Deep down, if you ask me, sober me, what I want from all this writing lark, I would be bullshitting if I didn’t say money.
‘There’s a spiritual element to my writing’ – that’s wonderful. Is the mortgage due at the end of the month?
‘Hey there Barclays… Can I pay you in spiritual energy this month? I can send over my draft of ‘pissed off and poor’ which will be worth more than Apple soon. Hopefully’
Then there is the part of me, which just wants words on paper and hates the other side of me for wanting money from it. I am ‘Ash’ living inside a Ground Hog Day/Evil Dead 2 mash up. With less plate smashing.
I sent a third set of drafts to the publisher, at the end of November. Nothing quite slows down your life, like waiting for something huge to come back. And waiting some more. But then yesterday, I get a little slice of day light in what is, let’s face it, a usual life.
‘We are finalising the print PDF’s’
I’m stupid and can barely read, but to me, that tells me, we might get something soon. And by soon, I mean in less time that it’s taken to completely cock-up Brexit.
In truth, I’m greedy and want it all. My words, my mind, on paper, in my hand, in a store, that people can buy. A regular income from the massive amount of pain you endure writing a book. Endless bloody nights, ignoring loved ones to re-bastard-edit a story you can recite easily, even after your third bottle of Blue Nun.
You don’t just need to have stories in your head to be an author. You need to make massive sacrifices – you can’t have a blossoming career, be a Dad, a Husband, a friend, fight all the fires at home, play in the swings of life, cook brilliant meals, train like an athlete and knock out 80,000 words in six months. It’s just not possible. We may write about superhero’s, but we aren’t from the same planet.
Also, you need an understanding partner/spouse who can resist the temptations of running away, who supports your dream. A dream that may never come close. Money – you can’t do this on scraps of handwritten paper, clumped together, unedited, without insight – sorry, you need a few quid to get it moving. Random House ain’t gonna chase you, so you need to stand out.
Mostly, I think you need resilience. You get knocked back constantly, put down, ignored and forgotten. But, in the head of an author, you know your work is good enough. It’s certainly better than xxx which you read last month. Or xxxx which Uncle Knobhead gave you for Christmas.
As I force yet another blog on friends, I question myself for the millionth time this year.
‘Please support me by reading my terrible blog, about how bloody hard my life is, that no publisher will give me £7.2m so I can ignore you forever and that my book still isn’t on a shelf (hopefully this collection of time-wasting words will keep you interested). Love you and thanks for supporting me until I’m rich and forget about you…’
Maybe I am him and this is my propaganda..