I have been reviewing my writing and my ability to actually write. The more I look the more I realise that maybe I'm not really cut out for proper writing, you know, the sort of thing that will actually ever be published or even be read by other people. There's a couple of reasons for this:
1. I never seem to finish anything, first draft or otherwise, and so I have built up an expectation among anyone that ever reads my work that it will never be completed, so no one reads it.
2. I'm not a terribly good writer. My characters are wooden, my descriptions are too damnably long and my writing generally soulless. This leads to no one really reading what I write, augmenting point 1.
However, and this is the thing, I do still want to write. Because, it appears, I am a masochist. To that end, listening to albums from my youth like Please and Actually by the Pet Shop Boys reminds me that I once constructed flimsy narratives based on the order of the songs. In the former, there's a story about crime and love and betrayal in 1980s London and in the latter there's a sequel about revolution, terrorism and failure. In short, all albums, by anyone, suggest stories to me because that's the way my mind works. A basic laziness and inability is all that stands in my way of turning these into functioning narratives that could be actual stories.
Perhaps one day I shall return to writing but it has been over a year now since I did anything approaching fiction writing and this place has grown fallow once more. I shall do what I can to tend the beds here, maybe check on a few seedlings or just plant a few more. If anything flowers that would be nice but, more likely, I shall potter about, turn some soil and then get distracted by bigger and shinier things.