Fear and loathing in Strathconon

I’ve started writing again, though to be honest that’s not strictly true or false. I never really started or stopped. I’ve formed ideas, composed pieces, tested sentences, lines and verse, framed and sequenced images for as long as I can remember. But except for a very brief period, and mostly out of necessity, never really wrote anything down. I played the ideas around in my head until I or they were exhausted. Then they were gone, perhaps making a reprise at a later date, often not. The fear of committing anything to paper or hard drive, the fear of exposing pointless notions to public scrutiny, generally just the fear.

Then it occurred to me the other day – and not for the first time – that actually, fundamentally, very few people are really interested in anything I have to say. Now most people at this point would take the hint and shut up. Me? No, I finally realised that this was perfect. Nobody will read it, nobody will care. It doesn’t have to be finished, it doesn’t have to be perfect. It can be ignored. I can actually write without fear of anything or anyone, after all they’re not really there. Finally I can get this stuff out of my head. All those mental exercises. Then I too can ignore it. Who wants a head full of nonsense anyway?


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