Andrew McEwan's Blog: Words Are the Gravy On the Mashed Potato of Life - Posts Tagged "peanuts"
SUBMISSION
I went to bed at 3.15 this morning and got up approx twelve hours later. Sons of Anarchy is partially to blame, a soap opera with a body count and more hilarity than a Benny Hill sketch from back in the day. And there's a sixth season! Geordie Jax must have better things to do...
I don't watch much TV as it happens. Seldom at all during the week. One reason is I get shoutly, especially at the BBC. So I'm mostly limited to downloads and Netflix at weekends, with beer. Lately, however, this routine has grown tiresome. Often I find Twitter more entertaining. I am beguiled by my computer monitor. In the past this meant endless eBay trawling; only eBay ain't what it used to be. I used to buy and sell Apple Macs on a regular basis but everything is overpriced these days and bargains are hard to come by. Then there's the fraud. This year I've been involved in half a dozen disputes, more than in the previous ten years. The result is money tied up in PayPal and lots of wasted time. Bonne nuit to that.
Right now I'm halfway through a second edit of THUMP, the book formerly known as Spare Parts For Spaceships. I hate it, or parts of it, but I reckon several further mutations may result in something original and worthy of a revisit. There is to be a second volume, although ultimately the two may merge. This is the first SF I've written in years, and whilst it's fun the genre throws up a whole new set of problems. Watch this space.
I've submitted the first three chapters along with a synopsis (Why can't I write a decent synopsis?) to an agent. My first submission anywhere for a while. It would be nice to have some agenting but I'm not holding my breath. Again. Watch this space.
Speaking of help I'm heading to the doctor's Tuesday. Hmmm. A pattern emerging here. Yes, it's years since I saw a doctor. There are clearly a lot of inexplicable gaps in my life. Anyway. To cut a long story short I'm tired. I need help. I need drugs. I've been fighting depression for over thirty years and I can't do it any more. Not alone. Because in space no-one can hear you scream.
Wish me luck.
I don't watch much TV as it happens. Seldom at all during the week. One reason is I get shoutly, especially at the BBC. So I'm mostly limited to downloads and Netflix at weekends, with beer. Lately, however, this routine has grown tiresome. Often I find Twitter more entertaining. I am beguiled by my computer monitor. In the past this meant endless eBay trawling; only eBay ain't what it used to be. I used to buy and sell Apple Macs on a regular basis but everything is overpriced these days and bargains are hard to come by. Then there's the fraud. This year I've been involved in half a dozen disputes, more than in the previous ten years. The result is money tied up in PayPal and lots of wasted time. Bonne nuit to that.
Right now I'm halfway through a second edit of THUMP, the book formerly known as Spare Parts For Spaceships. I hate it, or parts of it, but I reckon several further mutations may result in something original and worthy of a revisit. There is to be a second volume, although ultimately the two may merge. This is the first SF I've written in years, and whilst it's fun the genre throws up a whole new set of problems. Watch this space.
I've submitted the first three chapters along with a synopsis (Why can't I write a decent synopsis?) to an agent. My first submission anywhere for a while. It would be nice to have some agenting but I'm not holding my breath. Again. Watch this space.
Speaking of help I'm heading to the doctor's Tuesday. Hmmm. A pattern emerging here. Yes, it's years since I saw a doctor. There are clearly a lot of inexplicable gaps in my life. Anyway. To cut a long story short I'm tired. I need help. I need drugs. I've been fighting depression for over thirty years and I can't do it any more. Not alone. Because in space no-one can hear you scream.
Wish me luck.
The World's Least Popular Author
I have to admit this is largely my own doing. I don't write books people want to read and I'm terrible at self-promotion. Not that I write bad books; it's just a matter of taste, or rather convention, for folk are impossibly conservative when it comes to their likes and dislikes and most won't travel off a given path unless persuaded (by recommendation) or pushed.
Self-publishing has opened a can of worms over recent years. Some have made a great success of it, whilst others have merely added to the growing pile of worm sloughings. I like to think I have something original to offer, but originality is no guarantee of readers; indeed, the opposite might be said to be true. And round we go again. So what's the answer? Clearly there isn't one. One, in fact, must simply persist, laughing off the one star reviews and smiling at the £0.14 Amazon now and then drops into one's bank account. Years of hard work and effort are besides the point. Conform or die, publishing says. Well, publishing, fuck you.
I had major surgery to remove a tumour four weeks ago. First they cut open my belly and remodelled my stomach. Then they opened my chest under my right shoulder and cut out my osophagus, along with the offending part. My stomach was then joined to what remained of my gullet and I was glued back together again. I had drains in my sides, tubes in my arms, nose, belly and winky. I only spent eight days in hospital, however, which was pretty good going, and now I can drink wine and munch crisps again.
Life has never been particularly kind to me: my true love was lost, I've only ever received rejection letters from publishers and agents, I've been bankrupt, have no pets or kids, not had a holiday in decades, and in the fourth year of junior school I wasn't made a prefect. Some of these things still rankle. I'm fifty next year. And you know what? I don't give a shit. And neither frankly should you.
Self-publishing has opened a can of worms over recent years. Some have made a great success of it, whilst others have merely added to the growing pile of worm sloughings. I like to think I have something original to offer, but originality is no guarantee of readers; indeed, the opposite might be said to be true. And round we go again. So what's the answer? Clearly there isn't one. One, in fact, must simply persist, laughing off the one star reviews and smiling at the £0.14 Amazon now and then drops into one's bank account. Years of hard work and effort are besides the point. Conform or die, publishing says. Well, publishing, fuck you.
I had major surgery to remove a tumour four weeks ago. First they cut open my belly and remodelled my stomach. Then they opened my chest under my right shoulder and cut out my osophagus, along with the offending part. My stomach was then joined to what remained of my gullet and I was glued back together again. I had drains in my sides, tubes in my arms, nose, belly and winky. I only spent eight days in hospital, however, which was pretty good going, and now I can drink wine and munch crisps again.
Life has never been particularly kind to me: my true love was lost, I've only ever received rejection letters from publishers and agents, I've been bankrupt, have no pets or kids, not had a holiday in decades, and in the fourth year of junior school I wasn't made a prefect. Some of these things still rankle. I'm fifty next year. And you know what? I don't give a shit. And neither frankly should you.
Words Are the Gravy On the Mashed Potato of Life
...there may be lumps in either or both.
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