The ordinary writer

Yesterday I had a telephone interview with a journalist from national newspaper. The thrust of the article is supposed to be "how ordinary erotica writers are in contrast to their work."

Heck. Am I ordinary? I don't hold down a proper job like most people. I just slob around the house all day talking to myself. I don't have kids, unlike most people (including erotica writers. How the HELL they look after children and then find the time and energy and inspiration to write I have no idea). I'm not even sure I count as a real writer, because I sure as hell would starve to death on the street if Mr Ashbless didn't support me.

Real writers knock out 10,000 words a day, every day, apparently.
(Personally I once managed 5,000  . . . and that was by dint of being locked in a hotel room with nothing except Italian on the TV, and not getting out of bed except to pee.)

So by 5.15pm I'm hovering near the phone feeling like THE WHOLE WORLD IS TRYING TO FALL OUT OF MY ASS.

The phone goes. It's the photography desk at the Express. Just to let me know they're sending a hair-and-makeup woman along with the photographer on Sunday, "if that's okay with you." I tell them I don't usually wear makeup and it might not give a realistic impression. They say it's just to make me look more defined for the picture.

Well, okay.

The phone goes again. It's somebody I really need to talk to - but NOT RIGHT NOW! I make grovelling apologies and promise to phone back.

30 seconds later the reporter rings. She sounds nice, but then it's a journo's job to sound nice. I yak for 25 minutes. I probably sound like a total asshole.

I don't know how the article's going to look in the final version. It's completely out of my hands now. If they do makeup it won't even look like me . . . Which, to be honest, is probably for the best.


This chart below, btw, is the most horribly accurate answer to her question "What is your day like, as a writer?"