I’ve been doing a lot of writing lately. The paid kind. Parts of it is probably some of the best writing I’ve ever done. I say parts, because what I mean are parts of the pieces rather than whole pieces. I have passages here and there which I genuinely love, but overall all I can see is just how far it have to go before I can look myself in the eye.

The other issue is the knowledge that what I am writing is content rather than art. To be perfectly frank, in a way I can be nowhere else except with close friends, I want to be famous. The kind of famous where people stop me on the street and tell me how they love my stuff. The adoration of strangers. And it’s never going to happen if I keep writing in third person.

Very specific detail, isn’t it? But it doesn’t matter how well I write in third person, no one ever cares about the author of third person pieces. Brilliant third person pieces are always about the content. The author erases themselves. But with brilliant first person pieces one always falls in love with the author.

But my feeling right now is that my best stuff lies in other people’s stories, not my own. I am best standing outside, looking in. We do, after all, live in an amazing world full of weird and wonderful people. And I always amazed at the way they are wiling to let me into their life and share some deep, dark things they didn’t even know they wanted to share. I’m honored really.

But people want to hear from their writers, and parts of me wants to give it to them. I call it “strategic panty flashing”. Not something I will do all the time or even often.