Ah pride, it cometh first!

It could almost be a writer’s paradox; the belief in one’s own work viz near instant collapse at peer critique. 

You must respect your fellow tellers of tall tales, it’s hardwired inescapable, it is toast landing butter side down and cats on their feet. 

If noble scribblers praise your work your ego blooms, and Chelsea flower show book you such is your resplendence.

Ah, but if they mutter a criticism, a throwaway nothing, a murmur about the pacing or interaction between minor characters on page 23, then all is indeed lost.

Morose doesn’t cut it.

Your despair passes gothic indulgence, EMO lacks the adequate despair that you feel, even Mr Cohen or that perennial singer of sorrow Morrissey cannot articulate the true abandonment you feel.

How could you offer up such amateur scribbles; how could they be so cruel?

You buy boxes of pencils just to snap them in two.

It’s a luminous pink ball, and the dog wants you to throw it.

And therein with that saliva covered sphere is your salvation.

The world will still turn, you just have to keep throwing the ball!

Salvation is simple – keep keeping on!

Stay safe and remain sane.