It’s not easy you know, this thing. Little by little ’til it becomes something. Something far more superior, something that gets the credit you feel it might just deserve. Nah, you know it deserves. One person becomes ten becomes a sudden moment, and you’re away. You’re reading at candlelit events – hardly your thing but beggars ‘n’ all that – where people actually come who want to hear you read your words. Can’t know what makes these things work. You study, you attempt to replicate, heck you do all that you can. It’s a dream that even upon meeting it somewhat, it’s probably not anywhere near as colourful in real life as in your head – pretty expectant seeing as you’re highly imaginative in the first place. But yes, there’s a thirst, to get it just so. To be that person who does manage to enjoy it all. Neil Gaiman seems happy. I get that it’s not simple, get that he’s got his demons. I do think demons come with the territory. I’ve yet to meet a writer who isn’t either unstable in a way or car crash ugly. Sorry, it’s quite true. But the thirst, it can tend to take you places, places where most mind’s don’t really let themselves go. I mean do you lie awake in bed and think about doing interviews with famous faces, telling them why what works for you works for you? And all of this when you’ve made no known dent on the industry. Then there’s the whole having to spell out words longer than, say, eight letters mid-conversation. Bit manic right? What do they say again about those who tend to repeat the same task over and over again having to be mad? About 0.1 percent of people I know read my stuff, hey, it’s a start. But sooner or later the start has to become a happening. The fact you’re expected to fail in the first place makes it that bit more tolerable, exciting even – nothing better than making a career from a supposed hobby. It Was Never A Hobby. And for those who think it’s odd, everything’s odd ’til you find yourself having to become accustomed to it.

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