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The freedom of mediocrity

I don't remember precisely when I worked that I was a mediocrity. I think the realisation slowly crept up on me over the course of a few years, much in the same way as one turns round at forty and wonders where the body of the twenty eight year old went.

Christ it was a relief, though

As I've probably mentioned countless tedious times, I was fairly high-achieving at school in some areas, mostly English, and spent a lot of time being told how brilliant I was (I wasn't, I was good at seeming brilliant), when all I really wanted was to be good at football so girls would like me (I wasn't, they didn't). Still, due to my sporting ineptitude, I eventually learned to be proud of the fact that writing-wise, I was quite The Thing, the solipsism of youth meaning I lacked the perspective that this was a pretty small sample size at my tiny Cornish comp (we punched above our weight though, a good smattering of high achievers among my contemporaries, maybe it was something in the water). Obviously being the best at Sir James Smith's meant I'd be the best everywhere.

To an extent, I was able to indulge this self image when I went to Uni, being arrogant enough to think people who didn't like my work simply didn't "get" it, whatever that meant. This was tolerated by my peers right the way through my MA. Obviously massive success was only a matter of time, though, you know, if it could get a shift on, that'd be great, I was still destined for greatness as things stood.

At this point, reality intervened, and the less said about the next twenty years, the better, regular readers will be aware of most of it, what with this blog turning 18 this year. And now here we are.

Now, obviously, I've grown out of this to an extent; I'm still a pompous prick, but at least I'm no longer a pompous prick who thinks he's the cleverest person in the room. I've developed enough self awareness to realise that I am a third rate intellect at best. I have written a few things I like, and done some work I'm proud of, but my talent is distinctly smaller than I was led to believe (and allowed myself to believe), and, frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

I'm writing this blog partly as a response to the welter of bad takes surrounding the new Sally Rooney novel, not having read it yet, I'll not comment on the book itself (I enjoyed her other two though), but the discourse around it largely seems to have centred on Rooney's distaste for fame, a subject she explores in the book, apparently.

Obviously a lot of the carping has been of the "well if you don't want to be famous you shouldn't be a famous novelist" variety, which of course, misses the point entirely. Rooney didn't write those books because she wanted to be famous, she wrote them because she had to. It's the only good reason to write. She wrote them, and they happened to make her famous, that's a world of difference.

Now, while it's an act of monstrous egotism on my part to suggest I'd ever achieve Sally Rooney-like levels of fame, there was once a time when I assumed I'd one day be a novelist. It was only my complete inability to write a novel that stopped me, but that was just details, sooner or later, the idea would pop into my head and off I'd go. I'm starting to suspect that it probably isn't the case.

And it's a weight off my mind, I can tell you.

I'll go even further, I'm not even that arsed about being published any more, I've seen my name in print a few times, created a few artefacts that you can buy and hold in your hands, and I'm pretty happy with that. I'm compelled to write, but that itch is scratched here and on Coastalblog's sister blogs that no one ever reads. I no longer have the nagging sensation that I should and could have done more, I think I recognise that I've actually probably operated at or maybe just beyond my limits as a writer. Not trying to compete feels incredibly freeing.

It's a principle which can be applied in so many areas, I like to run, but I've made my peace with being lapped by arthritic tortoises, I love to play guitar, but have accepted that I'm spectacularly cack-handed. I've made a decent fist of running a pub, and I cook okay, but I'll never win an award or whatever, it's just a pub. A good one, mind.

At the risk of sounding too much like a self-help manual, realising and accepting your limitations is, I feel, one of the best things you can do for your own peace of mind. I'm a mediocrity, and I love it.

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