To write or not?

When people find out I am taking time off from a full time job, they suggest - almost all of them - that I should write a book. So many of my friends and contemporaries have been doing just that for years now and I think they are very brave. As for me, a book is a brilliant idea, but for some reason I have never wanted to write one. It is just not my thing, as I keep telling these people. When would I have the time - now, I am told, now that I do not have to go through the routine of getting set to go out every morning and coming back late every evening, with no energy, even if I had the inspiration, to do more than just wiggle my fingers at Small Cat and wonder if I can stay awake long enough to see at least the start of CSI.

Ok, so I have the time these days. Do I have the inspiration? Well, I could come up with some. May even be fun. I could write about my own life, which I don't find especially unusual or interesting, but could make the stuff of great novels, in parts, sort of like the egg of the curate who, if you ask me, was a rather bad cook - or had one, I don't know which. I could put bits of it, nicely embroidered, into a steamy romance novel, with the hero a tall, dark, handsome and, very unlike reality, intelligent man who satisfies the wish list of any sane woman. But then why would he be single, right? If he was, he would be embittered and nasty, a commitment-phobe, gay, or just plain untenable in some way, be it via bad breath or bad karma. On the other hand, steering far away from my private life, I could write a travel-food book. How I Ate My Way Through Europe, or Eating With Your Fingers In America, or even Cooking In A Campus Apartment.

But today people want to read books that are deep, exploring the psyche and existentialist sensibilities of people. Very few choose - or admit they do - stuff that is fun, that doesn't do more than talk about scenarios with a few corpses, a kiss or two, some chasing through the dark streets of a big city and a couple of dragons, some magic and a love story, all included in the complicated and hilarious plot. That would be my kind of book, one that laughs at itself as much as it makes its readers laugh. One that has something serious to say, but not in any way that is serious or sledgehammer-ish or preachy or even dire. Few people read for the fun of seeing words jump through hoops, to find a new way of saying something old, to explore just what can be said when it is, in any obvious way, unsaid.

Be all that as it may, why don't I write a book? Because, frankly, I don't think I can. It takes a mind that is not trained to edit, to express what needs to be said. When you are more used to cleaning up other people's writing in a newspaper, a magazine, a website, a script or even a book, you see too much, you analyse too much, you dig too deep to just be able to say something simply and easily. You are always correcting yourself and finding hidden meaning in what you write, so you cannot just appreciate the beauty of language without making a special effort to do so by dissociating from your work. Which makes writing a chore, hard work, something that needs attention and some degree of pain. Which makes it no fun, no joy. Which makes it a no-no for me.