Muddling On

One of the most important lessons I try and teach my four-year old son is practice makes perfect. You can’t learn a thing unless you make mistakes. If the Lego tower falls down, take a deep breath and start again. Sometimes he takes this on board, sometimes he doesn't. But I will never stop telling him that it doesn’t matter if you do something wrong because it will help you to do it better next time.

Of course parents are full of this kind of stuff for their little angels, but rarely do we take on board what we’re actually trying to teach. Take me for instance. If I’m trying to write and it’s going badly, I throw my dummy out of the pram and toddle away in a tantrum. Then instead of trying again or trying something different, I don’t try anything at all.

Anyway, here in my lovely new workshop/blog, I have vowed to be different and actually listen to the good advice I often dole out to other people. The very fact I’m writing these words is a testament to that. 

Today, I have spent several hours trying to write a piece about the good and bad of public comment sections on online news websites – I know, get me, I really know how to have a good time.

I struggled. Some of my arguments made sense and then I would cock it all up and continually contradict myself. I basically got into a right old tangle and, true to usual form, stormed away from the computer and felt sorry for myself.

But I’m back, with a mint Aero and a cup of tea. I've tried it again and do you know what, it’s still not working for me so I’m writing about that instead. There is a type of comment on these online websites that I struggle with. I don’t mean the ones I disagree with or the nasty ones written by the clueless and loveless waiting under bridges for fat goats. 

No, the ones I mean are those that use an article to slag off the writer/journalist and/or castigate the organisation for employing them. I was particularly incensed by a chap who got rather hot under the collar about Caitlin Moran. In typical Moran style, she wrote an article last year about the joy and deflation of thinking you’re going to lose some weight and then, despite suffering long walks, illness etc., realising that you’re still a lard-arse. It was funny and irreverent.

Mr C didn’t think Ms Moran’s sideways swipe at the female body image was particularly amusing: 

“For God's sake.  Tomorrow is Remembrance Sunday.  The security services have just foiled a probable terrorist attack in London, and Gorbachov is warning about the start of a new Cold War.  And this woman is still obsessing about the size of her arse and belly.”

Really? I’m pretty sure Caitlin’s column wasn't front page news or plastered on every page. I’m also pretty sure (dare I say 100% positive) that there were loads of articles on the very same website he could have read about Remembrance Sunday, terrorists and Gorbachov. So I couldn't understand why he couldn't just: a. tut, roll his eyes and then read some serious news or b. not read Caitlin Moran in the first place and just read the bits he likes. Why make such a big song and dance about a question of taste and expect that everyone else should feel the same?

Anyway, that’s what I was trying to write about. I was trying to say that questions of taste aren't opinions and don’t really help, in fact they are a subversive form of bullying. But the fact is that by writing my own opinion of his opinion (albeit only read by me) I was merely doing the same thing as him – having my say. So I can’t really argue that can I? Do you see how I tied myself in knots?

I’m still sure he completely misses the point. After all, he was advocating the sacking of a journalist because his taste took exception to her articles. I would argue that there is a place within a newspaper for all different kinds of editorial. I’m never going to read the motoring column but I wouldn't want the journalist sacked (and I’m pretty sure they rarely talk about Remembrance Sunday, terrorists and Gorbachov). I’m sure lots of people enjoy whatever shiny thing they’re writing about.

But that is the muddle and I’m still working through it. I’m not sure I’ll ever resolve this one to be honest but at least today I've written a piece about persistence and not getting too annoyed with myself for writing something a bit pants. 

And so it begins...

I'm a little fed up of people asking me what I do. Actually that's a lie. People asking me isn't the problem. It's my reply that I find irritating.

"What do you do?"  - usually asked by another mum in the school playground at pick-up time.

"Project administration," I reply, obviously irritating myself beyond words.

"Oh. That's nice." Their eyes glaze over and I can see their brains switch back into mother mode, mentally going through little Billy's busy after-school schedule. I don't blame them.

It's not nice. Well, it is. It's easy, reasonable well-paid for something completely undemanding and very flexible. I work with a bunch of lovely people and for a pretty progressive organisation. What's not to love?

But it's not me! What I want to say is "I'm a writer." I want to say it loudly and proudly. I want to run up to strangers in the street and share my happiness "I'm a writer you know. I write!" I want my son to be proud of me. I want him to know that you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it. I want to be proud of me.

So mulling over this rant that often rattles round and round in my head, I decided to give myself a good talking to. There is a side of me that is eminently sensible, warm and wise (so my friends tell me). This side of me is pretty darn good at offering advice and talking over problems. Unfortunately, this very sensible side only seems to make an appearance with friends. It is completely rubbish at talking to itself. You see my other side is a bit of a passive-aggressive cow that gets dragged down with the unfairness of life. But I thought it was about time I introduced sensible side to moans a lot but does nothing about it side. It was a short but revealing meeting.

"So, you want to be a writer?" asks sensible side in her best warm and wise voice.

"Yes. Well I kind of am because I used to be a journalist you know and I've had bits and bobs published. So I am sort of already a writer but not really the kind of one I want to be." witters moans a lot but does nothing about it side.

"Great, so what are you actually writing now? How can we take it forward to the next step?"

"Now? What you mean in between being a project administrator, full-time mother, housekeeper and general domestic drudge?" Moans a lot but does nothing about it replies defensively.

"So that would be nothing then? You want to be a writer but you aren't actually writing anything? You're just getting mad at the world instead?" Sensible side is trying to be calm and rational.

Moans a lot thinks for a moment and a little light bulb flickers dimly in her head, "Erm, yes."

"Right then! How exciting. Here's what we're going to do. Three words - just bloody write!"

And so it begins. My blog will be my workshop and I'm just going to bloody write. Because I'm a writer you know. I write!