What have I gotten myself into?
It started when I cast a guilty glance over at a sheet of paper on one side of my desk.
A list of blog topics. Well, no, a list of potential blog topics.
I hadn’t actually gotten much further with any of them than a headline and a rough outline. Some of the points towards the top were relatively solid, but the further down the list I read, the more it sounded like Alan Partridge pitching TV ideas at a disinterested BBC Commissioning Editor. Anyone for Monkey Tennis?
As a freelance writer, my job revolves around writing interesting, engaging content. When it comes to writing for other people, I genuinely enjoy the work and am at least pretty proficient at it. But when it comes to writing things for myself… that’s another thing altogether.
Writing my own copy is daunting. Something that can always be put off until the end of the week, and then the next, and then the next. Until it never gets done at all.
The guilt I felt reading down the list of blogs that would never see the light of day was a real creativity killer. Luckily, I have a failsafe method for occasions like this: I go to my record player and put something on.
I could tell from my mood that it was a day for Tom Waits. Atmospheric conditions meant it had to be Rain Dogs.
The reassuring hum of the turntable. The gentle crackle of the needle skipping across the grooved vinyl surface. Then Waits’ anachronistic rasp tore through the quiet. Singapore. Has there ever been a stranger, more mad-cap, just straight-up weirder album opener than this? The sheer confidence of it. No pontificating about whether people will like it. No explanation given for lines like “making feet for children’s shoes” or “Every witness turns to steam / They all become Italian dreams“. Just a gravelly voice dragging you down a dark musical alleyway – press-ganging you aboard a ship bound for a nightmarish, alternate-timeline version of Singapore. “Away, boys. Heave away.”
So, Tom Waits can do all that, and I’m stumbling over writing a few words and posting them on the internet.
Well, no more. Time to get over it.
So I did what any self-respecting millennial with an axe to grind would. I tweeted about it.
No more excuses. Every week, I’m going to sit down, put on a record, make myself a cup of coffee and write something about it.
And I’m going to do it every week for a year.
Here’s the rules:
So, here we are. That’s us all caught up.
No more Youth Hostelling with Chris Eubank for me. Time to ramble about music and get over my hang up.
Away, boys. Heave away.