Morrissey's autobiography and the art of not-fitting-in

I’ve been reading Morrissey’s autobiography recently.  An odd choice, some might say, since I'm not quite of the generation who were 'there' when the Smiths exploded onto the Eighties' indie scene in a haze of flowers and vegetarianism, and I’m also the sort of person most people would probably think to be outraged by the publishing of said autobiography as a Penguin Classic.  But I’m not, as it happens.  In fact were I a sock-wearer I’d have laughed them swiftly off.

This is probably because I’ve always found Morrissey hugely endearing as a person; someone I've always felt a little bit sorry for, and a little bit jealous of at the same time.  The autobiography, so far, hasn’t changed my opinion aside from perhaps increasing the jealousy when I read about how a young Morrissey had such a hard time holding down a ‘normal’ job.  A nine-to-five lifestyle was never going to suit him, so it was immensely lucky for him that a) he is hugely talented and that b) he was in the right place at the right time.  Because basically, he doesn’t fit in, and I’m jealous of anyone who doesn’t fit in because I’ve always wanted to not fit in in the way people like Morrissey don’t fit in (though the talent and the correct placement are of course incidental!)

I’d love to not be able to cope with a standard nine-to-five life with all its stifling jargon and bland inevitability, and while I tend to feel as though I’m only ever on the brink of coping, I suspect this is the same for 99 per cent of the general population, and in the meantime cope I do.  In fact the very ability to ‘cope’ is something that has always disappointed me about myself.  Because I know, deep down, that no matter how bad things were to get in my life, I will always be able to keep everything safe and stable in the most mediocre way possible.  I’m far too sensible to ever let myself truly stare into a blank, terrifying abyss, and I’m forever afraid that that – the whole terrifying abyss thing – is where true greatness and creativity actually comes from. 

The whole ‘sensibility’ thing is even applying to my writing now; after reading a truly great book on planning (entitled ‘The Clockwork Muse’ if you’re interested) my little corner-office wall is now carefully and accurately adorned with a year-planner on which my writing sessions have been timed, scheduled and marked in with little silver stars.  I get stupidly excited about ticking off these sessions.  And though I’m making progress with my writing, I’m still slightly disappointed; after all you wouldn’t see Morrissey carefully ticking things off on a year-planner, now would you?