Disclaimer: This will royally piss you off.
I spend a lot of time here, and it’s mostly a good thing. But sometimes, sometimes it can be really, really depressing.
There are certain things that everyone can do: tie a shoelace, break olympic records when faced with a speeding bullet or a really big dog, write an application letter, kick a football.
But even within these things, there are people who make a career. We can all [probably] take a penalty kick and pull a fluke goal. But we are not all Theo Walcott. We can all leap tall buidlings when we are caught on top, lakini, there’s Usain. We can all write, yes we can, and we can all blog. But not everybody gets paid to do it.
A topic I saw at Nathan’s once asked how a writer copes with what I can only describe as literary agoraphobia. What do you do when you look at your work and think “Am I insane? What rubbish! Why do I even try?” I answered that I don’t, I have never doubted my ability. I write because I love it, and because I am good at it. Period.
But I have to admit that after reading this I am starting to wonder whether I’m not just another nut with a laptop an internet stick. It is not a pleasant feeling.
Bah humbug.
Ooh soap bubbles!!
