“You don’t have to have been an arsonist to be a fireman.” – Me.
Ys, ys, yes, a-hoho. A self-indulgent quote from a self-indulgent guy sitting at an old desk, watching the rain drip from the overgrown honeysuckle hanging across the glass of the window opposite. I should really be doing the washing up, or writing ten pieces I’ve been offered by an Editor of a large, vicious, niche sporting magazine. I’ve ignored his emails for about two months now. Easily done, on the face of it, but in this business, profile is everything: without somebody reading something you’ve written, you are not alive. Nor are you relevant.
You are also poor.
And then there is the ‘Book’, the thought of which is sending shivers of terror down my spine, arms, and inner eyelids, when I close them and try to forget the whole situation isn’t actually happening – which…
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