Thank you

 

It looks like I am finally attracting some visitor numbers to my blog, after noticing a definite spike in the tally. I’ve never paid much attention to visitor numbers; I’m not interested in the demographics of the people who might be reading. I’m sure there’s a way to do it, like Google, who know everything about everyone, but that’s not for me.

I don’t know the first thing about you, reading this. You could be anyone or anything. Moreover, I’ve no wish to know the first or second or even last thing. The only thing I care about is readership. To writers, that’s as important as the noughts in their bank account. Or so I’ve heard.

I’ve lived in the shadows for years and years, all of my life. The only thing that can jockey with a regularly read blog is a publication I had in a magazine in my late twenties. That had a 'circa' of 750. I’m not sure if the magazine went into 750 institutions or there were only actually 750 copies of the magazine going into less institutions. In any case, I was chuffed, and manifestly proud of the story. Being reasonably appeased with having gutted out yet another story is one thing, but being manifestly proud is another.

The last thing I want to do at the moment is share some fiction with anyone who might be roused by what I suddenly have to say. Some people think that it’s made-up baloney, and not intellectual. Hear, hear – everyone’s entitled to an opinion, even though I disagree wholeheartedly. I think its sheer magic, what you can do with it.

I’m deciding whether to finish my latest book, HEADSWAP, or keep it going. Plenty of existential transgression and head-hopping contained within, although I am getting bored of typing it up. Typing up cursive is slow. I’m trying to look at the page, the screen and the keyboard all at the same time. It detracts from your focus. Typing this, straight out of the head, is no problem.

I’m struggling today. I just wanted to say thanks for reading, it means a mighty lot. You’ve granted me an extra motivation to drag myself to the library and use their computers. I’d be lost without it. I went to a poetry gig they hold here once a month, but numbers had dropped since the last time I went and the content wasn’t really stimulating enough. No offence, it’s just that the women there are mostly older, spitting about tulips and daisies in fanciful weather (done extremely well, it has to be said), while I’m fresh outta Compton and wanna rap about paranoid 32-legged monsters in the Seventh Circle. Just a pinch of difference there. Still, it was nice to show my face.

I left after ten minutes. If I can’t maintain a hunger for the spoken word, what chance has anything else got? Household chores, for example? I feel for those with ADHD. It must be terribly hard to hold a persuasion for anything at all. If you have it, then I insist you allow me to buy you a drink while you tell me all about it, only if you want to of course. After 5 minutes, I’m bored of everything, apart from sex. Don’t worry, I’m not about to expose my sex life here! You’d similarly be bored in minutes. That’s all it lasts.

Be back bigger and better soon. Really have got a hurting, wounded, lonely soul at the moment. In a few days I’ll be right as rain and enjoying talking with you again. Don’t worry if you’re a stranger, I’ll always think the best of you. It’s better this way. Writing is a psychic link. Think yourself lucky it’s one-sided, and you can now be you, and remain you, watching me go. Love, A x