When people didn't just pay me for turning up somewhere everyday (which they don't, because I work really hard, but they still would for a while if I stopped until they found out and sacked me), I used to have to think about what I was going to do each day to earn money. I had to wake up, put my head into gear and create something different all the time, something that I hadn't done before, something that people hadn't seen before and if they had then it wasn't with the same bitter hatred that I would shine on it.
This blog saw the main brunt of that effort. After eating my cereals, drinking my tea and watching Will and Grace on Channel 4, I would sit down at my desk and not leave until I had written something interesting. Whether that was a poem, a short story, a guide, a reflection on something I had seen on TV or a sarcasm fueled rant about current affairs, there would be a unique post on here 5 days of the week, more or less without fail. There were the odd days when I would be busy doing something else or would get annoyed with myself for being poor and give up (which was stupid as that was never going to make me richer) but apart from that this would be a fairly well updated site. You can see this through looking at my stats, by which I mean I can see this because I'm the only one with access to them. From November last year, when I first started seriously thinking about freelance work, to June this year when I decided that was too hard and took up full time employment, there was on average 20 posts a month.
20 posts about twenty different topics every month. Why I didn't earn more money from this venture I'll never know.
But since I started working 9-5 for someone else this whole 'blogging for myself' thing has become something of a chore. I write for other people now, and when it comes to doing it for numero uno I find myself being all out of ideas. This could, in part, be down to the fact I know I've already earned my bread for the day. In fact I know it's because of that. I sit here with a blank screen in front of me, full of good intentions until the niggling voice inside my head starts yelling,
"Ha, why bother Billinghay? No-one reads this rubbish anyway. You're nothing without your proper job. NOTHING!"
And then I stop looking at the blank screen and start looking at Hollyoakes instead. My taste in television is not something I'm proud of. Another reason behind the problem is that I no longer HAVE to do this if I'm going to succeed. Sure, it's probably a good idea to do it if I want to succeed as a writer (which I do. I really, really do. Why are you laughing? GO AWAY, NO-ONE INVITED YOU HERE.) but I don't have to do it for more pressing matters, such as being able to pay bills or buy beer. Other things will fund that now.
When it comes to writing for no reason other than my sick, twisted enjoyment of it, I fear I am slacking. Even today I asked for people's help for this post, because all I could think of was the smell of toast coming from the kitchenette. Then I started panicking that there was no toast. Then I looked up the signs of a stroke on Google. Then Google told me I was having a stroke. It was a very stressful afternoon.
Unfortunately no-one gave me any ideas other than ones to further convince me that I was dying and I didn't get anywhere at all with anything that mattered. I need new friends, really.
