The Writing Thing

Thursday evening and I’m tapping the keys on the virtual keyboard on my iPhone. It’s dull outside, instead of the sweltering heat we’ve been having. I’m in our living room, sipping my brew. And overthinking. 

I call myself a writer. I shouldn’t. Because I fail at it more times than I should. Dunno why. It’s how it is. 

But anyway, I’m here now. With my guts churning like they always do after I’ve eaten. There I go. Shouldn’t have written that. Nobody cares. Yeah, it’s human, though. Keep going. 

Like I said: I’m not good at this. Or, put another way, I don’t feel like I am. But I do it anyway. Like something in me wants out. It’s weird. 

One day, I wrote something that wasn’t true. About people I made up. Turned out to be like a short story or something. It made me chuckle while I wrote. Because as stories go, I’d say the word “shite” describes it. 

I said: I won’t do that again. But then, the next day, I did. Different people. New story. Same shite. Or that’s the way it seemed. 

Mary read them. 

—I like these, they’re good.

—Are they? I reckon they’re rubbish. 

—No. Don’t be daft. Write more. They are good. 

Didn’t expect that. Didn’t write more. Nah, Mary did a nice thing. Telling me they’re good. I did get another idea. Park it. It’ll be rubbish.

The next morning me and Mary sat in the kitchen having a brew. She looked over her mug at me. 

—Did you write any more stories? 

—Er, no. I might—

—Do it. Don’t listen to your mind. Let the story out. 

—Ah, maybe. 

She rolled her eyes. I did a sigh. Mary knows me. Better than I do. Than evening, after work, I wrote another story. Still shite. 

But I learned something. I learned that sometimes, the crap in your head isn’t reliable. Like when you assume something and it turns out to be wrong. 

I wrote more stories. Because I wrote one for my 10 year-old granddaughter. She liked it. Asked me to write more. Can’t argue with that. 

That voice in your head? It’s okay to ignore it now and then.