One Pound of Flesh

Writing is something I love. I have done since I was in my teens. For a while now, though, it has been feeling like an unrequited love. The act of writing has become associated with those same feelings of frustration, missed opportunity and uselessness that were the only outcome from my teenage lustings after girls in my school.

Writing is what I want to do, an activity with tremendous capacity to fulfil. The opportunity to write, however, seems too easily to allude me. To be honest, it annoys me that writing doesn't seek me out, doesn't demand that I spend time on it... it's as if writing doesn't appreciate the abilities I think I might have.

And here's the epiphany: I can read in these first few paragraphs precisely how appalling a suitor I have been. Pre-occupied by what writing could do for me, I've not spared a thought for what I can offer in return. Pis encore, I've taken my passion for granted, such that of late my energy has been spent being in love with the idea of writing, rather than actually doing any.

Time for the admission that paves the way to recovery: My name is Rob Fountain. I want to be a good writer, but I don't write regularly.

It's 9 years since I made a dedicated attempt to convert my aspirations into reality. Back in 2000, I had the luxury of having a few months where I didn't need to take paid employment and I spent that time trying to be a writer - I devoured novels and newspapers daily, passed afternoons in London parks watching people and, crucially, I wrote. Every day. Output was more intense than prolific, but a handful of short stories did emerge. The most effort went into a story called One Pound of Flesh. It follows a man called Barry Stickleback so desperate to translate his technical writing abilities into becoming a published writer that the predictable failure to achieve his goal leads him down a path of such severe self-loathing that only extreme measures can cure him. Ironically (I always felt), an on-line publisher accepted the story and you can still access it at http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/OnePoun.shtml should the whim ever take you.

Despite - or, I now realise, because of - the accomplishment of producing writing that had been independently 'accepted', I dried up. Not a creative block 'for want of trying', more a blockage in production for 'lack of trying'. I just stopped writing. This is actually quite characteristic of how I approach many pursuits - I set about trying to do something, full of enthusiasm and long-term vision. Then, having acheived an acceptable standard, I lose interest and move on. As far as writing goes, it seems I never learnt anything from Barry Stickleback. The destination had become more important to me than the journey.

This blog, then, is my new pound of flesh - a structured programme of effort to exercise my writing muscle. It will undoubtedly cause me some pain, will require some sacrifice, will lead to no little self-revelation along the way. It is, however, exactly what I need if I am to develop, to understand my abilities and limitations; to reignite the love I've lost. Writing on to the internet, with the accompanying anonymity of being a needle in a haystack, suits me down to the ground - for I have no expectation that my labours will generate an audience. After all, that is no longer the primary purpose. For now, I'm satisfied (relieved actually) just to be back on a journey.

Having said that, a journey without at least a direction in which to head is a short-cut to dizziness. A subject to focus my writing on is what I need...