Welcome and all that.

He nervously walks into the party and says a shy "hello..."

There is nothing worse for anyone with literary aspirations than staring at a blank page.

Especially when you are the greatest writer since Shakespeare. But I’d better qualify that statement…

While lying in bed at 3Am, sitting on the toilet seat, gazing out of the window on buses and trains, staring ahead ion traffic jams, or wolfing down solitary meals in restaurants, I have composed some of the greatest stories, novels, essays, poems and haiku known to man. Without exception they have the sublimity of Browning, the fluidity of Shakespeare, the erotic frisson of Burroughs (William, not Edgar Rice,) the suspense of Burroughs (Edgar Rice, not William,) the insight of Kirkegaard, the originality of Fernando Pessoa and the charm and humour of P G Wodehouse.

Unfortunately, when I finally manage to get these ideas down onto a screen via my keyboard, they come out with the sublimity of Kirkegard, the humour of Burroughs (William OR Edgar Rice,) and the erotic frisson of Wodehouse.

In short, ladies and gentlemen, I have, many times, concussed myself on the brick wall between intentions and ability. I have nothing against the English language per se. It’s one of the most versatile, poetic tongues ever invented (or synthesised.) With just 26 letters it’s capable of producing prose that can sear its way across a reader’s psyche in lines of flame. But just as the best tools in the world would be wasted on an unskilled craftsman, so such a wonderful tongue is wasted on a tryhard hack like me.

However…

I write.

I vividly remember the day I obtained my first record player. It was a plastic portable mono device, with the fidelity of Casanova on Valium, that would make the average hi-fi nut run screaming for a fall-out shelter. But it had one advantage. It played music. I had, in a very real sense, made the ultimate upgrade. From nothing at all, to something. Years later, I obtained my first car. A Holden Sunbird, with an underpowered motor, vinyl seats, and with such a spartan options list that I wondered if it had been designed as a fleet special for anchorites. Yet it took me from hundreds of Point As to a similar number of Point Bs… sure, upgrading from a Ford to a Ferrari would be brilliant. But the best of upgrade of all, once again, is from nothing to something.

And surely, the same goes for literary creation. No matter how much I might lag behind the greats (or even the also-rans) at least I’m a nose ahead of those who never write at all. I’ve even managed to con publishers into paying me money for six novels. And over the years, stuff I’ve put up on the web has given a certain amount of pleasure to a lot of people, if only the delightful schadenfreude of them being able to say “Hey,I’m not the worst writer in the world, after all!”

Sure, I’m no great writer. Nothing I ever put down is going to change the universe. But these swirling chaotic thoughts and imaginary people and ideas inside me… eventually, in a distorted, watered-down way, they find their way into a reader’s mind. Ideally, I’d like to find my way into a few hearts, too. But until I reach that inspired stage (and after many decades, I am no closer to it than when I started) I plod on, doing the semi-mediocre best I can.

So, doubleyew-tee-eff, here’s a blog. Whatever…

And here’s the link to some of my non-professional fiction.

http://www.short-fiction.co.uk/member.php