So I’m writing again after finishing my political near-future story Reform about a month ago – maybe, I don’t know anymore; all the days blend into one now.
I’ve been unemployed since graduating in June of last year. I’m not sure when I officially become classed as long-term unemployed, but I know that I’m already classed by others, and myself, as a scrounger, lazy, stupid, freakish…I could go on – but I haven’t claimed any benefits in that time…anyway!
Ever since I was about nine, all I could think of doing was writing. I wanted to write and write and write. I would invent stories to tell friends on the bus into school. I would write silly little comic scripts and send them out to friends. I would invent (lie, let’s be honest) about hundreds of things a week. I kept the desire to myself, from the few who knew. I didn’t tell my family I intended to be a writer, and I told at most three friends.
I was embarrassed, sure; people from where I’m from don’t just become authors. I don’t believe I have the talent, or the determination, or the grit, or the thick-skinnedness to be one. I assumed people would laugh in my face and tell me to work in an office.
I postponed my time to properly devote my life to writing full-time constantly. Next summer, Christmas, next summer, Christmas, after school, after sixth form, after university. After graduating I had no other excuse so I wrote. And I don’t think I’m any good. A few of my short stories are on the Amazon store but they’re at best “unsuccessful”. Ive made on total about three quid from writing. If that.
Writing is the only way I can think of making my way in life. I can’t really interact with people I don’t know really well. I find leaving the house increasingly difficult. I have lost friends by the week until now I can count them on one hand. I can’t work in an office, or in Tesco for the rest of my life. I physically can’t. It’s not below me. I’m just incapable of it. Writing is the only way I ever pictured getting out of where I live.
But I’m failing.
I can’t do anything. I can’t go outside, or get the bus, or buy food. I can’t move out of my parent’s house, or get a car. I can’t do anything. My days are static and full of sleep.
Writing is something that I do in short bursts. Complete. Give it out to the world and then instantly regret it.
I enjoy it. It makes me happy, but the aftermath of shame I feel after doing it is not worth it. I feel worthless when no-one likes my work.
I figure I’ll let the exclusive Amazon-only rights on my stories expire and then post them all only for free. Probably best.