It’s an illustrious day for this Substacker. How far we have come!
But first I must apologise. Once again I am sorry to postpone my long awaited and much anticipated post on door knobs - a complementary works to Tristram Shandy’s conclusive thesis on the subject. I venture to say it won’t be in vain, for it is this very post that marks an austere occasion. It happens that it’s the second year anniversary of my very first Substack post. Thank you thank you, please resume your seats and I will take you through the ordeal blow by blow, an account of the rigorous experiment to test every aspect of the hypothesis: practice makes perfect. Mark my words - I shall prove it wrong someday.
Until that day, I continue on this open ended apprenticeship - the halfway point to mastery. It’s a moment to reflect on the milestone, to look back at my trials and tribulations, at how my writing style is coming along and how I’ve gathered a method for squeezing out inspiration from thin air. But if so, that moment has passed quickly, because I’m looking ahead dear reader, out upon the wild ocean and the endless horizons. It is far to seldom we bask in the glory of our achievements and conclude that it must all go to pot, and go to pot for the sake of adventure and taking on wild fantasies and chasing those birds of immaculate plumage which reside happily in the bushes.
Dear reader - nay, friends and fellow travelers! Today is the first day of the rest of my life. Today I have taken a step backwards in order to step forwards. And in so doing, have envisaged the third year of my writing here. There it is, rising out of the desert, like an oasis, but better! With second year anniversary dancing girls, with thumb symbols, leading the way, on a carpet of petals and tooting horns. And through the heat stroke and dragging feet and the cries for water, I give to you, most illustrious of readers - The Street Writer.
And how do I come to such a well-to-do-title for my work? My writing is a little different to other professions like doctors and meteorologists. They bewilder us all with their undeniably expert presentation and their mystical unveiling of truth. My writing, however, has a special way of an re-veiling of truth, like a dog with a bone, tenacious yes, but the kind that takes its bone, buries it down by the back fence and immediately forgets where it hid it. Befuddlement, bemusement and bedraggled by The Street Writer again!
Why must everything be so open to argument? I don’t make up the rules. I just poke fun at it. When it comes down to street level there’s a certain eyeballing, face-to-facing and grittiness where all our clean and pure mental models of how it all works go to die - sacrificed as if the street was an alter.
That’s where this street writer comes in. On the corner. Amongst the bustle. I lay out my work like a busker, I place my hat, for all passersby, in case they have spare change bulging and jingling in their pockets, weighing them off-kilter and causing undue burden.
Some buskers put their earnings towards lessons, developing their personal skills, and producing a better quality end product. I like this idea. And it has its merits. But what kind of street writer goes in for all that?! High mindedness! For those considering throwing their spare change in this hat, you must first be warned. I must warn you of what you shall be encouraging, and my extravagant tastes for purchasing the best of ink by which to spill on substack drafts and redrafts and finally to waste, five times over, before finally coming to something suitable and befitting of my gentle readers and hopefully worthy of their time.
I don’t want to become a fat writer while all my readers become thin for their over enthusiastic support. No. I lay this hat to make myself used to receiving gratitude in the form of money, and in hope, to once and for all, put a stop to this agonising over taking payment for my creations.
But quite frankly I’m every bit as honoured by the gift of your eyes. Your attention is enough to encourage my inclinations for ink spilling and splatterings each week. Thank you for being part of the reckless joyride, which finds us once again, falling out onto this unfamiliar backstreet of dumpster diving alleycats and professors of the sideways glance. Don’t worry mister, we fully intend on finding our own downpipe to sniff around.
Welcome to the Street Writer.
Congratulations Steve. Keep your entertaining and thought provoking posts coming!
Two years in and still no sign of an escape route. Or a pension plan. Glorious stuff.
This was a joy to read, like watching a man wrestle an idea down a laneway, lose his footing, and emerge somehow triumphant, covered in ink and florid metaphors. The long-delayed door knob post remains the people’s true hope, but this will tide us over.
Here’s to the Street Writer: barefoot, slightly deranged, and still charming coins from strangers with nothing but a pen and a twitch!