Writing

As I read novels by the likes of Jeffery Deaver and Dean Koontz I always find myself wondering how the hell they do it and why the hell can’t I? It could be down to some inherent capability which I lack entirely. It’s a pity that I will never accept that they are better than me because I am arrogant and unwilling to admit lack of excellence on my part and so, my futile attempts at novel-writing will continue endlessly.

The last time I tried to write a ground-breaking, mind-numbingly amazing novel, I found myself incapable of remembering very minor details like the streets or the main character’s name. What happens to all of my attempts in general is that, after the initial click on the floppy disk icon – Microsoft really must update its iconography – I tend to forget all about the story, let alone have any remaining drive to continue it. After a few months of sporadic feelings of guilt at never finishing, I end up either deleting it entirely or else writing a brief ending and then insist on calling my budding genius novel a ‘short story’.

My only real semi-successful venture into writing is this blog – which is really my attempt at pretending to be even mildly technologically competent – though I haven’t published anything in months. The way this blog is  going though, I tend to have a burst of literary energy comparable only to Dickens’ and then I fall into utter lethargy equally comparable to that of a centipede trying to climb out of a bath tub after it’s fallen in before finally admitting to itself, after much wailing and gnashing of teeth, that it’s better off giving up and dying.

I had this idea for an avant garde novel written about myself and my musings but under the guise of a biography of an invisible man. After a few minutes of relishing in how brilliant the idea was, I realised that I actually am invisible – not literally of course, that would be silly – meaning that the possibility of people seeing a book with my name on it and picking it up is slim, at best. I mean there are a couple of pictures of me on the internet but nobody really knows who I am. Kind of like Joseph Kony. Remember him? The buzz sort of died down now that people have realised that 70% of all the money donated to the Invisible Children group were actually spent on the organisation itself whereas only the remaining 30% were given to the actual cause. Also the founder getting arrested for masturbating naked on the side of the road and then proceeding to beat the floor while screaming expletives didn’t help.

I like to think that my lacklustre thoughts and Alzheimer’s patient memory are a sign of some hidden genius or superpower, even. If that is the case, however, why is it that the hidden attributes never transcend the initial stage of bad memory? I’ve thought about the possibility of having ADD, but I’m sure my therapist would have picked up on that by now. All he does is tell me that I’m making everything up. Some therapist.