(Things are starting to happen in my life, and I’m going to be starting a new HBenjaminPetrie blog soon to tell you all about them and offer practical advice based on my own experiences of trying new things. I just haven’t set it up yet. So in the mean-time, so I’m not posting a whole bunch of stuff to it at once, I’m going to be putting a few posts on this blog. Stick around and let me know what you think)

I don’t have a particularly difficult job, but it is very draining, sitting in an office for eight hours a day, five days a week, dealing with computer systems that don’t really work. I haven’t written a word of prose fiction since I started this job in October and, despite all the other great things about my life, I haven’t been very happy about that fact.

Sure I could force myself to write, maybe get up earlier or go to bed later, or give up something else, but as it has been, by the time I’ve gotten home from work, showered, made and eaten dinner, all I want, or have the energy to do, is play a video-game or spend some time with my girlfriend. Same with weekends, my two free days a week. I might get some blogging done, but the rest of the time I’m either spending time with my girlfriend or consuming entertainment.

It’s not all bad of course, I have fun, I do enjoyable things, but I just don’t get any writing done, and that feels like a betrayal of who I am, after I’ve studied to become a writer for three years, and practised for much longer, to sit in a dead-end office job and not do any writing.

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I’m not sure if this is the same for all writers, but I have to really feel what I write. I suppose it probably is the same for all the best writing, otherwise fiction is just churned out soullessly. That’s kind of how I felt reading Truman Capote’s The Grass Harp. It’s well-written, no doubt, but I didn’t really get any feeling from it, like he didn’t feel anything when he wrote it. If I don’t feel anything when I write, my writing becomes lifeless, and lately I haven’t been feeling anything.

You might recall the work I posted recently, An Unfamiliar Girl (extract from my current work). That seems to have halted production at around the twelve-thousand-word mark, and I still feel I’ve barely begun it. I’m quite sure there’s enough material in it for a novel, but it’s just writing the novel that’s the tricky part. And this one seems to have become tricky because it is based so much on feelings, rather than plot.

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A week ago I was pretty definitely doing the creative writing MA at the University of East Anglia. Now I’m not so sure. It seemed logical: finish my BA in writing, don’t get a job; go part-time for two years on an MA course, use that time to write a novel and then hopefully get it published when I leave. But how old am I? Twenty. And how good a writer am I? I don’t know. Unpublished, still, but I’ve never sent anything off anywhere, never known where to send something to, and never have anything I want to send off. My course leader said a while ago that I was the best prose writer the course had had in ‘at least a couple of years’, but he seemed less confident in my ability to get onto UEA’s MA than I was. Big fish in a small pond? Maybe.

Besides, he suggested it’s usually better to take a break between BA and MA. But what to do in a break? I don’t want to work in a shop, I’m especially sure of that after the over-time I did in a co-op shop I’d never been in before. I want a job that either makes use of whatever writing ability I have, or one at least that I have to do some training for. Something semi- rather than un-skilled. I have no idea what, however. That’s why I’m going to see our uni’s careers adviser next Tuesday, a man I’d never considered seeing until he came to give us a brief seminar last week. He suggested that one shouldn’t do an MA just because one can’t think of anything else to do.
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I just watched Grizzly Man, a 2005 documentary about a man who lived in the Alaskan wilderness with brown bears for thirteen summers, filming them and campaigning for their protection, until he was eventually killed by one of them. It was an engaging look at a man’s obsessiveness, in this case an obsession with bears, with leaving the human world to live in their world. Why are stories of obsession so interesting? King of Kong: A fistful of Quarters is similar in that it brings the viewer to identify and empathise with a man who devoted a vast amount of time to being recognised as the greatest Donkey Kong player in the world.

I suppose obsession and enthusiasm make people interesting, and perhaps tell us something of the doggedness of human nature. Perhaps people just like to see people with focus to their lives, regardless of what, or how absurd, that focus is. Do we all feel lacking in focus at times? All the time? I certainly do, quite often. I try to focus my life on writing, but that’s not always possible. I only put Grizzly Man on because I didn’t feel in the right frame of mind to write, and I didn’t want to spend hours forcing words or staring at blank pages.

A good friend of mine told me she felt jealous sometimes of people who had focus or hobbies or know what they want to do. She cited my writing as an example, that she felt she doesn’t really have anything like that. I worry though, as I suppose, or hope, all creative people do, about whether I really am good, or as good as I want to be, which is very good, or if I just want to be so much that I convince myself I am. Especially now, it feels more of concern, because as I go forwards I stake more of myself on writing, as I spend years at university paying to learn how to become a better writing, working towards leaving with a degree in writing and nothing but.

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