So after a gargantuan, nay Herculean, effort I managed to get “Dead Rock Star” to 70,000 words. Oh well, I was aiming for 77,000 but what can you do about it. The story had been told; anymore wordage would be padding. So now I’ve written my introductory letter, the synopsis of my novel and gone through “The Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook” getting the details of publishers and agents.
So last night, I sits down to start printing out all 248 pages of this carefully constructed, double-spaced magnum opus and horror of horrors, my laser printer informs me that I need a new black toner cartridge. Fuck and bugger. So after spending another £40 I simply can’t afford, I order a new toner cartridge. Printing will have to wait for now and my campaign to upset publishers and agents will have to wait. While moaning and complaining to The Missus about how shit modern technology, I remarked about my trust old Brother M-1109 printer that I bought in 1987 and which used to print my very first short stories all those years ago. Moan, moan, moan…
Anyway, it’s only when you write a synopsis of your novel that you realise just how crap and preposterous it all is. This is shit, you think. This is so fucking shit. Who’s going to want to publish this? Who’s going to want to read it? Oooooooh why did I bother? Why didn’t I just throw myself under the train when I had the chance, etc? This is part of the process, I guess. Then there’s the upset when the postman delivers rejection letters and unread copies of your manuscript.
In the post: five years of bank statements from the Abbey. Not sure why, but they sent me all of this information, but it is virtually useless as none of the entries actually feature the year, only the date and month. Why o why? I guess this must relate to my account being “reactivated” by the bank last month, despite the fact that I had been successfully using it for the past five years. Banks and money leaves me confused and bewildered.
Alex the Wonderdog got so excited about barking at the neighbour’s meals-on-wheels delivery that he actually became aroused (not bad for a dog with no knackers), something that only usually happens when he starts begging for his dinner.
What a wonderful life I’ve got.

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