I've been meaning to write a blog for several days now and have quite thoroughly failed at it. It wasn't as if I didn't have plenty to write about - on the contrary.
I had thought about writing a review of the last of the Sebastian Faulks series with his episode about 'the villain'.
There was Tuesday's Publishing Project session where we heard Marcus Sedgwick talk; an evening that was both enjoyable and informative.
I could have talked about the ongoing 'My Life in Books' series or about World Book Night which the programme is based around and the implications of the event on booksellers.
I could even have pondered over what I was going to say in next Tuesday's lesson. We have to define what 'Our Stories' are - to devise an interesting story from our lives which would be a great selling point for a publisher.
Ah, perhaps it was this last thought which silenced my fingers. That and the general feeling of hopelessness which creeps into my soul drop by drop during pretty much every lesson I have this semester: that sense of despair that, given how heartbreakingly difficult (i.e. near-impossible) it is to get published, why the heck am I even bothering?
Because the fact of the matter is that I don't have a story. I have thus far lived what could quite accurately be called one of the most boring lives in history. What could I possibly say that wouldn't send everyone listening into a state of unconsciousness from the sheer mediocrity of it?
It's not like I'm wishing for something tragic in my life - far from it. I love my life which is precisely why I haven't felt the need to do something mad or dangerous or 'defining'. I haven't felt the urge that other people my age did during college and uni to get smashed out of my brain on alcohol and/or drugs, sleep with random strangers, wake up in a puddle of my own vomit, regret everything and swear never to do it again, then do it all the same in a few nights time. I really must be some sort of social moron that, for some reason, this really sounds very unappealing.
So what do I say when everyone turns to me expectantly, waiting for some charming anecdote which shaped my very existence.
I literally can't think of anything to say. At all. Nada. Zilch.
Why is it necessary for me to have done anything? The very fact that I spend so much of my time writing about made-up stuff is surely because I live so much in my head. Quite frankly, if I'd done all these exciting things which Carole is expecting I wouldn't have had time to write anyway, and would therefore not be on the course in the first place. I'd be off saving baby leopards in Africa or something. (Do leopards even come from Africa?)
So my plan at the moment is to sit in dumb silence. Unless I can do something life-changing in the next 3 days. Wish me luck.
I've heard that the titles of these entries are somehow important in some way (I don't know how, dinosaurs don't do computers) so my randomness shall have to disappear. Alas.
My, what a cheery blog post this was. I'll try to do better next time.