I have to be the first to admit that most of what I write can easily be classed as rubbish.
I qualify that by comparing my weedy efforts to those who write stuff that others eagerly read.
As my mother used to dictate to me, I should know my place in the world and my own limitations. My mum dictated many things to me and a good half of them went in one ear and out the other.
While I’ll never forget my roots or have notions above my station, I argued the toss about bettering oneself above the expectations of others.
I have and I do, except climbing above the rubbish I write and edit.
I know I am not on my Todd. There are umpteen like me, writing for their own reasons and sanity and whether they get read or not, the payback is the pleasure that comes from expressing what oozes from their brain.
Maybe 90% of what people write might be deemed as rubbish by those who read it?
Maybe the same 90% of what gets written never gets read.
From that, logic tells me that if no one ever plonks their eyeballs on it, it can’t be deemed as rubbish.
Argh! Back to square one. Me admitting that I write rubbish.
This is not a craving for acknowledgement. Reality might give me the slip from time to time, but crikey, it only takes half a brain to see how brilliant others write and how clever they present it.
Most of what I write has been written before, in some shape or form. I stumble over my socks to avoid plagiarism and the judgement that would bring. I spend hours writing, editing and pondering, just to meet my selfish need to make my written rubbish uniquely my own.
Like my trash bin and the bigger recycling one, I couldn’t care less whether the council check the contents or reprimand me for putting the wrong rubbish in the wrong bin. In this daft and crazy world, such things happen here in the UK.
Lest we forget, around the world one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
On that very note, I still like to think the nonsense my brain produces and gets thrown by me into the public abyss has a remote chance of adding colour or enlightenment to someone’s life.
As writers often struggle with inspiration, you never know if a bit of rubbish writing might actually pinch someone’s bum, leading to the potential euphoria of writing something good.
In which case, the writing is far from rubbish.
The world needs writers like me. Without us, the comparison between rubbish and brilliance might not be what it is, and a source of inspiration would be lost to the world of writers.
I feel better now, knowing my puny efforts have a place in the world.
My mother would be dead pleased!