That's it. Christmas and New Year has come and gone, and all we have left is a new hole in our belts to punch. That, and that bottle of cheap plonk we can't bear to drink.
My New Year resolution was to get published, which feels cheapened by the fact that I am already "publishing" my blog, and I continue to get media coverage for clients at work. I know lots of novelists (one l or two?) used to be professional writers, and you might think that it's an obvious step, but it feels like a double-edged sword to me. My work keeps me writing, yes, but it also lessens my appetite to carry on after hours because the notion of being "in print" is not so exciting to me. I still dream about people reading and liking my work, and seeing some fancy hardback novel with my name on it beautifully stacked in a Waterstones window, but the graduation from this to that feels more like a work promotion, and not the life-defining experience it should be. And yes, right now I can hear my mother saying, "Just pull your socks up and do it, son."
So on New Year's Eve I declared my resolution out loud, to an admiring throng, then pulled my socks up, lost my balance, dropped my beer, and fell over. Hopefully, not too prophetic.
Regarding my previous post, I have left a suggestion with the BBC that, using their new interactive, extremely over-hyped digital service, they give football viewers the option to mute football commentators while keeping the background crowd noise. This way you can watch football and get some feeling of the atmosphere, without someone destroying the English language over the top of it. And stuffing your head with brainless chat:
John Motson: "Mark, you get the feeling that whoever scores first in this game will have the edge."
My licence fee is well spent.
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