Thoughts of Eggcup

Alan, our painter, had come around for payment this morning and we were sitting at the kitchen table, when Adrian showed me an article in The Telegraph about a woman I knew in University - Nicola Barker. It was a profile of her life and she came across very well - she was a lovely girl all those years ago, and we often met in my college room, planning to break into nuclear bases, as you do.
But I still immediately got into competitive mode, trying to make out my life was better than this Man Booker prize shortlisted, established, famous author - another person I knew at University who has become successful (but she was also very open about her health problems, how she likes to watch soaps and so on; a thoroughly nice person). The ones I thought would 'make it' I've never heard of since.
'I've got children!' was my trump card. 
Also:
'And I don't have to write for commercial [or even critical] success! I can write what I want.'
'Yes, you can write any old drivel,' Adrian said. 'And it doesn't matter if no-one reads it!'
Actually, my dear, it doesn't matter. The point of writing isn't to be able to say that millions of people read what you write (although that would be fabulous). The point of writing for me is to attain some kind of self-realisation. To amuse myself. To laugh at my own jokes. To register in a tangible way some grievance I have (which the writing seems to dissipate).
When you're a successful author, there is pressure to come up with the goods and also to write more books in whatever genre you're in. These writers of fiction aren't always free to write what they want. Personally, as I have little imagination I have to write about real events which are often stranger than fiction anyway. And of course my niche is to focus on the problems in life.
Once or twice, on this website, I have been pushed into writing something 'positive' in response to pleas:
'Please tell us it worked out for you. We're moving to Spain and we're petrified we'll suffer like you did. Tell us about the good things. Please. It couldn't have been that bad. You have to reassure us we're doing the right thing.'
Actually, I don't have to do anything and I won't be influenced like that again. I won't write about sun-dappled meadows in bloom and skipping gaily through the scarlet poppies. Or about the hilarious time I sat on a bag of eggs I'd forgotten were on my carseat or how much I enjoyed a fiesta (I hate fiestas) and how I was chortling and guffawing in my new, highly successful Spanish life. I've read a few books which are full of this tedious 'positivity.'
If I ever come up with anything like that, I give permission to those who read my blogs to smack me across the face. 
In the meantime, I will carry on writing about the fights, the scuffles, the run-ins, the angst, the depression, the corruption, the altogether seedy side of Spanish and expat life. Anyone who doesn't like it can go and do one. 
And that concludes my thoughts for today.

We have some availability for this summer at our two Spanish rentals:

(NB I might slag off living in Spain, but it's a great place for a holiday ) 

http://www.homeaway.co.uk/p86636

And:

http://www.homeaway.co.uk/p475271