Oh, trust me, I wanted something different. A lot of people want something different before they are confronted, head-on, with the option of paying for what they want and the opportunity of choosing something else and doing it for free.
I tried, alright. After typing “scribbles on life” with hope written all over my face, I was offered either “screwyou101” or “payup2017”, both of which sound like pyramid schemes to me.
A leer of glee appeared on my face: why not use plural? Scribbles on lives, why not?
I mean, surely, my life is connected to other lives. I once found a fleshy, half-dead moth, nursed it and went outside to set it free. The moth fluttered through the air and I followed it with my gaze, so I also had a clear view of a bird catching it, mid-flight, a few seconds later. I still like to think I saved that bird’s life.
Now, before calling my choice cheap, several things need to be taken into account:
1) I will be extremely delighted if someone ends up reading this, but, ultimately, I write just because I do, every day since I was five. It’s just as natural for me as anything else and for me “can’t you hold it in?” can apply to a lengthy car ride after two cans of beer but not my written outlet. Since I am quite fine with the template and name as they are at the moment, there is no visible reason for me to spend my humble funds;
2) I’m a student (aka financially challenged);
3) there is a sudden increase in my flat’s heating expenses, evidently invented by my landlord, as the average temp. of my bedroom is 12 degrees Celsius. Every evening I look like Frodo when he got caught by the giant spider. Anyhow, with an imminent move-out ahead, my funds are modest enough.
So, that’s that. Writing is beautiful and eye-opening and challenging and sometimes terrifying, when you get all self-conscious, and sometimes you just can’t get the title you wanted or the best writing conditions so you soldier on with what you have and write anyway. I just really like to think that we wouldn’t have the literature classics today if Charlotte Brontë would’ve hissed “Sod it, this is pointless!” after her only pork fat candle went out.