The drought has been awful. terrible. Appallingly horrible. My very existence has been in grave peril as a result of a dearth of writing inspiration. I have also begun to be really rather untruthful (hence all the previous statements).

I feel, however, as if a corner has been turned. I must try not to sound too smug as I tell you that I was expecting this (I think I managed it). The thing is, I've been writing for at least three years now (I can't be very accurate with that estimate as I didn't ever mark the day when I began writing anything with a sense of purpose), and I'm getting used to the sine wave-like pattern of my writing habits. It's an organic (not orgasmic: I'd never get anything done if it was) process and I decided a long time ago to avoid fighting with it - it will be what it will be. I feel now that - in contrast to the seasons - the sap is rising and my enthusiasm for putting my pudgy-yet-strangely-cornery fingers (I have an amazing ability to hit two keys instead of one) to the keyboard is returning.

By surfing this not-so-gnarly wave, I think that I continue to fly in the face of the perceived wisdom (especially that which is hurled out at the world on social media), which is best personified by memes which say, in characteristically authoritarian/prescriptive terms: "You should be writing!". Of course there's a humorous underlying tone there, but the message is unremitting, and speaks of a genuine conviction that the word 'should' is an appropriate one to be using. Well (and here my inner Llama comes to the fore), fuck that. I'll write when I want to, which tends, by the way, to coincide with  whenever the  creative juice (usually orange) is flowing. Today, for example, I'll write three blog pieces and perhaps later, if I have the opportunity (don't even try to tell me that I should make the time), I'll do some work on a book. This will be quite a productive day by my own standards.

In the last week I've also received the first ever lukewarm review for Signs of (a) Life, and it was an interesting experience. The person giving me the feedback is a learned man and a writer (although I didn't know that at the time!), and so my first response was acute embarrassment. My second (and more enduring) response was worry - something which lasted several days - about, well, everything to do with my writing. Already, you see, I feel that I could re-write the book in a more pleasing and entertaining way, but after some thought, the Llama tells me that leaving things as they stand is a more honest way to go. Also, I have other projects (too many, I know) to pay attention to.

I'm relieved to find that I haven't once felt angry or offended (my inner Llama has not felt the need to bite any testicles). Everyone, after all, will come to the book with their own perspective, and a book has yet to be written which satisfies or entertains every reader to the same degree. I, for example, have yet to be moved sufficiently to read a great many well-established and undoubtedly talented writers.

Hopefully this bodes well for my future as a writer; hopefully I can learn to ride the choppy waters of opinion and criticism without attaching to such things my age-old emotion of shame. If I can avoid doing so, I may just stick to this  for the rest of what I am hoping will be a long and trouble-causing life...

I should - in the interests of transparency and full disclosure - declare something before I begin. I woke up at 2.30am today and it's now four hours and twenty minutes later. I am not in the best of moods. My toleration gland has shrunk to the size of a raisin, and frankly anything is fair game at this point. So: just be careful. Don't poke me.

​I was lucky enough to receive a high quality education until I was eighteen years old, after which, due largely to not ever properly engaging in my excellent education, I did not attend university. Nevertheless, my secondary education definitely equipped me to be able to pass for someone with an adequate number of functioning neurons, if not exactly being in the Stephen Hawking category. I've managed, so far, to be able to make myself understood both verbally and in the written word - even if what I have to say is not always what people wish to hear or read.

​One slight pitfall of having been lucky enough to be well-educated, is that it tends to throw into sharp contrast how little some people (in particular native English-speakers) seem to have picked up during their own education. usually, it's quite straightforward, for example, to detect whether the mistakes that a writer is making are simple typographical errors, are the product of not having English as their first language, perhaps struggle with dyslexia, or are merely ignorant of correct spelling and basic punctuation or grammar.

​I don't pretend to be a linguist or a master of grammar - and I'm sure I've already a few errors here which will have attracted the attention of such people - but there are some very common and simple screw-ups which set my teeth on edge. I'm thinking of the classic mix-ups involving 'too/to', 'your/you're', there/their/they're', 'were/we're/where' and so on. Some of these - especially coming from the keyboard of native English-speakers, can be infuriating, accompanied as they so often are by opinions about foreigners or immigrants which can generate a maelstrom of unconscious irony. It's so prevalent, there are websites and social media pages devoted to exposing racists who cannot successfully communicate using their own first language.

​I freely admit to huffing and puffing at such things - sometimes the apparent level of ignorance is enough to make me yell at the computer - but typically, I manage to restrain myself and not point out any errors. Sometimes, it's obvious that pointing out the mistakes would be a waste of effort due to the lack of literacy at hand. Sometimes, stupid wins. The vast majority of the time, I step quietly away and do not return.

There is, however, one major exception to my rule: social media pages  for writers. I think it's reasonable to give them a nudge when they make an obvious error, isn't it? Well I do...so, I do.

​What I can't adequately deal with are the people who surface from time to time to point out minor errors, in doing so entirely missing the message that is being communicated. I suspect that such people may defend themselves by suggesting that the errors are an enormous distraction from the successful conveyance of the message, but I in turn suggest that it's bullshit. It's a power trip, plain and simple; one of the myriad of games that we humans play with and against one another as we try to swim against the stream of time and make ourselves feel better about whatever is in our path.

​In particular, online pedantry is, like so much on the internetwebthing, usually the kind of interaction that would never take place face-to-face. It's rather pathetic.

​It happened to me two days ago. During a typically light-hearted exchange with an old friend of mine, I mistakenly (if you wish to look at it that way) used a North American rather than an English spelling of a particular word in a humorous and friendly jibe - the kind of thing that he and I exchange on an almost daily basis. It was the following day when I read his response, which was, very abruptly, a correction of my spelling. In doing so, he'd completely cut dead the conversation by ignoring the subject in order to 'correct' me. I was surprised, both by this response, and also by my emotional reaction to his response. Thinking about it, I realized that I was being affected in precisely the way that prevents me from correcting other people's spelling.

He was, unfortunately, behaving like an arsehole (that's the English spelling of 'asshole', by the way) - spelled 'p-e-d-a-n-t'.

​The result has been - again: surprisingly: profound. It's changed my opinion of him a little - enough to wonder whether or not to stay in contact with him, because I'm not at all interested in that kind of game. I'm not interested in trying to make other people feel less than me in any way. Apparently, though, that's what he's doing...

​Pedants beware.

I was faced with a couple of questions about writing today. Both of them came out of the blue, but fortunately, neither was put to me verbally or face to face. Had they been so delivered I may have: a) made a little yelping noise of surprise, and b) disappeared under my comfort blanket for a couple of minutes.
Since I've had a little time to consider both  enquiries, the fear has passed, and I feel that it's safe to share a thought or two with you on these topics.

'What kind of writer are you?'

Well now, my instinctive, jokey-but-uncomfortable-with-the-thought-that-it-may-be-true response to this was: not a very good one. It's the kind of answer which would be crushing if nobody in the room laughed, mostly because I have a permanent, niggling worry that it IS the truth. If that's the case, then I'd like to improve, but I'm not about to devote my life to that end (any writing purists who torture themselves by reading this blog have permission to swoon now - oh, you have already...). We shall see if my writing gets better, shan't we? On that note, I have recently been enjoying the delights of a Kindle e-reader, and the almost effortless access to  reading material that it affords. I've immersed myself in a number of books lately (reading a lot more than I have done in quite some time), and so with a variety of styles as a background, I decided to re-read 'Signs of (a) Life' for a critical comparison and as an exercise in reflection and self-development. I'm happy to be able to say that I've been pleasantly surprised by the expedition into a book that is almost exactly one year old.

So, flippant answers aside, what kind of writer am I? The strangest thing about this question is that I had, mere hours earlier, had a similar conversation with my beautiful and extremely intelligent wife. The characterization of my writing that I came up with then was 'Conversational'. I try - and for some writers I know that this is akin to wanting to catch Herpes - to write in a way that implies a conversation - a normal conversation - between myself and one reader. I've concentrated upon memoirs for the last two years, and so I've been trying to tell my true stories as if to a friend; the idea being that for much of the time, there is a smile on my face.

I'm a lazy (although I prefer the much more disingenuous term 'relaxed') writer. I have no set schedule - I have a busy enough life without trying to organize it around the whims of creativity. I therefore write when I can or want to, which may mean either when I have the time, or when my mind is in an appropriate state to allow me to do so.

I'm a rebellious writer. You may already have noticed this. I have little or no time for arrogance in the writing community. One day (after I have invented the 'Like Liam's Books' ray machine), I will line up all the smug, know-it-all bastards who have ever posted about what we MUST do to be as successful as them, and editors who take the view that the author is a person to be moulded into their personal version of a proper writer. I shall line them up against a wall and have  a troupe of Gorillas throw poo at them. That'll teach them to be bossy with me.

I'm a niche writer. I write for a very, very tiny market - namely, my descendants. First and foremost, my attitude is that when I'm working on a memoir I'm writing to one of my kids about my life. My hope is that whatever I commit to print will be a window into this life; the kind of window that I have never had into my ancestor's lives.

I'm an explorer. When I'm writing fiction (which takes up less of my time, but is something I want to start doing more of, especially when I've come to the end of what I feel to be a memoir trilogy), I'm treading upon new ground. I'm stepping nervously into a jungle of ideas and dark, unknown spaces, in the hope that something enjoyable will result from it. As a child I used to wade into these forests of thoughts and imaginings, but age, tempering my recklessness with the memory of those shadowy places, has increasingly restrained me. One day I hope to once again slash my way into the jungle with a virtual machete, but for now I make do with a tooth pick.
 
'What is your favourite thing about writing?'

I have a little problem answering this question without my response being tainted by the experience I've had of reading so many comments from writers who feel moved to tell me (and the rest of the planet) how difficult it all is. You know: the ones I bitch about from time to time...

It's perhaps not surprising, then, that my favourite thing about writing (so far) has been how easy it has been. Now - wait a moment, before (if you're an angst-ridden writer, especially) you puff out your cheeks, bluster a little and start saying things like "Outrageous!", "Well, upon my soul!", "The unbelievable arrogance of it!" or even "The lucky bastard!", please allow me to explain what I mean.  I don't find writing particularly easy, given that what I would like to do is to write as well as I can. I hope that will change as I continue to practice and try to improve how I express my thoughts, but at the moment much of what I write I feel dissatisfied with. The most difficult part of that can be that I don't always clearly understand exactly what I'm unhappy with...but that's really not a huge burden to be carrying around.

To me, writing isn't difficult. Physical labour in stifling heat is difficult (I avoid it, although I could, in an emergency, be pushed to help build a working aeroplane from the wreckage of another which has crashed in the desert, stranding me and my fellow passengers and leaving us with the stark choice of build or die...). Being a single parent is difficult. Living with a disability or chronic illness is bloody difficult, as I remind myself whenever I sit in my car and watch some unfortunate soul struggle across the road in front of me. By comparison to any of those things, writing is simple. By comparison, writing is easy - it's something that I can sit down and get on with (even if that means staring at the screen, inwardly cursing).

I may not be able to write very well (I'll throw in an optimistic 'yet', here), but the act of writing is easy to achieve, and that makes it the easiest hobby that I've ever had. Playing rugby, for example, was a lot less straightforward, despite the fact that I loved every second of it. There was the kit to prepare, the booking time off work when possible, the travel to the games, keeping reasonably fit, being injured and all that malarkey. Now, to indulge myself, I simply have to find my way to the office, park my generous derriere upon the chair and have at it.

It would probably be a lot less satisfying, of course, if I were relying on my writing to pay the bills. But I'm not. This is my world and my life, and this is my writing journey, whether it be a cul-de-sac or an avenue to something even more fulfilling. Who knows what the future will be like (although I'm pretty sure that hover-cars and personal jet packs will never really be commercial successes)?

I'm having a bit of an existential crisis. One that may be peculiar to writers or artists. I am not, you see, the person you may think I am; I am not Liam Samolis.  Well, I suppose I am in at least one sense, since that is what I've chosen to call myself for the purpose of writing my memoir series and this website. My real name, however, is...something different.  My first and last initials are the same, but that's where the similarities end.

Originally, I decided to use a pseudonym because of the nature of the material I was writing. it was/is intensely personal (if no longer private) and I have no desire to cause anyone mentioned (despite the fact that there isn't a single genuine name in any of the books) even the slightest embarrassment. Most of all, I wanted to protect my children and as a consequence allow them to remain anonymously related to the author of the true stories I have been telling.

But now...well, I think I'll persevere with the pseudonym for a while, but the original drive to remain anonymous is receding as it becomes evident that the need to do so is not as great as I thought it might be. Also, it must be said that I find it a bit of a nuisance having two names online - I frequently have to duplicate social media posts, for example, and I know that a lot of spontaneous opportunities for self publicity go begging as a result. There is, finally, the laziness factor, which is a hard one to ignore. Having one name is so much easier...

I'll continue to mull it over: shall my 'public' persona remain Liam Samolis, or eventually revert to L** S****** ?