The end! 3 of 3.
London. I’ve been here for over 10 years and yet I’m still not sure I’m cut out for it.
It’s going to reach 35 degrees today. My morning commute was filled with angry businessmen and women. So it’s hot, there’s no a/c on the train, but you’re wearing a polyester shirt, your tie’s done up to 11 and you have a black suit on. You’re an idiot. Take the tie off, put it in your Mod Target satchel and carry your jacket on your arm. Are you going for a job interview on the train? No. Does anyone really care what you’re wearing (apart from yourself)? No. And take your fucking bag off the spare seat – the pregnant lady you’ve been pretending not to notice really needs it.
There are people running for the train. Jesus. There’s another one in 2 minutes.
Unless you’re a doctor or an ambulance driver or a nurse or a paramedic or a fireman, no one will die if you’re ten minutes late. Yet these things seem to take over our lives, like moss growing over a long-forgotten garden ornament. A person can become obscured by their job.
Of course, I’d really love to make money from writing so I can quite this 9-5 bullshit, but I am also well aware that it’s quite unlikely. So I amble on and I write not out of some yearning for fame or success (which are both vague, murky concepts at best), but out of need. I have to write. There is no choice. I am undefined by my vocation. Writing makes me feel like a human being.
Today’s quote is from JG Ballard’s incredible novel, Super-Cannes:
People are so immersed in their work they wouldn’t recognize the end of the world.
I could go into how much I love Ballard and all that crap, but do I need to? Google some gushing praise on the man if you feel like it. He’s the reason I started writing. And you lot think this is a new thing, don’t you? No. I’ve been blogging and knocking out little pieces of fiction for years. Perhaps this is the training all the naysayers believe an aspiring writer should undertake. Or do I need a formal qualification? I don’t know or care. This is just the first time I’ve felt the need to share my writing with anyone. I have never published anything and I have never tried.
I reckon I’m halfway through editing my first draft now. It’s easy to get lost in all those words. Daunting. I can see why people give up, but perseverance is something I don’t have any trouble with. I’m a stubborn bastard.