I love empty pages. I can’t explain it. When I sit down with a notebook, blank and crisp, I get excited about what I could write on it. Like most writers, I often end up doing little, because somehow what I think of is never good enough to sully that virgin sheet, but the feeling is never diluted, or spoilt. I love the satisfaction I experience at having produced lines of handwritten text. I don’t pretend to be normal you understand. I am fully aware that this is a very weird aspect of my personality. The need to do it is almost like an addiction, and I feel definite withdrawal symptoms if I don’t write something somewhere, whether it be on facebook, twitter, in my book, in my gardening journal or here on my blog. You get the idea, I am a serial writer. I am sure there is no cure, nor, if I am honest, do I want one.
The difficulty is, of course, that to fully satisfy the need to write an audience is needed. Now therein lies the problem. Who on earth would be interested in anything I have to say? When we teach children to write, we insist they consider their audience. We tell them they need to choose their vocabulary and structure their language appropriately for their target reader. I have often thought this might limit their creative voices as I know that, if like me you have a need, that writing is often for the writer. Now this is selfish and, some might say, egotistical, but I would argue that if you don’t think anyone else would be interested in your imagination, opinion or reporting of events, that is no reason to give up on your writing aspirations. Write for yourself! Someone just might be interested, and even if they aren’t the creative ache may just be relieved a little – until the next nagging urge attacks you.