Every writer knows only too well the suspense of waiting to hear whether one's brilliant epistle has been accepted or not. The waiting is tortuous. No wonder I have an ulcer. Your mind fills up with dreams: self, champagne glass in hand, accepting glittering literary prize in form of enormous cheque; self on terrace of newly acquired penthouse in Majorca overlooking the sea, relaxing in hammock, an artistic trail of cerise bougainvillea framing the view, whilst tapping out latest scorching bestseller with perfectly painted fingernails; self never having to worry or work nine to five again.
The truth is: self with stomach ache on the verge of a nervous breakdown, being owed £1000 by a company that went bust after self had done a great deal of freelance editing for them, wondering how to get in the pennies while waiting to see if those three chapters that the agent actually liked (fall on knees and kiss his well-polished shoes and cover his socks in grateful tears) are snapped up by a publisher or left to languish forever on his laptop.
I shall apply the power of positive thought. MY BOOK WILL SELL!
Right. I'll have another cup of tea now and approach Scarlet magazine to see if they need any scorching sex articles. Nothing ventured...
Battered butterfly
2 months ago
