Do you ever get sick of yourself?
I do. I get so sick of myself that if I could run away from me I’d jog off doing a mile a minute and never look back. Sometimes I look at myself and think punchable face or I hear myself speaking and think what a tosser. I look at my pals and wonder why do they bother with me?
That’s pretty normal isn’t it?
Of course it is. In fact I think it’s healthy to self loathe every now and again. It prevents you from ever falling into that obnoxious self satisfied smug state of being and from climbing a Hightower and pulling your pants down and dumping on all and sundry. And that’s a good thing isn’t it?
Every now and again I begin to feel bad and sad and generally unhappy with who I am and where I’m going. That’s been my most recent state of mind. It didn’t help that I’m battling allergies on a constant basis so all thoughts are muted by medication and mucus but that’s not a real excuse for my misery. So what the hell was wrong with me? And how dare I feel sorry for myself, the bloody neck of me. Still I did even if it was just a little bit.
Writing blogs is not something I ever thought I’d do. Most of the time, I don’t give a crap about what I think never mind expecting anyone else to. But I’m a storyteller and storytellers need to ensure people are aware they are out there. If they don’t their stories don’t sell and if they don’t sell they can’t keep writing, at least not full time. I’ve tried working a fulltime job and writing and it nearly killed me. So blogs and articles and interviews, TV and social networking it is and there’s nothing wrong with that aside from that small side effect of hyper self awareness. What do I think about this? How do I feel about that? Who am I? Where do I stand? What do I stand for? Where have I been? Where am I going? Where do I want to be? Nobody cares Anna. Not even Anna cares Anna. Shut the hell up Anna. Get a bloody life love.
So what do I do when I become hyper self aware and sick of the sight of myself? I disappear into one of my stories. I become many different people with different lives and sets of problems, joys, losses and loves and when I do that perspective is regained and except for being a snotty mess contentment is restored.
For the past month I’ve been living in the summer of 1990 when Ireland was another country on the brink of the boom years, full of optimism and ready to take on the world. We were in the World Cup and every man woman and child in Ireland celebrated. Against this backdrop I’ve been a young boy fighting to save his mother, an estranged sister returning home after 15 years, a young girl with a crush and stalker tendencies, a smart arse and best friend, a gentle giant, a genius with an attitude, a woman battling to hold on and a man in love about to lose it all.
Every character and story that I write is a break away from being me. I may have spent the majority of this month writing from my bed but it’s turned out to be a hell of a holiday.