I noticed recently with a certain amount of bitterness that a girl i went to school with has not only published several books but now is gathering quite a name for herself as a writer. This bitterness is pure jealousy you understand. I've no reason to sneer at the quality of her work, vile though it is, or resent the fact that she has never had a proper job (has spent the last ten years being supported at home while she is allowed to create). I can't help but be resentful and grumpy that she has managed to do something i haven't. I've never had the guts to try to get something published until a few months ago and while that was a wonderful feeling, I had no cash for my efforts and reality sank back in once the afterglow had dimmed: I still had a whole manuscript gathering dust that I am afraid to send off. Just as afraid of the success as I am of the failure. So the bitterness surges upwards when I see her, fat, sleek and smug sitting beside a pile of her own books while I tap away here and mumble how mine could be better.
Good luck to her and her horrible books and I should get the f*** up and stop whining. Write more, send off more, just DO more. Get the f****** thing out there.
Thanks for listening. You probabaly think i'm a twat.
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