Why do I write? That is a question a lot of people ask me and it is one I often ask myself.
Writing is a lonely, sedentary task. It is time consuming, frustrating and unrewarding in many ways.It was Paul Simon who wrote ‘All my words come back to me – in shades of mediocrity – like emptiness in harmony’. That about sums it up. I am not the next John Fowles.
I did not study English Literature. Why do I think I can write?
I write because I know I can articulate the contents of my mind into words that will resonate with my readers. I know I can and sometimes I do. I write because I have a head that is full of passions, ideas, thoughts, opinions and stories and I have a burning need to write them down.
I enjoy writing as much as I do reading – and I love reading.
I am not religious. I do not believe in any god or afterlife; I do not believe there is an ultimate purpose. I believe we have to give life a purpose. We have to strive to make the world a better place. Writing does that for me.
I love nature and am destroyed by what we are doing to the planet. It eats me up.
I write about the things that mean something to me. I am a communicator who is an idealist; I believe we can make things better.
I write because I believe in creativity. Creating something beautiful or passionate gives purpose and fulfilment. My books contain the wonder in my head.
I write because it is difficult. Writing a novel is like climbing Everest. It is so hard that it leaves you with a sense of fulfilment when you’ve achieved it. I’ve climbed a lot of mountains.
I write because I am a rebel who wants to change the system. I want to change it because it stinks. I think we can do better.
I write about my passions.
There are no rules. I like to push the limits in every way going. My books are different. They are sometimes extreme.
I write for fun.
I have written 100 books and published eighty four. Eighty two are available on Amazon. They are my babies. They will live longer than me.
I dread to think how many hours I have sat in the dark typing on an old type-writer or pounding the keyboard on my various computers. How much of my life? How many tens of thousands of hours?
A book would take me a couple of thousand hours.
I have carried out rewrite after rewrite.
So far I have earned maybe around £2000 for all those efforts. I make about a dollar a book. It’s not a great return. If it was about the money I could have worked in a filling-station and bought a house!
It’s not even about the recognition. You write into a relentless vacuum. Very few people take the trouble to leave a review or a comment. We feed off the scraps.
Writing. It is sometimes the most discouraging, pointless, lonely task in the world. Sometimes I read what I have written and despair.
But I’m still writing!