Persisting with my annoying auto-didactory theme of pretending to ask myself questions and then answering them, I move on to what?

That is to say: what should my subject matter be?

That ought to be a simple enough question, didn’t it? Especially when you compare it with its compatriots: why is invariably the most complicated question of all; when, at least my when, is mostly about practical considerations, and as such almost insurmountable; how is extremely important, and I imagine defines an artist more than any other trait – it deserves much closer examination; who is superficially facile, but has enough scope to be easily overcomplicated. But, especially for somebody so desperate to be creative, almost to the point of not caring about the actual means of creative manifestation, what shouldn’t be a sticking point. I’m surprised about how much of one it is.

I’d like to think that the answer should be whatever you like. Should it not? That’s one of the major reasons it’s creative: the words, the setting, the personalities, the messages, the whole tableau, they all come from you; the creator, the artist.

And that’s where my problem arises. There’s too much. There are so many things to say. I think at least partly the skill lies in selecting the correct ones in the first place: what’s important? what’s funny? what’s poignant? Maybe more important to me at the moment is to consider: what will people actually want to read? Sometimes my judgement of that lets me down, possibly. I’m not in the position of writers like Ian McEwan and Haruki Murakami, who have earned a reputation which allows them to churn out pretty much whatever they like now. And they do. And if I needed proof that envy is an unattractive character trait, I’ve just given it to myself.

Maybe I ought to take some time to clear my mind of all these concerns, all the uncertainty, and just write what comes naturally? Good idea, and easier said than done. So many trains of thought are vying for my attention: a history of our football club; a sequel/prequel to Stories From a Faraway Place; a novel I’ve started and abandoned a couple of times called Under the Sun; there’s a short story of mine I’d love to turn into a novel; I want to write more short stories, as they’re so much fun. In the meantime, my notebook of ‘unformed ideas’, where I hide scenarios or sentences or paragraphs which I don’t want to die, continues to accumulate bulk.

Is this how it is for proper writers, the sort who make a living from it? At the darkest moments I conjure up a vision, inevitably wildly inaccurate, of a perfect, neat list of topics through which these sainted beings work methodically and free of stress. Other masochistic imaginings involve the writer nurturing and developing a single strand, like a potter at a wheel or a glassblower, slowly and gradually, into a magical final form. Once complete, they sit back, turn their back on their work and meditate peacefully until the muse visits next. Mind you, I often feel similar things about parents with only a single child.

The truth, of course, is bound to be something a little more varied. Some writers must work in that way, and good luck to them. Others will be a little more like me, a little more chaotic. To be honest, my whole life is carried out like that – I find it difficult to concentrate on a single thing at a single time. It would be stupid to imagine that nobody else operates in the same way.

Perhaps if when weren’t such a problem, then what would become less of one. If I knew I had unlimited dedicated writing time, I expect I’d be more relaxed about the order in which I attack everything. But currently I feel like a confused, hungry lion in the centre of a swarm of drowsy gazelles. Or, more philosophically, Buridan’s ass, but with a whole host of piles of food dotted around me at equal distances. Not only do I run the risk of starving to death, metaphorically speaking, while I procrastinate, but the literary world is missing out on my creations. This is an even larger catastrophe.

For now, though, and actually while I’ve been writing this post, I think I’ve settled on my next project. I’ll continue to report on progress, in between those accursed bursts of day-job. In the meantime I’ve posted another chapter of Stories From a Faraway Place. That means that over half of the novel is now on this site. I still consider it my best effort so far – I felt very comfortable within the community I invented there – and I continue to attempt to interest a publisher.