Had to giggle. John Cleese has been instructed by his ever hopeful but now desperate publishers to either deliver ‘the book’ within a month or return some £350 000 he was paid up front. I visualise him now, sitting in front of his computer, bottle of scotch at elbow, tearing out whatever hair remains. He has my sympathy – book writing is not for sissies. Hopefully he has enough cash remaining to employ a very quick ghost writer.
Ever since I was a kid I have had the urge to write. On buses, under the blanket by torch light, after lights out at boarding school and later, during prep time, nose down, making like I was studying for exams. Hundreds of scraps of paper, the embryo of endless fantasies, short stories, letters to the editor, but never anything as ambitious as a novel. And thank God for that. It takes very little to distract me. All those fragments of short lived inspiration gone with the wind. And probably just as well.
I have been paid for writing but, thank the Lord, never in advance. Hundreds, if not thousands of tedious press releases – everything from ‘Recipe of the Week’ to ‘Garden Recliners and Loungers’ – nothing too cerebral, you understand. I actually wasn’t a bad advertising copy writer as it happens. I, apparently, once won an award, but only heard about it by accident. Had long since departed the agency. And so it goes.
So, presumably, I am not really a writer.
Notwithstanding. I am working on my novel. Every bloody day (almost). But only if I can find absolutely nothing else to do.
I would rather mop floors than write.