In the wise words of Miss Burke

I once asked Miss Burke why she didn't have a Blog. She replied that she would either have nothing to say and rarely post (like some other bloggers?, or (like me) write down every single thought that drops out of my head and regret it later.

How right.

But the problem for me isn't that I regret it later. The problem for me is that just about every time I've caused offence, I've had absolutely no idea that I would. Even when I've launched a thousand word attack against somebody, I've never stopped to think about how they would respond. Nine times out of ten when somebody I've slagged off responds in kind I'm mortified. I simply can't understand how I could have been so insensitive.

But the fact remains - When I get up to a keyboard and start writing I am insensitive to everything else. I don't know if I'm kidding myself on, acting out a role, or pretending to be somebody I'm not. But somehow I feel the urge to write as being so compulsive, so addictive, that I never even stop to think about who might be on the receiving end. Does this only happen to me? Is this evidence of some sort of OCD or is it just plain ignorance?

Words are very powerful. We all know that, especially in these days of fundamentalism and misinformation. I've been posting so long that I can't even remember what my agenda is any more. Today I've composed an essay about the need to scrap single faith schools in the UK. I can add that to today's other output - a long rant about the Conservative Party placing anti-emigration policies at the heart of their agenda, a couple of well crafted paragraphs about the "point of no return" being set by environmentalists as just ten years away, and a detailed look at the myths and mistakes of the Jehova's Witness movement.

None of these have actually been written, you understand. But just because I'm not actually writing doesn't mean that I ever take a break from composing what I would be writing, if I had access to a computer during the day.

Terry Pratchett touched on this compulsion in his book "The Truth", which was a parody of the newspaper business. He decided that the printing press was a kind of animal. A very hungry animal that always wanted feeding. You could offer it a story but its jaws would still be open for more. You could never satisfy it, only keep it quiet for a little while.

I write in the same way I used to smoke. I write when I'm worried, I write when I'm happy. When I'm not writing, I'm thinking about writing. I don't even care if it doesn't get read. Ever since Marris and Wade failed to impress an agent I've still been working on the second book.

Somebody asked me what I'd do if I won a million pounds. I told them I'd get a very quiet room with a computer and order pizza. Life's passing me by, and there just isn't time to write about it all.