Yesterday afternoon I spent quite some time creating three seperate books in readiness for self-publication. These tomes bearing narratives I wrote at various points during 2015; prose not previously incorporated amongst the other twenty four literary chronicles I’ve written.
I’m unsure why, unlike everything I’ve written since the start of 2016, I’d never previously recorded these monologues into book form. Although I think my works improved with time, I’d venture there’s enough decent stuff within my earlier blogs it to be recorded for posterity in print.
Despite feeling a more accomplished penman than when I started blogging in March 2015, I still find writing without a sounding board for my content challenging. I’m never short of epiphanies, however I’d love to be able to seek the input of a proof-reader prior to publishing. Their remit to spot grammatical misdemeanours and re-assure me the narrative flows.
Continuous improvement is a key objective during literary odyssey. Learning more about the use of the English language, in particular how to effectively transcribe my observations onto the previously chaste page – A goal that never sleeps.
I’ve invested too much of my time into this lexilogical sojourn to merely rest on my laurels, or indeed hardys. My desire is to ultimately make the thousands of hours spent creating these monologues worthwhile. My desire for literary growth unquenchable.
After thirty years of working rotating shifts, undertaking a role that provided minimal fulfilment, I owe it to myself to at least try and leave a legacy that I’d be proud of. In what shape or form that takes I don’t know. However, I’ve got far more to offer than exhibited over much of my adulthood. My disenchantment at my lot eating away at me for decades – A contributing factor to later depressive behaviour.
Don’t get me wrong, the three companies who’ve employed me have treated me very well. My beef isn’t with them or anyone else – I chose to perservere undertaking roles that weren’t playing to my strengths. A decision taken because the jobs paid well and I had four people to feed, clothe and shelter….. My enduring disenchantment caused by the choices of no-one other than GJ Strachan.
To clarify, it was the jobs themselves I wasn’t keen on, not the majority of individuals who stood aside me in IT trenches. I met some great, great people in all three jobs – Intelligent, humourous, engaging and with a wealth of knowledge about their roles. People of whom I remain very fond who’ve provided me with a wealth of entertaining anecdotes over the decades.
Sadly for me, an amalgam of middle-life crisis, depression, a wife with incurable cancer, disillusionment with how my role was evolving, crushed self-esteem and self-loathing drove me into a very deep mental ditch. Not the trenches where in happier times I’d previously stood shoulder to shoulder with work colleagues, a far lower and darker place.
A domain of overwhelming despair where even marmite and Haribo gummy bears lost their appeal. I’d been transported to portal where unthinkably I couldn’t give a toss if Leeds United lost a football match and Sinatra’s refrains somehow seemed less appealing.
A perfect storm of detritus exacerbated by isolation and prevailing relationship issues. A glass of cabernet sauvignon helped numb the pain, but even that was starting to bequeath a tarter bouquet. The ditch in which I laid providing the very antithesis of Jesus’ feat of turning water into wine.
Mercifully, in March 2015 I found the catharsis qualities of creative writing. A pastime that unearthed some self worth, making me embrace ‘the difference’ in which my mind worked which I’d previously hated.
South African golfing legend Gary Player once proffered that the harder he worked at his game the luckier he became. I’m hoping the thousands of hours I’ve taking on my literary journey will one day influence my fortunes in a positive way.
The three tomes of previously unpublished 2015 narratives which yesterday I set up for print:-
