.

You must live a life – your life. I’ve just made it sound easy. It’s not. It’s hard. It’s simply easier when you’re not trashing your system with poison.

I’m getting by in life day by day. I don’t wake up in the morning to stay sober. I wake up to see what life has in store. It’s by far a perfect life, but it’s a life. I do what I can with the best I have, because that’s all I’ve got.

I write what I can, where I can and when I can. But I do write. Yesterday I began a short story. I hope I’ll finish it someday. If I do finish it and I think it’s worthy, I’ll research a few writing markets, send it off and see what happens.

My wonderful son turns 20 years old today. On the phone we say how proud we are of one another. We keep in touch every week and finish every conversation with, Love You! I’m happy enough with that.

Until next time. Stay safe all xx