8212/21131
I was going into town for a meeting about possibly writing another book. It's been a while since I've sat down and written something. It's maybe three years now since I handed in the manuscript for "Can I Have My Ball Back?" and though I have subsequently turned that into a stand up show as well, I haven't been writing anything else. Unless you count this lump of shit I call my blog. So yes, I've written a few hundred thousand words, but I haven't written anything.
I'd love to get my teeth into something again, but then again I'd love to do nothing at all and just slip-slide onwards towards the blessed release of death.
It feels like this autumn is going to be significant in the direction I choose to go. Do I coast onwards with what I am doing or roll the dice again to see if I can get something new off the ground?
The choice isn't entirely in my hands.
I am not someone who pushes myself or networks, still operating on some naive belief that there is fairness and justice in the system - so it's always nice when someone spots something in my work and even wants a meeting. I know from experience that most of these meetings will lead to nothing, a few might lead to working up an idea that leads to nothing but a few result in a job. You have to go in with a positive (if realistic) attitude and do your best to impress.
So I put on a proper shirt. That should do it.
Catie came to give me a hug in the kitchen (suspicious) and wish me luck. She told me I looked nice (something was going on) and then (here it comes) told me that if I was going to a meeting where I wanted to impress someone I should really brush the back of my hair (I knew all this niceness had to be leading to something). Apparently the back of my hair was messy, presumably where I'd slept on it.
I was resistant to the idea of brushing my hair. Partly because my hair is who I am and I never brush it. Sure it might occasionally make me look like I have no idea how to take care of myself and certainly not the kind of person that a publisher wants to take a risk of sinking a few thousand pounds into, but on the other hand, I can't really think of a counter argument.
Surely I'd be OK as long as I never turned my back on the person I was meeting. That'd be easier than having to go upstairs, open a drawer and find a brush and then use it.
Wait, surely loads of genius authors are so wrapped up in their work they don't realise what a state they're in. They might have egg in their beard and crusted phlegm in the corner of their mouth and animal fur all over their cardigan, but they deliver the goods on the page. If they could look after themselves they'd look nice, get a partner, have sex and never write anything again.
Catie quietly (and also noisily) despairs about the person she has been foolish enough to marry and was insistent that I brushed my hair. I told her I wouldn't compromise my integrity or allow her to win an argument.
She rolled her eyes and went to the gym. I got ready to go out. Why should I listen to Catie? What did she know? Why would I care about the opinion of someone who has put up with me for 18 years and is an award winning author? I went upstairs and brushed my hair - not just the back, the front as well, hoping that would read as sarcastic revolt. I needed a win here.
The meeting went pretty well. The editor I met seemed impressed with me. Did I see her looking at the back of my head and pulling an impressed face? No I didn't see that. But doesn't mean it didn't happen.
If I get a commission it will entirely be down to Catie. Brush your hair fellas. It might be all that's holding you back.
