Sitting down to write, I am again mindful of the ‘Man In The Arena’ speech.  It truly is the dirt encrusted soul in the arena who counts, who knows the highs of success and the many lows of failure.  Yet this intrepid soul cannot operate in a vacuum, and as cutting as the critiques can be, they are an evil necessity. 

We write to be read, we write to be enjoyed, and we wait with bated breath as every head rises from its task, and every hand slowly closes the manuscript.

Did they like it..?

Was the phrasing to long winded, too clumsy..?

The garden scene, yeah I should delete that…

Surely they’ll pick up the running thread, the recurring themes?

A throat is cleared – a fresh coffee offered…

No walk to the gallows has ever been so painful, so pitiful, so tragic as your shuffle towards the kettle…

They liked it, it was pacy, it was dark (where did you get those scenes from), an eyebrow is raised as the head is tilted, eyes look at you as if it is the first time we’ve ever met – the noir of your tale was indeed black…

But, they liked it…

Coffee is drunk.

So many questions are in your head, racing, overtaking, competing to be voiced, but never aired.

You say ‘thanks, glad you enjoyed it’, the nonchalance ham acting worthy of day-time TV. 

Eighteen months of emotional investment satisfied as the second biscuit is dunked.

They liked it…