Dickensian Inadequacy

I left work early the other day to spend some time outside in the beautiful weather, rather than in my dungeon at work, and was happily working away at my new short story, before stopping for dinner and watching a documentary that Armando Ianucci made earlier in the year about Charles Dickens. And after that, as is nearly always the case when I hear anything about Dickens or read anything that he wrote, I just felt woefully inadequate as a writer. Dickens is like the Beatles: everybody just takes it as read that he's brilliant, but it's rare for people to actually set out examples in front of you to prove it, since it's so blindingly obvious. Ianucci was doing this in his programme though, and every single one highlighted exactly how amazing the man was, how he employed the written word in a way that nobody before or since has ever come close to.

When I'm reminded of his brilliance I immediately want to pick up a new Dickens novel, but I can't immerse myself in his work too much, as the creeping feeling that I'll never be a hundredth of the writer that Dickens was makes me want to pull my eyes out so I can't see the rubbishy words that I write. My subconscious always beats him out of sight: when people ask me who my favourite authors are I hardly ever think of Dickens, even though when I consider him he's clearly heads and shoulders (and chest, stomach, midriff, and most of the legs) above anyone else. But for the most part he needs to be locked away deep in the back of my mind, otherwise I'd never write anything, just like I didn't that night.

Dickens aside, my new story is coming along very nicely, as is the first part of my novel, and hopefully both will be up here to read soon.