Posted in comedy, humor, humour, Uncategorized, writing

The Next One’s Going To Be About Teenage Frankensteins In Love

So I finished the book. Of course, it’s never actually finished; it’s impossible to keep from tinkering with it. I definitely wrote The End, though. At the end of it, no less.

So, what’s the next step? Well, getting someone to believe in it. That’s the hard part. Getting people to believe in God is easy; you just strike when they’re at their most vulnerable. You know, like when a loved one has died, or when they’re suicidal. Or when they’re an ickle baby. That God shit goes right in then, with no resistance. Getting people to believe in your book is harder, mainly because when anyone has difficult questions about it, you have to come up with actual answers. You can’t just tell them that you move in mysterious ways, or warn them that they’re going to burn in hell for doubting you. Well, unless you’re JK Rowling.

Did I say already that I’d sent off some chapters to an agent? That isn’t a real question, by the way. I know what I have and haven’t done. I’m not Terry Pratchett. I was just being disingenuous, as a sort of dramatic device. This bit, where I’m explaining that process? That’s called being meta. That’s the sort of thing the kids do now. It’s been a long time since the world was all Hello Boys and Cool Britannia. 1990 was twenty two years ago. The kids today think Captain America when you mention Chris Evans, and they think TFI Friday is a cocktail bar.

Anyway, yes. I did send some off. Just to the one guy, mind. I thought it would be more sincere to find one agent that suited me, and concentrate on pitching to him or her. I was wrong, of course. No matter how much an agent’s website tells you not to send your work to lots of agents, ignore it. If your work is amazing, they’ll want it. They’re not going to turn it down because someone else has looked at it already. They’re not four years old. If they were, they’d be too busy reading The Bible.

I’m going to start writing another book. This one’s for a competition; a kids’ book. The prize is publication, and a £10,000 prize, but only if you don’t have an agent. I fully expect to write the winning entry, then at the same time secure an agent, thus rendering my entry void. They’ll say they’re terribly sorry, and give the book deal and the money to the guy who came second. You know, the guy who wrote a book about Space Owls.
The agent will turn out to be shit, and never get me any work. So, I haven’t even written a word of this book , but I’m already ten grand in the hole. Thanks a bunch, Friday the 13th.

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Self proclaimed author, cynic, saviour of humanity.

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