So, did something a little bit wild, a little bit cray-cray last night.

Minds out of the gutter people, minds OUT of the gutter.  Thankfully the days of that kind of behaviour are ancient history,  lost in the shadows of the nineties. Blessedly before the time of camera phones and social media. (more…)

First up, apologies to REM. Don’t sue me. It will be a waste of your time I can assure you. I’m an unpublished writer. Nuff said.

Secondly, I went to a writers’ conference on the weekend and I realised something. I’m really not good at this grand old, completely terrifying, monstrosity they call networking. (Cue scary music. Cut to B/W scene of old Dracula movie) which might well be a problem considering I’m going to self-publish in November. I have issues with the socials.

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So it was my birthday  this year and my other half (who I shall refer to as The Canadian from here on in) bought me the obligatory present. It was about two months late but that is a whole other blog and an ongoing relationship counselling case.

The Canadian’s gift to me was one of those watch thingies that count your steps, monitor your heart rate and tell you point blank (almost) that NO, you cannot eat the entire packet of Tim Tams.

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Ok. So. It’s one of those days. The damn annoying but inevitable day of DOUBT.  The ball to the face that is trying to make a living out of writing.

Welcome, my friends. Take an uncomfortable seat. There will be no refreshments, no toilet breaks and no opportunity for questions. Just sit there and bathe in self-pity, help yourself to the you-suck body wash, light the you’re-dreaming candle.

Lament your inability to write coherant lines, interesting dialogue and characters someone might actually give a shit about. Gnash your teeth at the critique you just received on Scribophile, hurl yourself onto the floor and pound your fists over your failure to show your brilliance in that short story you were certain was brilliant.

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Rock yourself into a little corner along with your little talent, and go over and over that line in your beta read feedback that says you are not Hemingway. Or Rowling. Or even that Grade Two kid who got a star on their creative writing. Because that’s exactly what the beta reader meant when they said ‘maybe it’s a little too long.’  You know it.

Scream into the wind about your agonisingly slow crawl towards a thousand Twitter followers. Why did you unfollow me? WHY, twits, WHY? It’s my bio right? I sound like a loser. Knew it.

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