Writing more for me

Untitled designHow many times am I going to talk about this? Probably lots more but it bothers me, it bothers me a lot. I spend about 30 hours a week typing. Most of it is rewriting or writing afresh, all for other people. I sell words which is an unpopular idea, I have been told off before for saying this as it makes the content I’m writing worth less somehow. I don’t agree. I write words for people who buy them and that’s it – it’s a transaction. They’re not my words, although I like to see them in situ but I know they’re not mind. I even get grumbly if I know the person who has posted them and is therefore posting my words out there as their own, but that’s hard luck isn’t it? I have set myself up as someone who sells words to other people and they can do what they want with them.

I do enjoy seeing stuff I’ve written elsewhere with my name on it, especially when it’s not work. I write in a range of places from time to time, most regularly Book Angel Booktopia, Judging Covers and House of Blog and it nice to be other places as well as here, especially when I keep running on blanks here.

I don’t want to just post book reviews, although there is always a constant supply of them. I like writing other things but getting a fully coherent thought together which I’m happy to post and happy to share is a rarer occurrence. I was on a mini fiction roll (if you can count writing around 200 words of random disconnected pap) on the other blog and then I just keep hitting walls. I think they’re work-related walls with a little bit of real life blues leaking in but realistically, I have no excuse.

Then I find myself thinking do I actually want to write anything at all? The last two evenings I have sat and done nothing and been extremely grumpy and annoyed about it. I don’t like doing nothing but I didn’t feel like reading and writing didn’t even seem a possibility. I decided to clear out a drawer instead and considered trying to sort out the floordrobe, just for something to do.

Do I want to be writing more for me or do I just want something to do? I went to a writing workshop/group in town and loved it but in equal measure felt completely out of my depth and quite stupid, all feelings put upon myself and no one in the group. Real life got in the way alongside my inability to feel comfortable but I don’t know. I just don’t know.

Maybe I’m thinking too much or maybe I’m doing the wrong thing or maybe there’s no maybe at all and I’m just waffling like a twit.

I can’t decide.