So I’m going to be a writer.
This is something decided for me, because I’m both lazy and ill, unwilling to think of anything original and unable to get a proper job. Apparently I’m good at writing, or at least so I’m told by people who follow me on twitter and friends once they’re a few drinks in, and who am I to argue?
I’m me to argue, of course, and I will argue because while I might be able to tap away at a laptop and put words on a screen I’m not like a proper writer, not like the people who get things published on the Internet where literally anyone can publish anything.
In preparation for embarking on my newfound career highway I’ve had to decamp from my depressing living room and into a local gallery / cafe bar / open workspace venue, where the music is too loud and too cool and the people too young or too wealthy. I’m sat here in battered trainers and I forgot to wear underwear and the elastic has gone on my socks; so admittedly ‘too wealthy’ is a low bar for me. I have paid for my miniscule bottle of diet coke with my credit card because I’m paying for EVERYTHING these days on my credit card and honestly I aspire to one day earn enough money from writing to maybe wear socks which aren’t broken.
I had been writing in my local Costa, which I now realise was an error both gauche and basic – both senses of the word – how is one meant to truly Write in a corporate environment? Admittedly I don’t think I ever forgot underwear in Costa.
I should say that my front room at least isn’t actually depressing – however I’ve recently spent an awful lot of time in there being depressed. Seriously depressed. Sobbing into my hands and cornflakes depressed, my soul a howling empty hateful nothing depressed, kill myself now or later? depressed. That mental weather leaves a mark on a space, mildew damp.
Besides, writing on a sofa is terrible for posture.
So I’ve come to a local gallery / cafe / open workspace venue and got myself a diet coke on credit. Far more professional than the chain coffee shop where I got myself an identikit flat white and toastie on credit. After a few more cokes on credit I can sit here in my delasticated socks and battered trainers and finally start writing something which might one day get me money.
I mean it’s not ideal, obviously. I’m in Sheffield for goodness’ sake. What kind of place is Sheffield to commence a Media Career? I have lived in London but it all got rather tiresome, probably because I got stuck taking ecstasy in Vauxhall when I suppose really I should have been growing a beard in Shoreditch and maybe sometimes not wearing underwear on stage.
How can I possibly write in the wrong city?
So while I’m here I suppose I may as well open up rightmove. I know London rent is absurd but once I’ve got some money in from this writing I’m about to do and maybe even some new socks I’m sure it’ll all be fine.
I mean I will start writing. I will start pitching ideas.
Once I’ve got this all sorted, I mean.