– The following is an extract from a semi-fictional novel I’m working on. It is based on my experience of taking part in medical trials as a lifestyle and tells the tale of a disenfranchised young man living on the edge of society and finding his place in the world while meeting fellow drifters along the way. It is still a work in progress and one that will keep being developed as I continue living this way and collecting more material for the book, but for now I will post extracts on here. Previous instalments can be found here.
After a while, I did actually decide to do something productive. I started a blog. I had failed to get any writing done in the clinic due to the lack of solitude, but now I had no excuses – my room and the conservatory were there for me to type away in glorious isolation. Solitude was important to a writer and I always saw those people sitting in busy cafes writing their novels as mere posers. To me, writing was an intensely private art. It was a chance for a person to retreat from the world, collect their thoughts, and try to make sense of what the hell was going on. Naturally, it only made sense that a person was best positioned to do this while alone in a room. Now my medical trial money afforded me both time and solitude, I figured it was the time to fulfil my literary destiny. I sat alone at my work station, my old laptop on the desk, the blank page ready to be assaulted by the genius my brain possessed. Yes, sure, I was technically unemployed, but in my head I was a man with important work to do. Even when I was out roaming the world, getting drunk with strangers, scratching my arse and staring into space, deep down I knew it was all research for my true profession of writing. I was a man soaking in the human experience only to reap it later when I put words to paper. However, try to explain this to peers or parents when they see you without a stable job, wandering around the world, living out of a backpack, experiencing life but not “putting any roots down”, then you were sure to be met with rolled eyes and raised eyebrows. And then, of course, there was the unfortunate fact that less than one percent of writers made enough money to live off. It was a fool’s crusade and truly you had to be a bit insane or deluded to want to be a writer primarily in this life. I think a bit of both and then you were really in Kafka or Bukowski territory. But ultimately in my eyes the true writer didn’t have a choice; once that bug had bitten and you were infected with the madness, it was either you got the words down or died trying.
Like every other creative person, I was a thief, and the blog I started was inspired by ‘Humans of New York’. It was a blog that uploaded photos of New York residents and some dialogue about life there in the big apple. I guess a part of me liked the personal nature of it – the everyday person being able to share their introspective thoughts on the world around them. I had an idea to do something similar related to my past travels, so I found a website where I could get copyright-free images of people hiking in nature. I’d then upload them to the blog alongside some sort of internal dialogue about life or society. The concept was that people would share their thoughts on society while outside of it – as if that was the space to make sense of the world and see it through sober eyes. It only seemed fitting then to name it ‘The Thoughts From The Wild’. Unlike the Humans of New York blog though, it was really just me writing and pretending to be these people in the pictures. I liked the anonymous nature of it, almost Banksy-esque, and I only uploaded photos of people without their face visibly to maintain the innominate vibe. The thought did occur to me that maybe I was just too cowardly to put my name and face to the words. Yeah, probably it was a bit of that too.
Anyway, I went live with it and started posting my musings to the internet world. My work had begun and it was after a week or two that I started getting visitors to the blog. I sat back at that keyboard like a man of purpose; like a man of importance. For the first time in my life, people were reading and interacting with my writing. Even just a few likes, comments, and shares was like spiritual heroin to me. People thanking you for your words; people sharing them and getting emotional about something you’ve written. It was a rare and strange feeling to see something you’d created be of emotional worth to people; it was even enough to remind you that you weren’t totally batshit crazy for having these thoughts in the first place (social gratification…. yeah, I guess I was as guilty as the next man). Although there was a part of me which identified with the purposeless life, I also knew there was a yearning in my soul to create or leave something behind in this tortured world. Having a mission or purpose was commonplace to most, of course, but mine – like every artist – was a crazy one. I wanted to create art. I wanted to affect people through my words. I wanted to change lives and inspire people to live fearlessly and unforgivably. I knew from an outside perspective a lot of people would look at me and see me as an unemployed, unmotivated bum with no drive or ambition, but to me it wasn’t like that at all. It’s just my ambition was different from most people. I didn’t care about status, or material goods, or stability and security. To me that was all corrosive to the soul. All I cared about was what my heart was guiding me towards – whether that was to a mountain top in the Himalayas, or to writing a book, or even just having some understanding of who you really are. These things were what I craved and I was relentless as any sociopathic businessman in pursuit of my desires. But unfortunately the world had a rigid image of what success was and for that I was seen as a loser by many people. But I accepted that. I had my own philosophy and to me success was any human who managed to go out into the world and live their best life. Ultimately, success was living life so that if you were to die at any moment, you could sail off into the abyss with no regrets, knowing you’d lived your life as true and as pure as you could.
That was one of the key themes of my blog and I typed out such ideas alongside those images of people hiking in nature. I quickly realised the anonymous nature of the blog allowed me to write more fearlessly than I ever had before. Not thinking about what people would think of me, I was able to let rip and spew out all my deepest thoughts and feelings. I had to think of one of the Greek philosophers again: “Give a man a mask and he’ll tell you the truth.” It was exactly that, and without my name attached to the writing, I was able to write from the heart and not from the ego. My words flowed out of me and I was soon racking up followers – two-thousand in the first few weeks to be exact. I sat back at that desk feeling like old Shakespeare himself. Finally I had a voice and the excitement of it propelled me on and on. I even went as far as investing some of my medical trial money into advertising on social media. This soon started getting me even more followers. In they came from all across the world: America, Australia, Europe, Asia. I could see it now: writing my way to the big time while living off medical trials. I’d never have to work again; just test drugs and write until writing was enough to just live off. Finally, I’d found my place in the world; finally, I’d have an answer to the awful ‘what do you do?’ question. Okay, maybe the delusion was sweeping me away again.
One day I was writing in the conservatory when Sean came stumbling in. He saw me sitting there with my laptop and asked what I was up to. “Just a bit of writing mate,” I told him as I carried on typing, hoping he took the hint to leave me alone.
“Oh yeah, what sort of thing are you writing about?” It was no use. For a moment I considered telling him and even sharing some of my writing with him. He was a man who had just lived in a treehouse in Mexico for ten years while playing his guitar and teaching English – a man who had clearly taken a few too many psychedelics through the years and was completely out of loop with mainstream society. No doubt the things I wrote on the blog would appeal to him, but for some reason I couldn’t be bothered. I was still secretive about it, I guess. “Ahh nothing important. Just a few short stories,” I finally said.
“Well it’s good to have a creative passion,” he said joyfully, snapping his finger at me. “You know, I’ve been playing the guitar for over forty years now and, for me, I do it because I love it. But I believe I am great at it because I have put in the hours, and if you put in enough hours with your writing, you can be great at that too. Have you read the ten thousand hour theory?” I knew what he was on about straight away. A man had once written a book claiming that if you devoted ten thousand hours to anything, you could master it. For some reason I told him I hadn’t though; I think I just wanted to hear him explain it in his own awkward way. He did exactly that as he explained the theory and encouraged me to keep on writing until I had amassed those ten thousand hours. He went on for a few minutes, telling me what a great guitarist he is, and that I could be as great as he is one day if I persevered with my writing. He then left, but not before giving me a copy of Game of Thrones. “A little inspiration for you,” he said, not knowing I had zero interest in writing fantasy novels.
After he left, I sat there staring at my screen and thinking about what he’d said. He’d been practising and playing his guitar all his life, writing his own songs. No doubt at some point he probably thought he would be the next Bob Dylan. His guitar playing was good, but unfortunately his singing was atrocious, and I didn’t care what anyone said: you either have the talent or you don’t. The voice, the words, the vision – it cannot be taught or learned or stolen. Naturally it made me reflect on my own abilities. Here I was at twenty-seven thinking I had something inside of me – some talent that would lead me to my destiny as a writer. It was probably just the same feeling he had when he was young. Hell, it’s the same feeling every artist, writer, singer, actor or whatever has. Everyone thinks they have the special magic but, of course, it wouldn’t be special unless only a few people out there actually possessed it. No doubt in thirty years time, I’d be just like Sean – approaching the retirement age, unemployed with no savings, living in a shared house with no friends or partner. A madman or freak to the rest of the world. It was almost enough to make me think about packing it all in and getting a career, but the bug was simply too strong. There was no way to stop myself from heading down the same path as Sean had. And even though Sean was a bit crazy and annoying, he had a purity about him that was rarely found in someone past the age of thirty, let alone sixty. With that I mind, I kept on strumming away on that keyboard. Even if I was going to end up destitute, or starve in a ditch, my words would keep raining down on those pages. Nothing was going to stop me. Nothing was going to make me give up the delusional dreams inside my head. Yes, I thought, looking at a Van Gogh painting on the conservatory wall, maybe – just maybe – I was crazy enough to actually make it.