As a writer myself, I have always been fascinated with the written word. The feelings that language can evoke are feelings beaten only by the tingle of excitement as a ten year old at Christmas. In my time, I have read many books. I have read the fourth edition of the Harry Potter series a full 13 times. Quickly followed by the fifth edition, that was only read a measly 8 times. I think I only read the sixth instalment twice, but I do believe it is over 700 pages. Oh, I do love you J.K.
However, although fictional stories can be full of magic and wonder, pure love and sadness, there are fewer ways of entertaining a cold, dreary January day with a brutally honest autobiography. From the simple days of clowning around with Peter Kay to the resonation of the darkness of Marcus Trescothick. From Tony Blair's journey from the streets of Sedgefield to Number 10 all the way to the self-indulgance of his Royal Highness, Sir Kevin Pietersen. From drowning on pedalos with Andrew Flintoff to growing to be the only openly gay footballer with Robbie Rogers. So many sincere and brilliant accounts of lives, (maybe "sincere" isn't the best word to describe Pietersen's!), the autobiography reminds us that everyone started somewhere. Peter Kay went from packing loo rolls to being one of the most recognisable comedians. Just one example.
As well as this, the autobiography feeds the human need to be a little bit nosey. Not so nosey as to appear rude, but nosey enough to keep in the loop. At the moment, I am engrossed in the third part of Stephen Fry's memoirs, where I have learnt that he was jailed for credit card fraud and an avid cocaine user for 15 years.
There's hope for me yet.
Talking of which, I do wonder if I will ever be in such a position to write my own autobiography? Will I ever be well-known enough to write my own memoirs, eventually seeing my face in the discount bins of pound stores all over the country? Maybe, at a stretch, I could be found next to the '19' sign in WH Smiths behind 'The Life and Times of Alan Pardew' and 'Nigel Farage : Where Did it all go Wrong?' in the bestsellers list...
On New Years Day, I began my own private journal. Those thoughts not allowed on to the far reaches of Tim Berners-Lee's invention. Maybe one day, the words that lay in my brown leather diary will be used to entertain a budding young writer, unable to step outside due to the melting ice caps, on a dark and dank January night.
Or maybe I'm getting carried away... Maybe I took some of the arrogance of ... Kevin Bloody Pietersen...
