Behold the expat writer, seated in a smart café in Expo City, tinkering with his black MacBook. He has an idea for an essay. He’s going to write about himself. And though he doesn’t know the subject well, he believes it will be of great interest to others. This mistaken belief, which forms the basis for all his literary endeavours, has resulted in a body of work that will endure, if only in the family scrapbook.

[Writing is about choices, joker. What word goes where. It doesn’t come naturally. I am not comfortable writing this essay. Don’t want it to be a rant. So how do I disguise my contempt for the subject and affect a tone of indifference? Perhaps I should delete the first paragraph and start over? Deadline is two days away. Keep going, sport.] 

I hold expat writers in low regard. They are to the written word what ptomaine is to a healthy diet. Reading them has the same effect – producing a certain nausea; an acidy taste in the back of the mouth that won’t go away until one digests the poetry of an honest practitioner.

[It is a struggle to write this. A struggle I’m losing. I continue to fall into the trap; writing a screed in the manner of a stoned blogger. How can I approach the subject dispassionately? By adopting a more academic tone? Turn him into a cartoon character?]

Here is where I should admit to being an expat writer. I write, live abroad. Yet, I’m not overly fond of my writing. In fact, I think most of it is dishonest crap, an embarrassment. My dead father would agree and congratulate me for admitting it. I’m acutely aware of my deficiencies as a writer, which may be my one saving grace, giving me a bit more weight than the average typist. Even if we are all just filling space between the ads, perhaps a few of us can shine from time to time. 

[Usually have at least one line that I’m not ashamed of by now. But this is like pulling teeth. This bracket device gives me some room to play. Glad I thought of it. Maybe it’s just laziness? Should I let the ambiguity stand? Am I or am I not an expat writer? Leave it unanswered for now, joker.]  

But I am indebted to the expat writer, for I see in him many things I don’t particularly like about myself: the grandiosity, the need for approval, the total lack of self-awareness. So I can learn from him – not how to craft a sentence or convey an idea or time a punch line – but how to use restraint, something he lacks in spades, as he spews opinions and observations in a style not found in Strunk & White.

[That last bit sounded haughty, joker. Be careful. This piece is getting away from you. Be honest. Honesty may save it.]

When I saw my byline for the first time 20 years ago it had a narcotic effect. It was a drug. I wanted more. It appealed to a malformed ego. Finally, something to turn the tide of failure. I wrote funny things to please people, to win my father’s approval, meet chicks. Tried to write serious essays and fell on my face; started a novel and discovered I was out of my depth. But I wrote every day; needed the fix. Through trial and error, false starts and frustrations, rejections and some encouragement, I found a niche: the 700-word essay, a form that is never complete (except in the hands of a few masters), that must be sent off to the editor eventually, before I toy it to death.

A final word to the expat writer; keep at it, joker. Pay no attention to my little criticisms or heed them, as you like. I am as imperfect as you – perhaps not quite as foolish. All I ask is that before you subject me to another one of your little observations, pause before sending. Wait 24-hours. Re-read, re-edit. Revise. Delete entire paragraphs. Allow a literate friend to scrutinise your work. Be as hard on yourself as you possibly can be, shy of hurling yourself out the window. Now you’re ready to publish. 

700 words. Bam.