Why do you want to write a book? Is it to make money? To touch people? To get laid? Are the last two the same thing?
I’ve never wanted money for anything, but it’s sort of necessary to survive. Well, not if you’re single and have no friends, obviously. Then all you need is your dole money for Iceland pizzas and a pouch of Amber Leaf. In the real world though; where people have social lives and girlfriends- the decent sort of girlfriend who still has amazing breasts and a vulva like a tiny rare steak – you need some cash. That’s not why you write a book though; you write it so that people will read it.
Sounds obvious, but it’s true. If you’re a Radio DJ and no one listens to your programme, you’re just a guy in a smelly basement, talking into a metal stick. If you’re a writer whose books are so ridiculously bad that no one outside your immediate family has every bought one, and even fewer people have actually read it, then are you a writer? Of course you aren’t. But you’re the last person on earth who is ever going to realise this. Carry on, carry on; as if nothing really matters.
I wrote a book for a number of reasons: One, to show myself that I could actually do it. Two, to impress a girl. Three, because I wanted that thing where complete strangers adore you. Not for ‘fame’, I might add. If I wanted fame I’d be using my real name, I’d be writing about vajazzles, I’d be doing stuff differently. I’d fucking take fame if it came, obviously. And I’d take money. What I wanted though, was people to go ‘Oooh, that’s/he’s brilliant!’ when flicking through something that had come from my actual head. That’s the ultimate buzz.
And I’ve had loads of that so far. There’s a Facebook group where we discuss the book, my inbox is full of the sweetest things people have said- genuinely touching stuff. One dear lady even told me that my book had made her want to read books again, after a long dry spell. It’s stuff like that which makes the whole thing worth it. It’s like being a musician and someone telling you that your big hit was their wedding song.
Unless you’re Celine Dion obviously. Nothing is like being Celine Dion, unless you happen to be a Mountain Elk made entirely from Rabbit Vaginas. That’s the nearest one can physically get to Celine Dion without actually being Celine Dion. Don’t blame me; blame science.
<—-BUY MY BOOK! (so I can touch you)