In fact, it’s hard work, dedication, and a whip might help. What the hell am I talking about?
My role is to tell stories, to write, to produce something that will transport the reader somewhere else, or into someone else for a period of time.
I love reading, do it all the time, and it’s easy. But writing? Not so easy.
The ideas come, they fly in like rellies who like cheap holidays and use my place as a base (I wonder if that’s why I no longer have a spare room?).
Since I don’t have a job, can’t get an interview, and don’t really care that much to do that [swear] anyway, I decided it was time to ‘do the thing’ – to write the stories that batter at my brain.
And I’m doing that, I really am, but not as fast as I’d like to, not…
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