Quantity Over Quality

It’s a numbers game, really. As I’ve heard a friend say on more than one occasion, “Throw enough shit at the wall and some of it’ll stick.” (Yes, it is a lovely turn of phrase, do feel free to drop it into everyday conversation yourself.) Some writers agonise over every word, only committing to what they are absolutely convinced is the correct word, phrase, sentence, paragraph to eternity once they are assured that it meets their criteria. This is an approach that absolutely works for some and has no doubt produced works of insight and beauty over the years. For me, though, it’s about making sure that I keep writing as, if I stop, it could well be six years before I start up again.

For me, writing is something that I have to keep doing otherwise I won't do it. Yes, I realise that sounds a little tautological but give me that one. It’s a momentum thing - once I’ve gathered enough speed and made it into a daily routine, I’ll keep going. Stop that forward motion and it’ll take me a long while to get going again. I guess my hope is that if I keep writing enough words, eventually there’ll be a selection of them in the right order that qualify as being “quite good”; the old “infinite monkeys producing the works of Shakespeare” technique in that there’s no real intelligence behind just a statistical chance of goodness.

All of which is to say that this is the technique that I am currently employing. Keep writing, keep plugging, produce the words, stick on the page, maybe it’ll be something, say something, mean something. If the content isn’t there, does it improve form? Can the form be the content? Can you consisting write about nothing in particular on and off for the best part of thirteen years and hope that people will keep reading? Well, to the three of you that are still persevering with this, thank you for your kind patronage thus far. I’ll keep sticking these letter based forms of communication down on the age if you keep using light and a sort of water and flesh-based lens to convert them into electrical signals in a meaty lump in your skull which creates meaning. All sounds a bit implausible when you put it like that, doesn’t it?

All of which is to say that it’s Friday evening so we should probably all go to the pub instead. Mine’s a pint if you’re buying.