Serious business is on the agenda this morning.
Today I join the hordes of wannabes out there who long for fame, fortune and a mantelpiece full of accolades. Today I begin my journey towards literary stardom and a life of fulfilling creative freedom. Or - if we pay a quick visit to the Real World for a moment - today I join the slush pile.
Tediously, I've written a book. Actually I've written two books, but the first one is a dog's dinner of which Winalot would be tearfully proud. At least I think it is. I don't really know what it's about to be honest and the two of us have never really connected, like some accidental first child that just kind of popped out after a trouble-free pregnancy, but then looked a bit off, so we just politely avoided each other once it was old enough to feed and dress itself.
It's probably too late to save that one from a life of crime and drug abuse, but this one was my second bite at the cherry. Conceived with patience and care, it has been nurtured with all the right vitamins; gently told off when it misbehaved instead of being slapped into next week; encouraged, mollycoddled and carefully groomed for Oxbridge and a career in biochemistry. This one is going places.
I suspect these places might only be the waste paper bins of assorted literary agents across London, but places none the less. For today is the day I tackle what is probably the one defining aspect of my personality - all-conquering, all-trembling cowardice. Constantly striving for positive change, yet terrified of stepping out of my comfort zone, I am a particularly annoying individual in that respect. From career to relationships and back again, I'd give the most watery jellyfish a damn good run for its money.
I've 'wanted to write' since I was a child, but never really started doing it with any sense of commitment until about 12 months ago. All my life I've snapped and groaned at myself, abandoning projects at 5,000 words and thinking "if only I just had something full-length, something finished - however rough - that I could work with and send out to people. If only I could get started on 'being a novelist". Well, now I have. And I can tell you that life does not get any easier. It only gets scarier.
For now is the moment of truth. Once you have battled all those many, many doubts - is it snappy enough, will it grip people, have I done enough rewriting, have I done too much rewriting, is it in fact a steaming dog turd masquerading as literature and should I drown myself in the toilet before I can infect the cultural world with this festering pigswill - there is nothing left but the getting on with it.
By taking the plunge and drawing my wafflings to the attention of people who might actually be able to do something about my ambitions to be a writer, I might be taking the first step to greatness. More probably, I will be leading my dream out into some cold prison yard, loading a pistol and asking if it has any last words.
So I dig the garden. I clean out the kitchen cupboards. I take long walks in the country. I write this blog. Anything to avoid packing it up and sending it out to real human beings who will actually read it and then probably crack my dreams like a walnut, trampling the pieces under foot as they hurry to keep their lunch appointment with Joanna Trollop at The Ivy.
But today I say 'pah' to Joanna Trollop (well, I don't - she's never done me any harm and in fact I rather admire her turn of phrase). I say 'pah' to the Gormless Idiot within. And I say 'here's to finding out the hard way. Now where the hell did I put those envelopes? Oh balls, I forgot to buy stamps...'
Look out world.
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