I have always been what one would term an average person.
I am of average height, of average dress size, I have nondescript, average, dull brown hair, and even my eyes are somewhere in-between green and brown, unable to decide which side of average they’d like to be. I wear average looking clothes and live in an average home, right slap-bang in the middle of England, own an average car, have an average job and…well, you get the picture. In fact the only thing not average about me is the fact I’m 38 without ever having being married or having 2.4 children.
I guess I have lived a very average life. Nothing dreadful (thankfully) has ever happened to me but then neither has anything truly remarkable. Because as I say I am pretty average. Your very average Jo if you like.
Now there is nothing wrong with this. In fact I quite like being average. There are no unrealistic expectations put on me. I don’t draw attention to myself in the street (how horrific if I did) and so I am able to just blend in with the surroundings unnoticed.
Yet I don’t really want to be average. Otherwise why else would I be writing a novel? Or this blog and telling complete strangers all about the fact I am average? The truth is I don’t want to just be another person in the crowded world, all but forgotten when I slip from this mortal coil -remembered only by the handful of people who loved me. No. I want to leave something to this world that showed I was here. something which shows my life meant something. Sure, I wanted to tell a story I had in me but if I dig deep and be honest enough, writing a book is also about me proving there’s more to me than the average Jo on the street. I don’t want to be famous. I’d be a rubbish famous person. I’d not trash hotel rooms or create storming headlines coming home drunk at 3am. I wouldn’t want to meet my public. No, fame is not what I want in the modern day celebrity sense of the word. I would just like to leave behind something which might mean something to somebody. Anybody. One day.
I spent all of my time at school achieving average grades. I had to work hard to get my exam results. I spent my time at university being average and came out with the average grade rather than the first class degree so many others did. Again I had to work very hard to get that. It didn’t come naturally. I can sing, but only as well as an average person can. I can draw and paint, but only as well as an average person can. I am a Jack of all trades and a master of none. I consider myself now to be a pretty average teacher, despite having been at it for 15 years. I’m never going to be one of those who trail blaze innovative educational initiatives. Never. Now I’m also an average foster parent. I’m not a saint, as many assume, who plays the part with a never ending dollop of patience and a Mary Poppins style spoonful of sugar, as I wish I could ,or perhaps should.
So it will follow I will, no doubt, only ever be an average writer. And that’s if I’m lucky. But it is this one thing I am determined not to be average at. Not if I can help it. I will keep striving to be better. Always.
On the back of last week’s blog post I had some amazing feedback on my WIP. This has not however made me complacent or big -headed. I still believe what I am writing is only average because I have read so much above average stuff.
It will be a long time before I reach the dizzy heights of above average, if indeed I ever do. One thing is for certain though I won’t be giving up. I am not average at trying. That I do excel in.
Thanks as always for reading my ramblings on writing. 🙂