“So, you’re a writer, published anything?”

Shoulders curl in to touch each other, your gaze falls to the floor and a barely audible whisper wrapped in shame says “no.”

That’s it, its all over.  From this position there is NO recovery, you’ve been found out, you are indeed a liar, charlatan, and all-round despicable person.

Stolen Valour vibes permeate the air…

That’s kinda how it feels, maybe not how it goes, but definitely how it feels when folk ask “what’cha doing book boy, you writing a book or sumfin?”

Okay, I couldn’t resist it, yes, a little artistic licence is at play here – after all I am a writer.

The sentiment however, the feeling of despondency and disappointment they remain undiluted and true.

If I was a painter I’d show you my canvas, the result of my effort and you’d be satisfied with my claim at being an artist, so too if I picked up my guitar and played a riff so sublime the very birds from the trees flew down to join in.  At no point would a critique follow about my inability to fill the Royal Albert Hall or have my work displayed in the National Art Gallery in London – nope for those artistic outlets participation would be enough.  For those talented folk, a rendition of Malaguena or just some canvas covered in oils is the only evidence of accomplishment ever needed. 

And yet it’s different for writers.

You can’t stand there with a ream of papers and pronounce ‘ta da’ and expect accolades to fall from the heavens. 

It’s not enough to have written, to have crafted, to have taken the reader on such a journey that for weeks, maybe months later they will reminisce that one scene in the kitchen and long after the book was finished still shed a tear.  

It’s not good enough when you write to have crafted such a tale, for those words ONLY have validation, only achieve worth when they are read.

And therein dear reader of my blog is the $1,000,000 question, the true conundrum of my life. 

My art, no matter the passion of its creation, my art is without worth until it is read.

To be read is the prima facie function of a tall tale, and it is one that I am struggling with. 

I am, I know, stuck in a loop of my own making, and the success or failure of my work is completely within my control.

I can publish via Amazon (et others) and be dammed, let the tiles fall where they will, or I can strive struggle and suffer trying to hook that elusive white wale of a traditional publishing contract.

These I can do. 

Bemoaning my fate, I should indeed abandon.

It’s such a self-indulgent cop out – and reality needs to be acknowledged.

Sympathy evaporates and so too should my self-flagellation.

If I am to evoke Invictus or indeed emulate ‘the man in the arena’ then act indeed I must.

Prevarication is a comfort blanket that protects me from criticism, but it is also one that smothers out any embers of praise…

It’s slow to turn, but the supertanker is changing direction.

Thanks for listening.

Stay safe, hug those you love, and live the life that you’ve been gifted with all the passion that you possess!