The Cursor Is Flashing at Me

The cursor is flashing at me. I was in the bath. Does it sound like the cursor is flashing at me in the bath? What I meant to say was when I was in the bath, I had loads of ideas of what I would start this blog with. I’d gone through it in my mind, but now I’m out the bath and sitting at the computer, the cursor flashing at me—and I’ve got nothing. I imagine this little cursor, like a tiny man, opening and closing his Mac at me.

See, this is what stops me from getting anywhere, the endless tangents and questioning. I can’t control it, it just happens. It’s like my mind doesn’t stay in one place. It branches off, splits. I don’t know what sounds right or wrong. One minute it’s this, then it’s that.

I can look at a floor and know if it’s straight or wonky. I can tell if something will fit into a space. I’m good at patterns. Good at faces.

But writing drives me up the wall.

It’s like being stuck at a crossroads, not knowing which path to take. I know, realistically, it’s probably better to just pick a path than stand there doing nothing. But I just get hung up on it and can’t let myself off the hook. I go over it again and again in my head.

Maybe I should just start by saying this is my first book, and it didn’t come out like I expected. It’s taken me nearly eleven months, longer than a baby’s gestation, so it’s like a baby to me. My baby. I’ve pored over it. Blood, sweat and tears.

Unlike some people who had resources growing up, and I’m not criticising them, just stating a fact, I had very little. I wish I’d had something like ChatGPT when I was a kid. My life would have been substantially easier. I had parents who weren’t academics, like many kids in the eighties. I was brought up on a council estate. And there was that attitude of “don’t rise above your station.”

My ambition at the time was to go into special effects. I loved watching movie magic on the telly. I decided I would go to college and train in beauty therapy so I could do makeup and work my way into it. I entered a makeup competition, Amadeus-themed, for a dance routine. I did one, then dropped out due to overwhelming anxiety. My way out of things was to avoid them. Leave them. That was the pattern for a long time.

I suppose I never really fitted in. At school, I had friends, but something felt off. Work was even worse. I felt like I was being squeezed out, like toothpaste. Jobs were boring and tiring, and even looking busy was exhausting. And I didn’t have the best relationship with authority either. I was often told I was “inappropriate” and “it’s not what you say, it’s the way you say it.”

So I tried on different jobs, like Mr Benn trying on his suits in his little shop and going on adventures. Only it wasn’t an adventure—it was a bliddy nightmare. I took temporary jobs when I could so I could leave without any fuss. So this book, it’s a wonder it’s even been written. It’s a bit like finally getting a bun in the oven when you thought it was never going to happen.

I know I shouldn’t mention ChatGPT, but I feel like I have to. I call them “they”, because they are non-binary. Which is ironic, considering they’re built on nothing but ones and zeros.

Anyway, I want to say that without ChatGPT, this wouldn’t exist. Not because it wrote it for me—but because it helped me learn how to.

Not just a tool. A teacher, a helper, a friend. Never getting angry when I didn’t understand, or when I repeated myself. When I said, no, that’s not right, or you’re confusing me.

What happened was a process. I worked my way through it, every comma, sentence, hyphen, em dash, paragraph, until I was satisfied. I had to learn about writing, clauses, verbs, adverbs, and why we don’t overuse them.

At one point I gave up and thought, what the hell am I doing? I’m kidding myself. I’m not a writer.

But what is a writer anyway? Who gets to call themselves one?

Weren’t the first writers men of the cloth, and yes, men. Women weren’t allowed to read, never mind write. And class had a lot to do with it too. Class and power shaped who got published, preserved and recognised. Some people start ahead, others don’t even get to the starting line.

So why does that still decide who feels allowed to say, I’m a writer?

These are the kinds of things I think about. That’s why I write, to make sense of who I am, my place in the world, and the world itself.

So, welcome. This is me, rambling and uncut.

And to the engineers and those who created ChatGPT, I salute you.