I’m not a great writer.
Wait, scratch that. Let me start again.
I want to write something dreadful.
Okay, wait. Third time lucky.
I’m a good writer, but I’m not great. I write a lot, but I never write for myself. I write as part of a collective, as part of a bigger project that isn’t really about words, but does need them sometimes.
The whole experience makes me itch to write something that is 100% me. Where I make every single decision, and go with my gut instinct, and only have myself to answer to.
When I try to understand people, and the concepts that they accept without question or reject in horror (sometimes seemingly at random), I imagine their mind as a three-dimensional object.
A landscape, or – I suppose – a mindscape. Craggy peaks and plunging chasms. Rolling plains and towering mountains.
Sometimes a thought drift downs from the ether and lands neatly into a hollow that fits it perfectly. Sometimes it bumps awkwardly into a foothill and rolls away.
We can change our mindscape, albeit slowly. We can leave it entirely alone and only accept the thoughts that click into place, but that’s far more dangerous.
I work with a lot of different people with a lot of different mindscapes. Sometimes I’ll get excited about a creative idea that doesn’t fit into their brains the way it fits into mine.
I want to write something where that doesn’t matter any more, and I get to just… run with it.
It’ll be rubbish. I don’t ever do that sort of thing, so don’t have good habits yet. I haven’t learned how to recognise red flags in that area. I also won’t have people course correcting my bad ideas.
It’ll be rubbish. But it’ll be my rubbish.