IMG_2275.JPGI pretty much write a few pages every day of the year, none of it gets me any money, except the plays I write. You would think that I would decide to write ONLY plays, since that’s where the money seems to be for me, but I don’t. Writing plays doesn’t seem like ‘real’ writing to me. One of the weird reasons I have for this is that it’s ‘too easy’, an other part of the reason is that plays rarely end up in stores in the form of printed books.

So I keep writing other stuff as well and somehow I keep thinking I’ll magically get some attention for that and money as a byproduct of that attention. It’s pretty weird, because half of the time I feel like I’m only writing about not having readers, not having opportunities, etc. The facts however are different, since I’m so tired (and afraid) of rejection and also very suspiscious of the selection procedures of literary magazines and publishing houses, I never send anything to them any more, nor do I ever enter a writing contest.

That’s one thing: my writing (and most of my emotional life) seems to be resolving around ‘not being read’, and this has been going on since, I’d say, something like the fall of 2008. That’s 5 years of living in the dark. My writing and my hopes surrounding my writing have pretty much fucked up my life in many ways. Before I go on, I must admit that my writing has also been extremely generous to me, but in different ways than I’d like. It’s part of who I am, so, for example, the people currently in my life, are there, in large part because I write. For the simple fact that I am so much the writer type that you can’t like me if you don’t like writer types.

In several others ways it does fuck up my life, big time. I’m constantly thinking about writing, but in a very non-constructive sort of way. I get ideas for stories, but then immediately I go thinking: ah, what’s the point, nobody will read them anyway. And so, since the urge to write is so great, I settle for the easy way out and write some gibberish about how my day was or what I’m reading, or why I have no readers.

I have no readers because at some point along the way I’ve stopped writing because I enjoy it or because it just bursts out of me and I can’t stop it, in stead I’ve started writing for no other reason than to get readers. And somehow, that’s about the worst way of getting no readers at all. Second only to audience killer number 1: not writing at all.

So, very much on top of the priority list of 2015: lowering my expectations and getting back to the sort of writing I did before I started equalling writing to nothing more than a rather passive and not very effective form of getting attention that I’ve come to hate, in stead of love.