I just had a thought. Its four months ‘till my birthday. Four months to get a publishing deal. No pressure.
Is it I or does it feel rather chilly these days? Did you catch Inst that Lisa off Eastenders a moody cow? No this is not two gossips on a bus engaged in mindless chatter, but my BRAIN as it attempts to avoid certain little questions … like, WHY AM I STILL UNPUBLISHED? But I’m not going to let this bother me, now way. I’m going to live my life and… hang on… is that another fluffy cover of a book staring down at me from the Central Line billboard. big red cover, bright letters… this can only mean one thing; NEW BIG ADVANCE FLUFFY CHICK – LIT AUTHOR HAS MADE IT, WHILST I REMAIN STUCK AT THIS STATION WAITING FOR NON – EXISTENT TUBE TO DAY JOB….hmmm. No, I’m not envious, bitter. I mean this book is probably an exceptional piece of writing. Probably far better than anything I could write. I bet HER sentences are not long winded. I bet SHE didn’t have to go on a writing course. I bet SHE’S never had to go through as much rejection, humiliation and hurt as I’VE HAD TO ENDURE. I bet….
Week 3 on the dreaded writing course: It had to happen didn’t it… the public humiliation, standing naked, cowering in the corner of the classroom as the tutor reads out your work. Constructive critisism? More like female castration. If I ever thought I was a crap writer before, I now think I’m a hopeless writer. Let me just go and shoot myself.
Week 4 on the dreaded writing course: I’ve come to a decision. I am not crap. The tutor is. Okay, so he has had a trillion books published and years of experience, but hey, I had some great feedback today from the last of the, erm, hum… rejection slips. Let me explain. It was actually hand written OVER the type written standard letter they usually send out. It was complimentary and gave me the ‘kick up the backside, speed injection of confidence’ I’d been missing. Publishing world WATCH OUT!!!!
Week 5 on the dreaded writing course.
Page 67 nestles in the hand of my tutor. He moves closer to my desk. Smiles. Waves the offending script. He then says the immortal words: My name.
My heart thumps… he’s going to slate me. Again…
“Your script was fine this week.”
“What? No slating? No criticisms?”
“Well, maybe a few…” Oh.
“But other than that, it’s okay.”
If I’m honest I kinda missed the weekly dissing from my writing teacher. Masochistic or what?