Warnings for: Anger; lots of feckin’ swearing; brief mention of suicide; PIP
This is a blog about being a bipolar writer. Or a wannabe bipolar writer. Or a wannabe writer who happens to be bipolar.
Make up your own goddamn minds. I don’t bloody care.
Or so I am telling myself, in an effort to get myself going, again. I’ve managed to drag my sorry arse back out of bed, despite feeling like the veritable bag of useless, despairing shite. This is known as fueling the Muse with anger.
It’s cheaper than chocolate.
Cutting to the chase: I died last night, at a spoken word gig. You couldn’t see the beer for the tumbleweeds which went rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ past, as I read an allegedly comic, admittedly surreal, story.
Honestly, it was the longest 646 words of my life. I got more laughs talking about suicide to some students at a mental health event earlier this week.
In a previous blog, I asked whether I could be an author pimp, writer, or both. Well, at the moment, the world and its literate dog is telling me that I should stick to author pimping, shove my writing in a drawer, and spending spoken word nights in front of the telly.
In other shitty news:
1) The Personal Independence Payment (PIP) people are on my tail: oh, be joyful.
2) A recent team meeting was more packed with drama than your average soap
3) An author who’s far more successful than me (1) told me one of my stories was “nice and inoffensive” (2)
4) Got yet another rejection from the Daily Science Fiction (3)
5) I’ve apparently pissed off a dear friend, probably by being overly needy
6) I cannot afford a feckin’ day out, let alone a bloody holiday, because my house needs more work than could be completed or paid for in one averagely paid lifetime, plus my paid work continues to look shaky
7) I do not deal well with dark nights.
8) Or cold in a house with no central heating.
9) A presidential candidate has been boasting about a) assaulting women, and b) not paying tax. Plus, someone actually asked me if I support that arse! Oh endless, endless floods of tears from sweet baby bejesus!!
Oh, and I’m worried that one of my favourite bipolar bloggers is dead. Which, after all, is not outside of the range of possibilities.
Brief, thankful pause: If you are one of the 60 or so people who took advantage of the free offer of my e-book, “Koi Carpe Diem“, thank you!
Brief plug which may sound arrogant but isn’t: if you like Terry Pratchett, and Jasper Fforde, you may like my stuff. I am *not* claiming to have anything approaching their talent, or wit. If however you prefer your fantasy served up with more surrealism and humour, than shiny swords, and unicorns, I may be your woman.
Although, so there is a unicorn.
(1) Aren’t they all?
(2) A friend says I shouldn’t be discouraged or upset by this comment. Huh.
(3) Not that bothered, to be honest. I’ve had almost as much short fic rejected by them as poetry by “The North”.
Tagged: anger, bipolar, Donald Trump, fantasy, humour, Jasper Fforde, Koi Carpe Diem, PIP, surrealism, Terry Pratchett, Tom Brown, unicorns, US presidential election, whinging for Britain, worry, writing