It seems like a long time since I did one of these, and that’s because it has been. Were the tenses all over the place in that sentence? They might be. That’s because I am a self-published author. Eff the poh-leese.
Yeah, I’ve been writing a book and stuff. And being homeless, couch surfing, house sitting, dognapping, airblading, hoverbiking. All the usual things. I’m pretty sure nothing has happened in the world of celebrity or the world of news while I’ve been away though, so it’s fine.
I was writing four books, actually, so now I am writing three. None of these books is about a woman who is in love with a ghost. That is something I have to fix. Because that’s what the modern woman wants. A ghost, a vampire, or a zombie. Or an abusive millionaire who is into S&M. In the old days it was doctors and Greek shipping tycoons. I know this, because I was in a library once. Now though, a lady needs her cock of choice to be of a supernatural bent. Wait, no, she doesn’t want a bent one, does she? In a supernatural vein. Hmmm, veiny, is that what they want? Okay, it’s decided. Chicks love veiny, bent, ghost penis. You heard it here first.
Writing a book is a lot of hard work. Anyone who tells you different is writing the sort of book that you don’t want to read. And he has fifty seven of them for sale on amazon, all for 99c. The harder work though, comes after you write it. The harder work is the selling. This is what everything ever in the history of things always comes down to. No matter what you do, or how well you do it, you will fail at life if you are not able to sell yourself. The people who annoy you in the street with clipboards or phone you at 7pm to talk about Gas and Electricity, those are the people you have to be like in order to succeed. You have to become someone you hate.
Talent is nothing without hard work. And even working hard isn’t enough, you have to be able to put your ego to one side, to get rid of all your self-conscious thoughts, and just whore yourself. Remember all those guys who got women when you were a teenager? And you thought they must have some killer lines/moves. And one time you were there while they chatted up a girl, and it turned out that they just used the most cringe-making cheesy rubbish possible, and you wanted to rip off your own skin rather than be there to witness it. Those people are what successful people are like. They have no good moves. They are just persistent, they don’t let rejection break their stride, and they keep going until they get a result.
That’s what you have to be like. That’s the only way. The cream isn’t going to rise to the top. The good isn’t going to win out. There’s no point in wasting your time lamenting how life isn’t fair, or good guys come last, or whatever. Success is what happens to other people while you’re complaining about them. I wish it wasn’t true, but it is. So, suck it up. You’re a long time dead. Life is not a rehearsal. Seize the fish.
No one is ever going to give you the dues you think you deserve. Everyone lives in a universe where they are the centre. Any semblance of solidarity, altruism or empathy that you perceive from them is just a clever way they have wrapping up their need to succeed in a cloak that looks like they care what the eff happens to you. Life is a race, and some of us are blindfolded, some of us have our leg tied to a slower person’s leg, some of us are jumping in a sack. Some of us are carrying an egg on a spoon. I have no idea what those people are up to. But if they get to the finish line before you, you only have yourself to blame.
So, it doesn’t matter if you are a writer, or you sell mobile phones, or you ask old ladies if they’ve considered making a will; if you’re behind other people, the only thing you can blame them for is that they are working harder than you. Or, you know, that they were born into privilege and have no clue what hard work is, while constantly telling themselves that they’ve earned everything that they possess. Those are different people. They don’t fit my cosy metaphor at all. They have a spoon made of gold, a Fabergé egg, and their legs are those carbon fibre ‘Blade Runner’ things.
It was nice to be blogging again! Buy my book.
(if you don’t have a Kindle, and you read on some other device, email me at firstname.lastname@example.org and we’ll sort something out.)