Liberation via Libation: now that’s a fucking motto.

 

I have come to a conclusion. It is one I was fully aware of, yet elected to ignore. But in life, if your mindset does not match your heart, whatever you attempt is futile. The following is a fair (slightly dramatised) depiction of my writing journey so far…Be Warned, it’s not pretty.

 

Happily, I would tell myself lies; in three years I can be a published author. Then I would wait, patiently; feet up, eyes toward the television, enjoying an LCD synthetic suntan, diving in and out of the PlayStation. I would wait very patiently indeed. Then, when no progress would come, I would seek to know how to be published. Trawling through publishers and agents, scoffing at those who did not accept “unsolicited” manuscripts – morons. Their loss, they will not stand to gain from my immense talent and the eye watering figures of my advance, Ha Ha Ha! I would say; then resume waiting. Sporadically, in between these bouts of waiting, I would write some words, if I felt like it. And if I didn’t, then I’d think about how to spend my HUGE advance, genius ideas like: buy up every billboard in London, and have them display such witticisms as – You shouldn’t have listened to Simon, Schuster! – And my personal favourite – What the fuck do Penguins know about books anyway. Then I would chuckle and continue to consume Doritos while playing PlayStation. When I was not active in such useful endeavours I would be brooding, wondering if I had waited long enough yet. Miserably, I lay in bed, wondering if the postman got lost with my cheque, or worse still, cashed it and was now living my life! My fame, my money, my kudos! I would leap out of bed, consumed by fury; rush down to the nearest post office, and at the top of my voice I’d tell them what thieving, immoral fuckwits they employed. To which the lady behind the glass would inform me that she could not take people serious if they were still wearing pyjamas. Dejected, I would traipse back home, retreat to the solace of my duvet, and commence a threesome with the harlots; Fear and Loathing. Reinvigorated, I would extricate myself from the sweat sodden covers and sit before the computer; where I would tell the page of my woes. After a thousand words or so I’d feel much better, so much better in fact, that I would continue to write religiously, day in, day out. The realisation; when I write, I am at peace. I would continue, until the vigour had dried up. Sitting before the blank word document, staring, into the infinite field of white, where the whispering winds of doubt would taunt me, all the way back to the duvet, where I would brood until I felt some sense of self worth. At which point I returned to waiting, because fuck me, my advance is on its way.

 

That was 2012, and the subsequent years. But if 2013 has taught me anything, it’s that I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Well I have had enough! No longer can I dance with Insanity. I am done with Delusion, and she can take her insatiable friend Expectation, with her. From this point on I am not going to write for anybody but myself. Because, if my name never graces a book (apart from the time I changed it to Charles Dickens) at least I will be happy. If life has a meaning, Happiness would get my vote.

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