What do I intend to do with this space? I intend to write, of course. Oh wait, I forgot. You have no idea who I am.
Do you know who I am?!
I’ve always wanted to ask that question, as if I were some rich important person in a store being asked to wait or having just had some grandiose request of mine denied. Then I would say, “Do you know who I am?”
That’s a lie. I have never wanted to ask that question. That would make me an insane person, and I’m not an insane person. Am I?
It’s not something that just happens in the movies, you know. I know people who have been on the receiving end of that question. Can you imagine? Man, must really have to think highly of yourself. My problem is the opposite. I think too low of myself. I’m actually curious if anyone is still reading at this point.
What was I talking about anyway? Oh yeah! I intend to write.
No. Crap. I still haven’t introduced myself. I’m Kyle.
Hi. 👋🏼
Okay, back to writing. That is what I intend to…… that wasn’t much of an introduction, huh? Too short? It was, wasn’t it? Well, what more do you want to know? Where I live? My age? Height, weight, preferred brand of socks, favourite song on the glockenspiel, credit card number and three digit pin code on the back?
Really? What are you some sort of creepy stalker scam artist? I don’t really want to tell you any of those things now. Seriously, I don’t.
Ugh. Okay. I’ll tell you a little bit about myself, but not too much. We just met. I’ve got to keep some things close to the chest. If I give it all up on the first date you’ll have nothing to entice you to come back. You’ll say you will call but you wont, and you’ll find another Substack to read once then toss away like already popped Amazon packaging pillows.
Plus, you’re a stalker. I’m not telling you where I live. Are you crazy?
Okay let’s see what I can tell you, what I feel safe telling you. I am a…guy, and I live somewhere West of Rome and East of Singapore. Can’t you tell from the accent? It’s not important who I am, where I live, or what my favourite brand of socks are (I’m actually between brands at the moment, if you must know). What is important is why I started this blog.
You and I are likely here for the same reason. Writing. Either you’re like me and are an undiscovered prodigy just waiting for the opportunity shock the world with the silkiest most incredible prose written since the Psalms of David, or a hack who thumps the keyboard like Albert II (the first monkey in Space) hoping to produce something remotely intelligible that at least one person would consent to reading, or maybe your somewhere in between. That’s really where I am, at least I hope so. Nobody could be as bad as Albert II could they? Then again, he did work for NASA. He had to have been a pretty genius primate, one would think.
I’m off topic again.
So, I wan’t to write, you want to write (or at least read). Who cares?
Well, I care actually. That’s why I’m writing this and crossing my toes that I didn’t lose you in the process of losing myself.
But maybe that’s the point a little bit. Life is so full of distractions isn’t it? I mean this is probably a distraction too but hopefully a good distraction. You’ve resisted the urge to check your Clash of Clans app or Facebook creep old flames and decided instead to read the scattered musings of…gulp…an aspiring writer.
Yuck. That sounds like an oxymoron. How can you be aspiring if you are actually writing? The term writer doesn’t imply being published does it? If so, by whom? Harper Collins? Random House? Scribner? Hard Case Crime? Technically this Substack is published. Does that count?
But no, that’s all wrong. This clearly isn’t a blog for ultra-successful word geniuses for whom publishers would roshambo each other at the opportunity to print a two-line poem written in eye snot with the author’s middle finger. This blog isn’t even for you, not really. It’s for me. If nobody reads it, it will still be worth putting these words down, or rather getting these words out. It’s like Neil Gaiman says about needing to get the ideas out of your head simply to make room for new ones to develop. I think that’s great advice. Because if I don’t evacuate my brain, new ideas don’t just flow in on a river of inspiration. If I don’t write, the river becomes a pond. There is no flow. The same ideas start to pool up and become trapped. Then things start to get stale and that pond becomes a slough. Algae has formed on the surface, most of the fish have died off and the ones that survived are mutants. The water is teeming with life, but not the good kind. The kind that feeds off of other things and sucks the life out of everything. Then the greatest most insidious, heinous, and cold-blooded killer of all shows up; doubt.
Should you choose to tag along on this unmanned locomotive, you will experience more of my musings, random writing samples and prompts—the cast offs, gotta save the good stuff for the print media!—the journey of a writer, and, quite frankly, who knows where else it will go, the train is unmanned after all.
The main purpose of this blog, however, is for the prevention of what I call brain slough. And, as a spinoff, possibly some mild enjoyment on your account. If you’re still here, that is.
And if you are, thank you.
- KH
I love the Neil Gaiman advice too.