I don’t develop this blog, or spend enough time on it, because I don’t think of myself as a blogger.
I don’t tag my posts, generally, because I sort of think of them as private, like diary entries. That’s the kind of self-publicist I am.
Yet I come back, and come back: I add new stuff……..
There are people out there with action plans for life: I know it; heavens, haven’t I met the finest examples? People with no reticence whatever, who will unhesitatingly stand on street corners waving their book in the air – who will make unsolicited approaches to anyone and everyone anywhere: on buses, at front doors, even in restrooms if necessary, to further their cause. I am not one of these. I curl up inside at the thought of inconveniencing anyone, let alone asking them to part with money.
Yet I keep writing, and writing: why? I want to entertain; I want to be read.
Bored already? Please feel free to switch away now, because there’s more.
Within the compass of my limited early experience with the theatre I learned quickly that most of the greatest actors are introverts. In as much as a generalisation can ever be drawn you could say they collectively hate doing interviews, making personal appearances, or any form of contact with a fan base. Yet they love their profession; they love to act! Why? Because….
No, I’m not trying to draw any parallel between my poor talents and those gifted with greatness; far from it. I’m bringing this up because I am getting into the second half of my ‘action plan’ for this year and entering the fearsome business of finding (or trying to find) an agent.
Tragic as I am I still have upon my wall, nailed with tacks that are rusted now, a copy of the Desiderata – remember that piece of ‘seventies pop philosophy?
‘You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars, you have a right to be here’
Well, anonymous citizen of Baltimore, when I scan the lists, when I read the proprietorial ‘requirements for submission’ , when I am confronted by the formidable author talent apparently flooding each agent’s books, I do not feel I have a right to be here. I feel, in fact, like slipping back beneath my stone and shuffling a little bank of defensive sand up in front of me.
And here I will squat, with my computer specially adapted for molluscs, splattering away at the keys creating manuscripts no-one will read…..
How many, I wonder, out there, bad, indifferent, good, or superb, will pass unread? How many masterpieces are destroyed by a quick trip to the waste bin because they venture to raise their head from the ignominy of the ‘slush pile’ just at the moment the ‘phone rings, or it is time for lunch?
So, time to load up the best quality paper! Why? Because…..