I suppose I write because I don’t go out boozing, ranting and dancing so much any more.
It feels like a release. The best way to manage the racing thoughts and incessant conversations I have with myself in my head, to feel slightly less bonkers, as it is (perhaps?) a more legitimate, useful outlet than talking to myself at bus stops and in supermarkets.
I used to love putting the world to rights whilst over-fuelled by alcohol, punctuating key points with jabby cigarette-holding fingers. I would then celebrate my super-intelligence and righteousness by climbing on a table, stage, whatever, and making like Britney.
That’s not so much how I roll now, I am too old and tired for that shit. I’m looking for tips on how to get through the menopause, not how to get into The Ministry of Sound.
I’m more likely to lose my marbles than my shoes.
I am more likely to be battling Grime with household cleaning products than blasting it out of my speakers.*
But blogging is sort of like going out. When I first started blogging, I was both amused and dejected to discover that my natural writing style exactly mirrors how I act when I am out drinking. Semi-controlled chaos. Frenzied spirit-cleansing. Selective memory. Nothing making quite as much sense to others as it does to me.
At any one time, I have about 20 posts in draft, each about 3,000 spewed-out words long, veering from one topic to the next. I now spend late night hours trying to edit these unwieldy thoughts with about the same level of finesse as when, back in the day, I would be sexy dancing on tables, gurning like a constipated toddler and reeking of gin.
As then, I sometimes find myself closing one eye to try and keep things in focus.
It possibly seems daft to those who don’t feel that urge to write that someone who does could benefit from prompts. Prompts are like the good drinking buddies that remind you to drink water, they always carry a spare lighter and chewing gum and know the doormen at the good members’ bars.
Otherwise, it’s all just too messy and there’s a chance you never get anywhere good.
Every now and again, out of nowhere comes an extraordinary post. Effortless. The writing equivalent of that legendary night out with the most perfect group of friends, where they play all the best songs and so many funny things happen, exceptional, we feel amazing, rock-star, epic.
Most of the time, I’m simply chasing that feeling when I write. Like the end of a typical night on the town, I just want to sit in the kerb and eat chips, wishing I’d never started. I’ve bored myself and everyone else to fricking death. I’ve got dog breath and no spit left, the start of a headache and not enough hours to sleep it better.
I write because every now and again, maybe I could feel that elusive perfect high again. Another good prompt comes along and I’m up and at it, ready to shake my tail feathers.
* Actually, I do like to listen to Grime whilst doing the housework. And that could absolutely be the most tragic sentence ever.