On Writing

by Mark Boyle
Writing, why bother?
As is a bit of a stalwart for writers with overly active inner monologues who can't focus anymore than a blind sniper with marital problems and a hormone imbalance, the topic I feel disposed to addressing is that of, "Why do we write at all?"
Of course there are the grindingly practical reasons that force us to commit pen to paper (or the less romantic but ultimately more applicable, sweaty fingertip to irritatingly loud laptop key) such as, "They're paying me" and "This way they give me my degree in pond-moss-ology." But more debatable are the reasons for writing without solicitation.
More obvious responses to this questioning, automatically rear their heads such as writing to argue ideas, to further the art form or for the sheer pleasure. However in approaching these we must look at how these writings come to be communicated to the public for whom they are intended. All the skill and validity (I call it "skividity"….. no I don't) in the world matter not, if the intended audience don't get a peek. There exist 3 main media of writing that hit very differently on their audiences.
Individual writers being published.
Newspapers, magazines and the like
The danglies and giblets smut emporium (The Internet)

As for number 1 there are undoubtedly writers of staggering talent and prolificacy churning about the literary world (Ian Banks and Terry Pratchett to name two of my personal favourites) like cats in a perpetually gruesome but fascinating washing machine. However despite this, these writers and many more besides have written 20+ novels already, and perhaps this says something about my reading speed but who in Buddha's britches are reading all these books?! Being fond of sitting in with a good book is one thing, but ploughing through all the fantastic works that have ever been written is a bit more requiring of an I.V. drip, a hammock and an industrial sized tub of stay-awakes. Not that I'm telling the authors of the world to stop, but yes, I am, and the beginning of this sentence was a bawdy lie. Please give me us breather! I'm already half way through The Orchid Thief and Brave New World is almost finished. I'm going as fast as I can. Take a nap guys, I'll maybe catch up in one, two hundred years. Sound okay? Ouch! Just dropped Exodus on my foot.
And all this is without considering the Cecilia Aherns and Georgette Heyers of this world. Obviously every novel written isn't going to be beads of light etched on paper from God's celestial fountain pen but nevertheless, there's an unspoken limit on how many romantic encounters a naïve 26 year old with a history of poor relationships that I can hear about without feeling the desire eat my own eyes.
Number 2 calls up the often unpleasant looking cigarette burn of writing, quality. Lord knows I'm a godless little deviant hack, driven out of the halls of the The Sun (the tabloid rag, not some Inca temple) for punning a man to death but at least I don't try to hide it behind a wall of furious self –righteous emotive language (sick monster, evil boffin, that sort of cack) as I pretend to inform you, the public, my chum…
Writing style aside, some of these publications never really stood a chance due to the quasi-demonic nature of their subject matter, "Soap-stars Diets" and "Kids of Famous People Sleep With The Funniest Things." In a world where almost as many people died in Iraqi violence in the past month (January 2007) as died in 9/11 it really is a little much to expect us to give the proverbial flying sod about what type of shoe Paris Hiltons manky sister prefers to get sick into.
This is a world where interest in recipes tops interest in humanitarian work, and faux-celebrity holds more public attention then trying to stop people shooting the faces off each other in Darfur.
Finally we come to the internet, the gaping maw of public opinion/rants/dangerously-sun-deprived-loudmouths that has so suddenly thrust John Q. Schmuck into the forefront of coherent debate and moral dissection. That is to say, it could do. Although there are a seemingly endless amount of regularly updated blogs, some of which, granted, show real forethought and at the very least some balanced opinion, there is an immense, heaving ballbag of people putting the cart before the horse. Expressing an opinion in an attempt to convince themselves they are a logical, well rounded person. Ego-stroking doesn't even begin to describe it. It's closer to ego-seduction-with-scented-candles-Marvin-Gaye-and-3-bottles-of-wine. It's the same validation craving that I suspect those individuals who ring into Channel 4's 100 greatest organ-transplants to scream down the line, "Larry Hagman, LARY HAGMAN!!" feel. He was JR from Dallas. Never-mind.
Here I come to the point where I have to acknowledge the towering hypocrisy of this article. If , as I say, most of the stuff written these days is varying between the irrelevant to the downright thought-killing, why am I bothering to horse out this faff with a voice of jabbering arrogance and poorly structured argument? Am I not one of their number? Honestly, I still believe, the contemporary writer has a huge part to play, both in our society, our forming of opinions, in creative thought, humour and art. But perhaps it might be an idea to give a bit more time to forming our opinions than to voicing them. After all, if I had taken a step back in writing this, I mightn't have had to resort to using words such as, "manky," "ballbag," and "Larry Hagman" in the same article.
In summary, writings a sweet nugget, but let's sleep on it some, before we show it to anybody else. It might just be rubbish.