Since I started blogging, tweeting, facebooking, promoting, reviewing, uploading, commenting, liking, following, friending, mailing, researching and every other internet thing you can think of, I’ve found myself lonelier than ever. I’m always lonely as a writer but now I’m feel even more tightly wrapped up in the smothering cocoon of isolation. It must be because I’m so desperate. Smell the fear, and all that. But also wildly impatient. This vast void that I find myself in is too awful to bear alone – I have to get out of it NOW, I don’t want to have to climb the steps. I want to fly out. And at the bottom of the pit, the ghosts of every other would-be writer screams to be let out. He who screams loudest gets to use the single pair of angel wings available. I can’t believe how many writers there are. Walking through Waterstone’s on Sunday to get warm (our central heating doesn’t really crack the cold), I suddenly felt overwhelmed by all the books in the fiction section. And those are the published books. There seem to be as many unpublished or near-zero ranking writers in the universe as there are neutrinos. Why does everybody want to write? Why are there so many? Why does everyone think they have something to say? Why can’t they just draw pictures instead?
Why can’t I be unique?
What if everybody suddenly stopped writing? What if, from that moment on Sunday, not a single writer anywhere wrote another word. What if not another book was every published again.
WOULD ANYONE EVEN NOTICE?