Its no mystery between anyone that has met me that I love the English language. And hare brained schemes. But the latter is somewhat unimportant when compared to today. Today was World Book Day. Or "pick up a book and read day" which seems to be terribly less catchy. In every regard. Also, I forget which one it is.
Nevertheless, im sure that it involved reading. Now reading is an important pastime, which I both enjoy and endure frequently, when the mood strikes. I like it. It takes me to places, inspires and encourages creativity, yadda yadda snore. But there was something about today, and being forced to read, forced, by our delightful head of year that made me feel tired, angry, lonely and confused. And not in a good way, in fact in a manner not unlike having to read Postcards for my infernal English course, it makes me feel like im pressured to do something. Which for me, is an incredibly disgusting feeling. Let me tell you a story...
At the start of year 12, I, like many students, had an incredible amount of free time. The year was new, the school was fresh, and I needed something to occupy my time. I had always like reading the funnies in the papers, I would cut out Garfield, and to a lesser extent Marmaduke and stick them places, because they were funny. I thought "Pfft, I can do that" and so i started drawing. I started drawing alot. I drew to the extent that my work slipped and my grades at the end of the year slipped. But i didn't care, because what I had to show for the drawing was alot of sketchbooks that I could look through and see progress. I dont mean amateur progress, I mean that the cartoons that I was drawing were of passable comic standard. I guess Jim Davis passable.
on may 2007 I attended the Bristol Comic Convention. A distinctly geeky activity but still. I was amazed at the compliments I got for the comics and cartoons I had drawn, and people who asked for my website, to which i would sheepishly reply, "I dont have one guv'nor" (because i was cockney). I drew still, all through the summer, and past the year long threshold, and everything looked great for me in the world of cartoons.
Then one day, I stopped drawing. I just stopped. I stopped, and I never started again. I havent drawn for over 5 months now. Why did I stop? I cant remember, pehaps I lost enthusiasm, perhaps I got bored, perhaps I had a bad day and didnt feel like it. In any case, I had stopped, what felt like for good. For a few weeks after I felt guilty. "perhaps I should draw" I would think to myself, and then something would stop me, and the guiltiness subsided after a while. I cant quite think what it was, but I have a feeling that it was something to do with someone asking me to draw something for them, maybe a logo. Someone I didnt know. The overwhelming feeling of having to actually reach a deadline with something that I felt was a simple creative outlet was pressuring, it was making me worry; "is this good enough, can i reach the deadline, what happens if I forget."
It wasnt a hobby anymore. It was a job. And I didnt like that. Something about being forced to do something that I used uniquely(from a certain point of view) put me off it. So I stopped. And Im afraid that in this respect it didnt make me happy any more. Like reading, and being forced to do it.
The point is that im afraid that being forced to read for three years of university may make me hate reading, and i dont want to do that, ever. So exuuuuuuuse me if i dont want to "Drop everything and pick up a book".
Jesus. My stuff might get damaged.
BUT... all this will never happen with writing right?