Yesterday, I read this http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying?INTCMP=SRCH for the second time. The first time, I’d thought “yeah, yeah”, no surprises there. The second time, I did what most people must and thought about it: what will I say when someone asks me what my biggest regret in the time before dying?
My greatest regret will always be my greatest regret and there’s nothing I can do about it.
My second biggest regret is different. I’ve always been a reader for the joy of escaping into somebody else’s imagination; there’s nothing better than a good book as the saying goes. But you know when you have those moments, where you think I’m going to remember saying/doing that (or not saying or not doing that) for a long time to come? I had one of those moments in a school corridor at lunchtime (this was years ago, obviously) where we were talking about what we wanted to do with our lives and I said “I’m going to write a book”. And you know what? I am, sort of. There are currently 87 thousand odd – often very odd – words of one on my laptop. Stan laughs at me when I wave the slowly thickening printed version at him, squeaking “Look, look what I’ve done”. He thinks that I’ll chicken out, you see. He knows that I’m terrified of exposing the inner workings of my mind – not to mention my tenuous grip on the rules of grammar – to the terrifyingly professional gatekeepers of the publishing industry.
Because it does seem that I don’t just want to write a book, I want to have it published. I would like nothing better for other people to find their escape in my imagination. As yet, I don’t have an ending, the middle still confuses me, let alone anyone else, and the beginning takes place about three hours too soon. But I’m still going (on and on and on, yes I know, I’m reaching the point right about now): this is me, doing something about another big obstacle, besides finishing the damn thing, and that is writing stuff for people to actually read.
Or not. I guess, but the web is crowded by people talking to what looks like empty space in the hope that someone, somewhere might join in. Please do. I came here to get used to the idea of people having access to my wittering. Let me know what you think by all means and, if you like, witter back. Share this patch of space: what you would regret? More importantly, what would you like to do about it now? After all, anyone might be watching? (No, Cameron, I don’t mean you, you bastard!) Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know that the world wide web might help?