Writing under a rock
Writing rocks! It’s what gets me up in the morning and helps me sleep at night. It animates my day and inspires my dreams, which in turn feed my addiction. Much of what I write goes into the wider world; some of it doesn’t.
I have written pieces which I just had to write, but which have gone no further than a folder on my hard drive and a print-out in a box under my desk. The writing is excellent and the subject matter meaty and important. So why does it languish?
One of the answers, and the one I use as my justification, is that the world is not ready for it. Yes, I suffer from hubris — most writers I know do to some degree. Without hubris, how can someone believe that anyone else should be interested in what they have to say?
On reflection, it probably is not that the world isn’t ready, so much as my not being ready or prepared to cop any reaction. One piece I can think of involves teen sexuality, treated with humour and perhaps too much detail. I think it would be useful reading for mid- to late-teens, but I am afraid of being labelled as perverted or disgusting or a maniac.
A piece I wrote a while ago and which won first prize in a major short story competition, was not included in the competition anthology, as it was considered unsuitable to be on the shelves of school libraries. My reticence may not be misplaced.
Another set of writing that stays under a rock since its first outing, contains those pieces I have written for a particular event or circumstance. Each of these was written for a private purpose and should probably stay private. My less-than-humble self finds this a shame, as these are, again, examples of wonderful, incisive writing.
There are also works that are still under the rock, despite my efforts to drag them out. They are stories I have half-written and not been able to find suitable further ideas for; or stories I have started with an intriguing opening and which have so far gone nowhere; even essays about writing that have run out of momentum.
Occasionally I will lift the rock and extract an idea from one of these, giving the idea new life in a different context. Doing this will also sometimes motivate me to have another look at the abandoned work and even finish it.
I am essentially a private, even secretive person and much of my writing has been impersonal — there is not much of me in it. So, while the writing might go into the world, I can remain safely under my rock. As I have grown in confidence, some of me is seeing daylight. As nothing has come down and smitten any of this fragile, exposed self, my confidence has grown even more. Perhaps, one day, the rock will no longer have such importance — I will be able to go out in the open and only use the rock to hide those pieces that are embarrassing because the writing is not up to scratch. After all, while it may be okay for me to be seen warts and all, my writing needs to always appear young and fresh and desirable.
