It’s needs to happen. I don’t know how yet but, above anything else, I reckon the foundation is set well enough by now. It’s a hard call, a hard case to make and especially with oneself. But if you can manage to drop the ego barriers, the overall ‘what-ifs’ and so on, then you should be doing what’s right. No room for uncertainty. Not an inch of it. To create long-lasting fiction, you have to have two things: a fair dollop of talent with your particular word-use and a goal. Both should sufficiently collide if applied at the right time and in the right way. Still won’t be any guarantee until, that is, you’re guaranteed. No result until that result comes right at you seemingly out of absolutely nowhere. You need to believe that what you’ve been doing all along suffices, that the errors, the embarrassing pitfalls and dire misjudgements, all of it is part of the process and a picture working within the overall goal. Drop that dollop of talent inside, swish it about like there’s no going back, and then you get to sit back and be proud of what you have created. Truly. And I mean that part more than I’d like to even be able to believe it for myself sometimes. No one wants to read what you write, then that is fine. It has to be. Remember this. That you are not expected to succeed at this, not one bit, and that in and of itself should be more than enough to set your worries straight. You’ve used every single word you know, and now all that you will actually have to do is to put those words in the right and natural crawling order, so that it creates that unputdownable piece of ever-lasting fiction. Simple? Hell no!! Possible? More than you’ve been letting yourself believe. Fiction is word-use. Wonderful word-use and mixed together within the makings of a hopefully wonderful style, too. It’s all that you have – pages upon stacked page acting as though you’ve got this humongous fucking mountain to climb. Well, know what? Get ready to climb. Put what’s in the past in your past. All of your writing, all of your stories, and all of your goddamn ‘poems’. Because, guess what? They mean nothing anymore. They are gone. Dead. Buried. Or, if you’re lucky enough, which you are, framed and placed upon a wall. Doesn’t matter. Clear your memory, forget those nice little momentary things. They’re just sidebars that will probably come back to help you – or haunt, and if it does turn out to be the latter, then deal with your every last and next step – the more realisation you gain. No, you do not need to sit and create as though you have a gun against your head. That’s bullshit too. All you need do is smile, and cry, and always believe in yourself without actually professing to be the greatest author out there. And even when you do become just that, do yourself a huge favour and remember this, there will always, always, always be a better writer out there. Only they are just as obviously waiting for ‘it’ to happen as you are. No comparisons. Write what feels right, write what is ear-achingly natural to you. And you won’t be a millionaire either. Until, that is, you’re a motherfucking millionaire. Like with anything important in this world, it takes hard work. Graft. A daft degree of both of the above. You might still find yourself failing, and that’ll have to be okay too. Without the failures how would the grandiose success stories out there prop themselves up against anything else besides themselves so as for people to actually appreciate their stand-out talent? Remember. It’s all fair game. It’s all absolutely level-pegging. So peg on and show yourself, and not just the fucking world, exactly what you got to give. There aren’t too many more naturally beautiful places wherein failings aren’t particularly a ridiculed thing as with writing. We all use words; just be shit-sure of yourself to use yours like the pro that you know you were born to be.