Dear...

Dear Perlilly, I'm fuming today - I can't believe you've done this to me. I can't believe after everything - after wanting me, after taking me back, after letting me declare my love for you, after asking me about DeGraw's 'overrated' ("is that how I feel?"), after those poems we wrote each other, after the sweet things we said, after we talked about holidays together, after we made plans and made it obvious we wanted each other, after everything had fallen into place, after everything had gotten good again, and we were ready for fun and happiness and loving - that you then went and said, "it's not going to work" - out of nowhere, with no real basis, no lead-up, nothing. "It's not going to work" - but why? Because...what did you say? Because you said you were too young, because you thought our differing beliefs would be a problem, because I once mentioned something about a barefoot wedding (did I even say that?) and that taking my kids to India would be good for them? I mean, what kind of horseshit is that! I mean, why didn't we even talk about it!? What a load of fucking crap. Too young? You're no younger than I, in so many ways. Kids? Pressure? What pressure? When did I ever say that I wanted that NOW? Barefoot wedding? India? Bullshit! If you'd only just asked me then we could have sorted it out - but you didn't even bring yourself to talk to me; you just made this stupid decision ALL ON YOUR OWN, and went ahead with it, without even thinking or realising what you were doing. It's ridiculous. What a crock. And now I'm hurting and devastated and once again my future happiness has gone - and for no fucking reason whatsoever, and I hate you for it. (I don't really - but this is me venting, and I'm allowed a little drama). We could have been so good - we could have had something real - and now I've got to suffer because of your bullshit, because of your misunderstandings, because you got scared and couldn't find a way and now you'll go running to someone else - and I'm supposed to be the commitment-phobe! Ha! So go and find some other guy - some drunk young thang that can trawl around after you and not never mention reincarnation or hypnosis 'cos he's too shallow and thick to think of it (okay, you hang around with some real smart people, and could easily bag some Oxford professor, I know) - but will you ever find the love that I offered you? Will you ever find something as good and powerful and true? I doubt it - and probably that's why you had to go, because you knew that it was real, and that it was love - same as I did - and that's a little bit much to take. But maybe I should be blaming myself here - maybe if I'd played it cool...maybe if I hadn't freaked after Christmas - when you were waxing so lyrical about us, about how we'd worked so well together, when you were telling me over and over that you loved me - God, I wish it was those days again! Why did I make such a mistake? Why did I get so turned around in my head? Why did I go to India and get all lost in spiritual thoughts and shit again? Why couldn't I just be normal!? And I came back and thought and thought - and thought you weren't spiritual enough for me (but really it was the pressure of responsibility that done me in) - and now you've gone and done the same, but in reverse (ie, me too spiritual for you) - and what a crock of shit that all is anyway! As if I'm spiritual! As if there's anything in my bones that resembles even the slightest bit of spirituality, beyond a few kooky beliefs, an ability to heal, and a history of meditation and sadhu-like wandering that is so, so in the past. And why are you so afraid of that stuff anyway? Jesus, what kind of a sheltered life have you lead? You'd think that people would be curious - but not you, no, you just get furious instead - and in a billion conversations I've never had a reaction like that. Slightly mental, in my opinion, but there you go - and it didn't stop me loving and wanting and admiring you anyway, because, like I've said a dozen times, it all comes down to what's inside, and what's inside you is so pure and good compared to what's inside me and what I've been; I mean, I had it rough, and I was bad - you don't even know how bad - and if anything all spirituality did was save me and bring me somewhere close to where you - to where a normal person - should be. It's still not easy being good, though - and you don't have a naughty bone in your body (even if you can be quite wicked sometimes). So why can't we just forget all that? And why did we ever bring it up in the first place? Like I said: who gives a flying fuck? I believe in God - you don't; who cares? I believe in life after death - you don't; it doesn't make one blind bit of difference to ANYTHING. And even now I'm just going around in circles with this; let's forget it; let's never mention it again - let me never mention it to anyone again, ever, unless they ask me. These things should leak out naturally, not be forced or distributed willy nilly; I've been guilty and wrong in the past, I realise that now; I just wanted to be interesting to others, I guess, and this is sort of 'my thing'; it sets me apart; it makes me different; it's something a lot of others haven't got; it's an ego thing. I want it to die now...I sort of want to die too. And, yes, that is just drama - just words that come into my head - but I suppose it must be somewhat indicative of how lost and helpless I feel...my woman has gone - my lovely woman love has gone - and it's all wrong, and it shouldn't be, and there's nothing I can do about it except cling on to sanity for dear life and hope and wait and, in the meantime, drown, in suffering - and deservedly so, because this is exact role reversal of what I done and I just have to suck it up. But will you come back? Will you come back? That's the question. Or will you move on, and leave me desolate and heartbroken, and thinking only of what could have been had I perhaps kept my mouth shut once or twice and not been such a dickhead when presented with love? God, I'm sorry; I really am. If only we could make it better; I just can't accept that it's over (lol); I can't. It's four days now - it's been four of the most horrible days of my life. Every fibre in my being wants to win you back - but I stop myself because I know it won't work; you don't want it; you don't care. You've got your friends, you've got your work; you can shop; when's the time gonna come for you to feel the sadness and the horror of what you've done, the stirring of love that will lead you back to me? You've got your booze, too - your distractions will save you, when they couldn't save me, and time will pass and soon you'll forget and move on and...you're better at that than me. You left Lee behind so easily for me - fuck! You told me you could see yourself being with me for a long time! You asked me less than two weeks ago, "do you think it can be like it was at Christmas?" You called me darling and sweetheart and said what a lucky girl you were to have me - and then you threw me away, with barely a passing thought - except you cried your bucketloads of tears, and didn't that tell you something? That this is a mistake; that there should be something else you were doing; a better way; that we weren't done. For fuck's sake, we were only getting started! All I can do is shake my head and cry: it's so preposterous - and why can't I just distract? This isn't helping me at all; I'm off back to work.

NB: This is just a rant; never meant to be read by her, never intended to be posted off...

17

Dear God,

So after me sorting myself out, and realising that I was in love with Perlilly, and going down to Oxford to see her, and the two of us deciding properly to be boyfriend and girlfriend, and making a public show of it, and sending each other poems saying how much we liked each other, and making a date to have some hot lovin’ this Monday night just gone – after all that, just a few hours later, when I turn up there happy and excited and free from everything that had gone before, Perlilly sits me down and out of the blue says, “I don’t think this is going to work.”

I listen. She says stuff about her being too young, about me being a proper grown-up, about our differences – namely, that I believe in You, and reincarnation, and she doesn’t, and doesn’t like to talk about it (so why do we?) – about me wanting “a barefoot wedding” (!!?) and “taking the kids out of school to go to India” (I did say and think that once; realised there was no need the next day) and I sit there and feel dreadful and don’t know what to say, but accept it because, what am I going to do? Persuade her? And, anyway, inside a part of me feels that maybe she’s doing the same thing I did, getting scared when the reality of what we have gets reel, and fulfilling the final cycle in this whole ‘role reversal thing’ that’s been going on since we last split, since I got to feel all the neediness and insecurity and longing and wanting that she’d had to feel when I went to India and got all weird. It was like my karma coming back to me; I thought I’d better suck it up.

We talked and after a bit it was like, well, shall we go upstairs? Knowing full well what was going to happen – and it did. And it was explosive, and incredible, and loving and great as ever – and it didn’t feel at all like “the farewell fuck”, at least not to me. We fell asleep in each other’s arms and spend the whole night like that – apart from another 4 am lovemaking (equally amazing) and then in the morning the feelings came back up, and I cried my fucking eyes out, and felt so helpless and crazy with it, that something so delicious and beautiful was dying, and I just couldn’t see why. We get on so well – we’ve got so many good things in common – and we have such a laugh, and share such love, and despite our minor differences, it really was – and I want to say is – so good. She looked so beautiful; she always did. Did she know how much I adored her? I hope so. She cried, and she was so upset too, and we talked, and ate breakfast, and smiles and laughter returned, and at the door we hugged and kissed for a long time and that didn’t feel like farewell either. Maybe I’m in denial; it just hasn’t sunk in. It feels nothing like the end of a relationship should do – because it came so out of the blue, with nothing to precipitate it, and because nothing was wrong – I mean, just a few hours beforehand she was sending me sweet texts, and looking forward to seeing me – so where the hell did this come from? I just can’t believe she’s done it, and wants this, and is going to stick to it.

The last few days have been pretty unbearable, to be honest; I’ve only got through it with the kind words of my lovely female housemates, and the distraction of sport and work, and some naps. I feel emotionally on the edge a lot of the time, and my every waking moment is punctuated with the thought of her. The question “why?” has loomed large in my mind; I still don’t know. I know she had a problem with some of my beliefs – why, oh why, did I have to put them out there? – and it’s such a crying fucking shame because she was helping me so much in this ongoing process of mine in shedding so much of that spiritual mumbo-jumbo I’d got stuck in my head from years ago, I liked that about her. And just as I thought I’d got it cracked: this. Barefoot wedding? Kids to India? Just passing thoughts, fleeting images of a bygone day that meant nothing to me – but she did. I’d had my problems with her non-spirituality in the past, and it was what no doubt lead to our breakup last month, but I’d gotten over them, realised I was being stupid, and realised that I really loved her, and liked her, and that she was a genuinely good person – infinitely more important than being ‘spiritual’ – and I was ready to leave that all behind. Obviously, I’m not going to deny the existence of You, or the benefits of yoga and meditation – nor can I say that I don’t believe in life after death, or the existence of the soul, of something in a human that is more than body or brain – but, in reality, what do these things matter? Does it alter how I live my life? Does it make me a better person to be around? Those are the things that count. Beliefs mean nothing; but is a person good? Do they have joy? Are they honest, and loving, and dependable? Those are the things that matter. And those are things she had. Wisdom? Intelligence? Emotional awareness? Tick, tick and tick. Far more important than any kind of belief or professed philosophy. I just wish I’d kept my big mouth shut - he who knows does not speak, etc (hence, therefore, I don’t know) and let whatever I have inside shine forth in my actions and words and love. I’ve been with girls who claimed spirituality; they weren’t half as nice as her; didn’t have half the qualities she had. I guess what I’m saying is the things she saw as a problem were things that didn’t mean anything to me, just ideas. But why did she see them as a problem? That’s the interesting question.

Number one: let’s not discount her going through the same things I went through – the fears, the questioning, the wanting to get out when the reality of this commitment became bigger – and the parallel aspect of me having to pay for my karma in doubting her, and in pushing her away, and in thinking that I was beyond the needing and the wanting and the longing. Also, when we were apart was when I truly realised that I wanted her and loved her, and came to really believe that we could make a go of things – “don’t it always seem to go/that you don’t know what you got till it’s gone” – and maybe the same things will happen for her. On my part, it really cemented things for me: my feelings, my commitment, my willingness to be open and give it a real try – and, consequently, my unwillingness to let something so good slip from my grasp, and my drive to not keep things inside any more, and to share what I had. Number two: it would seem, really, that these things are a problem for her <i>precisely because</i> she is thinking of us in more serious terms, and thinking about what kind of father I’d make, and recoiling at the thought of a doo-lally dad who wants to run around shoeless in India and tells the kids that the world is just an illusion so best not to work but you should live in a shed and meditate – and, not surprisingly, she doesn’t want that. But then why didn’t we talk about it? (And the idea of kids and stuff is really just an idea anyway; it’s obviously a long way down the line before something like that need even be discussed in any kind of half-serious measure). I just keep coming back to this idea that she got scared – much in the same way that I did – but, the question is, I came back; would she? Love drives my life, and I know how important it is to follow its path; I know how precious and fragile these meetings are, and how much they are worth fighting for. Do others, though? Or do they just let it slide? Do they think, they’ll be more round the corner, someone better – or someone not quite as good but, what the hell? When I feel love I want to grab it with both hands and never let go. That’s the stage I’d come to with her – I would have given so much (and she knows it) – but what if she does love me (I’m pretty sure she does) but doesn’t feel the same way? Oh, if only we had talked! Because, to misquote Homer and Marge Simpson, “our differences are our only skin deep – but our sames go deep down”.

God, I really hope she’s just scared, and will come back to me, with a love stronger and firmer than before. I don’t know what’s made her do this, really – but I’m sure we can work it out. We really are so good for each other, I believe that – and I know she does too; she said it often enough, a few months back, before I messed it all by getting really weird after that first real, “I love you.” “I love you so much,” she used to say to me – but I haven’t heard those words in a long time, even though I’ve said it a hundred times back to her since I stopped being such an ass. What I’d give for it now! Or am I being the fool? Is she moving on? Is she true in her resolve to put an end to what we have, despite this obvious love and goodness, despite our so recent sentiments to each other, our lovemaking and tears and sadness no we’re apart? People are strong and people do silly things sometimes – I know what I’d do – but then I’ve done silly things in the past too. I do believe it’s a mistake – or it would be if it remained this way; not if it had the same effect on her as it had on me when I did it – and I guess that’s why I feel so helpless, because I really feel that it just shouldn’t be, and I’m having a hard time dealing with it. God, I love her so much! I mean, I’ve loved before but this feels so much different; I mean, I adore her, and respect her, and trust her with totality; she’s such a really good person – far better than I – and I could really have seen things going well for us. There’s the tragedy, that I’ve come to that place, and probably felt how she’d always wanted me to feel, and suddenly it’s made her want to end it. Was it too much for her to handle, at her young age? Did she worry that I wanted to get her knocked up, because I’d said I wanted children? Did she think, oh there goes my youth, my sleeping around years, my single-life, knowing that if we stuck it out we’d probably be so good together there’d be no reason to ever end it? Did she feel the weight of responsibility that comes with true love? Or is this all just wishful thinking on my part, a way to deal with my pain, a beacon of hope that she’ll come back to me and love me as I love her? Oh God, I’m so fucking sad right now I can barely stand anything! Won’t you save me from this misery!? Or – no – I mean: why should I be saved? Why should I not feel this, to know what it feels like, to experience and suffer? I hate it, I know – but how will I ever understand otherwise? And don’t other suffer far more than I? Didn’t Perlilly, during my stupid mad weeks when I lost myself and failed to give her the love and respect that she deserves? I mean, what right have I to think that I should get everything my own way, that I shouldn’t suffer too? None, really. But – God, I want her back! What happiness I felt during those brief days when we were boyfriend and girlfriend – “a couple”, goddamnit; her words! – and all the weights of the doubts I’d had before were gone and nothing remained but love. I feel like I’ve done so well to overcome all that – worked hard in my mind; got over my fear of commitment; looked at getting a decent job that could see me supporting another properly – and…and, well where has it got me? Alone and miserable with my love but a ten minute walk from here – four, if I run! – and her out partying with her friends and trying to push me out of her heart and mind, perhaps. Or figuring things out and realising that she does want me after all; one of the two. But what to do in the meantime? That’s the hard bit; I’m rubbish at that. That’s what TV is for, I guess – and that’s what I’ve done to others in the past, with my flip-flopping and noncommittal; it’s my own fault.

Thank You God for bringing me to this raw and emotional place, and for giving me this experience; thank You God for bringing me Perlilly, and for the effect she has had in me, in getting me more and more normal, and sorting me out, and making me look at my commitment issues, and helping me get more serious and less Peter Pan about life; thank You God for the love I have felt, from her and from within myself, and for showing me that I was still capable, and for the happy times we shared; thank You God for the gift of laughter, or happy memories – oh, so many memories! – and of good new friends and housemates, and the roof over my head, and the hope of things to come in the future. I feel surprisingly good about myself – I feel more handsome, fitter, more beautiful, a better person – than ever before. I think you’re supposed to feel the opposite way – but I don’t. I feel in my prime; I feel ready. For what, I don’t know – but I do know that I feel ready, and good, and for that I’ve got You to thank. Now to hell with all this pseudo-spirituality nonsense and let’s get back to just being joyful and loving and fun – which is what it should all be about anyway. Who cares what we believe, darling, the fact is we’re good together, and we make beautiful love, and I think you’re sexy as hell, and I adore every little part of you, and all these petty differences of ours, we can work ‘em out, I believe that. Are you going to find a man as good as me? Well good luck to you if you do – but I doubt it. And am I going to find a girl as good as you – well, if you don’t want me back then I guess I will, life ain’t that cruel – but I strongly doubt that too. You’re everything I could want in a woman, and nothing I don’t, I’ve realised that now. My doubts have gone; won’t yours too? You know we could be so good together – in a very real and major way – and I guess that’s why you’ve got scared; yes, I believe that’s what it is; question is, what are you going to do with it, and where are we going to go? Question is…over to you.

Goodnight, God – and thanks for listening! You’re the best.

Love,

Rory

15

It was the same old story, really: boy meets girl, boy and girl get together, various ups and downs occur but eventually happiness ensues – and then one day, out of the blue, girl says, "I don't think this is going to work" ("why?" says the boy; in all honesty, he still doesn't know the answer) and the boy is plunged into heartbreak; melancholy; tears in the street and he doesn't care who seems them; sadness. He can't quite get his head 'round it; he wishes it wasn't real. He wonders why he's all alone, why nobody wants him, why it seems so hard to make something work, and why something so obviously good has gone.

14

I feel a bit angry today. I'm mad at *you-know-who* – again – and also Dave Gormless and his bumchum Danny Wallace. Can you believe the blurb for Mr Gormless's new book?

"Gamely, Dave beds down in a Colorado trailer park, sleeps in an Oregon forest treehouse, and even spends Thanksgiving with a Mexican family in Kansas."

He even spends Thanksgiving with a Mexican family in Kansas? Oh, fuck me sidewards with a rusty bent tuna, Kerouac and Thoreau must be spinning in their graves! All I can do is shake my head and wonder – I mean, is this what the world has come to, these two goggle-eyed burglar boys adventuring into the world with their unlimited credit cards and ready-made publishing deals, and the best they can come up with is sleeping in a treehouse? And if those are the three highlights…Jesus, what the hell's in the other 381 pages? It makes me want to wank myself stupid.

Danny Wallace, you suck arse! Your Short List shorts are shit – and made all the more shitter [sic] by your insistence on plundering your last two paragraphs from the pages of Women's Weekly. Yes Man? How about, Suck-My-Cock Man? And I hate your glasses and your hair, your teeth and grin and eyes. I probably hate your girlfriend too.

Meanwhile, Mr Gormless has shrunk to the size of an amoeba and lodged himself in the groove of an old tramp's shoe, so desperate is he to hide from the state of the world he's created. How can he live with himself? I hear you ask. Answer: he can't. That's why he's seeking refuge in the netherworld between pavement and sole and carpet. And I, for one, don't blame him.

Oh, anger bites my arse and lodges teaspoons in there behind my very eyes! The anger of seeing these two buffoons every which way I turn, reminding me that they've made it, and done their typing, and got their deals and earned their crusts, while I sit here fuming – sit right here with an actual real story tucked safely away in the cracks of my cheeks – and plunder and spit and do nothing about it. I spent Thanksgiving with a family of Mexicans (in Texas) – and that was ten fucking years ago! And it was so insignificant to my journey it hasn't even warranted a mention in the long ago completed Part One! God, I'm so fuckin' pissed at others stealing in on my limelight and patch, and me sitting here paralysed and unable to do anything about it; gnarled fingers and bitter, disgusting armchair here I come; it makes me want to cry. "Do it then!" you'll shout; "Aaaarggghh!" I'll scream, in reply. "Cocksuckers and arseoles and Millibands and typhoons, I just can't!" "Aaarggh," I'll say again – note the use of less letters, no exclamation mark, to show that I'm calming down – "there's no such word as can't." All this anger is the sign of envy that points the road that shows the way to what you want to do and what you have to do if you don't want to feel this way anymore. Is it right to hate these two twits – and their girlfriends (assuming they have them) – and to call them twits? Of course…it is…not; of course not. But…come on! For fuck's sake! If there's a place for this – for saying, "hey, I've got an idea for a madcap adventure, can I have a load of money to go and show the world how cool life could be if you just go out there and do stuff, and when I come home – to my nice, cosy home – I'll write a book about it for you" – then there's got to be a place for the actual, real, undiluted, uncontrived, lived and breathed and true-to-the-core-of-my-motherfucking-bones experience, right?

So, once more: arseoles and cocksuckers and big brass platyhelminth motherfucking sock-eating giblets, I quit! Being a loser. Oh yes

:-)

Poem for Perlilly

On a low day in Leeds, after playing the fool,

A pretty girl said, hi there, and made me feel cool,

She cheered me up; she took me by surprise,

She had the sweetest of faces; sad soulful eyes,

And over a tub of horrible chews,

I went and fell in love – but then shocking news!

She was taken, by another; she had a boyfriend,

And pop! went my dreams, of snuggling her in bed.

Several months passed, and we spoke no more,

Till one day in Hyde Park, I came to her door,

We chatted, and flirted, late into the night,

And a friendship was born, to my heart’s delight,

And over the weeks, the friendship grew strong,

And closer together, our minds became one,

Till watching the fireworks, on November the Fifth,

Our hands slipped together, and later we kissed.

Oh what joy I found, in her gorgeous face!

What happiness, and splendour, in her warm embrace!

In love, I fell, deeper – ever deeper down,

Our entwined naked bodies: why, I see them now.

I’d felt that for me, love had passed by,

I was wrong, now I see; for that I could cry –

With joy, don’t you see, for I’m one lucky guy,

My cheeky chimpy girlfriend is tastier than pie.

8

Two men are walking down the road, one a sixties popstar, the other a long-haired and slightly worried spiritual type in sandals.

“I don’t know about this,” says the long hair, tugging on his beard. His sandals flap on the pavement as he endeavours to miss the cracks.

“Step on a crack and you’ll marry a Jack, eh?” said the popstar, smiling. “I wouldn’t want to marry a Jack, either – but you worry too much; you gotta have trust, you know? Like that Wham song.” And then he sings a bit, and does a sort of George Michael twirl, and tugs on his collar. A child stares and he gives them a wink.

“They love a bit of it,” he says.

“She’s too young for you,” says Thomas, “you know that – people want different things at that age; you can’t really think it’s gonna work out?”

“Listen” – and he croons – “<i>I’m in love with a beautiful woman/and it’s no surprise/that she bakes me pies</I>. What could be wrong with that? I’ve met someone I think is awesome; who I think is beautiful; lovely; creative; talented; smart; nice; funny; sexy; and who wants me. Sure, she’s got flaws, and things that I don’t necessarily dig <i>all the time</i> – but then, who doesn’t? I sure as hell do. And, anyway, endlessly looking for this mystical ‘perfect person’ isn’t the way – because what would that teach you about love? Easy to love someone who does everything you desire – but harder to love those that have been put in front of you to love, with their differences, and quirks, beliefs and opinions and attitudes and actions. Isn’t that where you’ve always fallen down, always thinking that there’s someone better, instead of making the best of what you’ve got? I mean – where’s that gotten you?”

Thomas looks down at his shoes, thoughtful. He sighs and shakes his head and looks for a moment like he’s going to cry.

“They were just never <i>right</i> for me,” he says, “always something wrong, always ended up hassling me or wanting too much or something.”

“Maybe it was you,” says Adam, “maybe you should have just given them more. I read a study that said the best way to deal with insecure people is not to ignore their needs and hope they ‘get over it’, but to give them what they want, so that they feel safe and secure; then they sort of learn to stand on their own two feet, after, not before. From what I know of you, you never did that.”

“I don’t dig that; I want someone who’s whole already.”

“Are you whole?”

“I…I aim to be in a position where I am in need of no one; where I miss no one; where I am complete unto myself.”

“It sounds like you’re reading out of a book. Do you really believe that crap?”

“Crap? Ha! You just say that because you’re a needy person yourself. Maybe you should try it. It’s not so bad being alone, you know – <i>alone</i> – <i>all one</i>.”

“Ah, Buddha,” Adam says, and smiles a little smile, “you’re so wise and mighty – but can your granddad do this?” And off he skips down the street defying his years, the energy and enthusiasm of a much younger man in his heart and muscles, a song on his lips, the words all wrong but who cares anyway. He’s in love with a beautiful woman – and it’s no surprise, that she turns his eye…

“Adam!” shouts Thomas, but it’s too late. Poor, doubting Thomas has been left behind, and Faith has come triumphant at last.

“I don’t know why I carried him so long,” Adam muses, as he enters the meadow and beholds his love, in all her splendour.

30

Well in several ways that was probably the most exciting week I’ve had in years – but, alas, it seems like the three most exciting things must remain a secret, for now. All I can say is: hypnotherapy was amazing, and I’m so, so hopeful for the future and what it will bring me; I’m an incredible detective, and wish I did it <i>all the time</i>; and…there’s hope elsewhere as well; we’ll see.

In other news, The Publisher didn’t like the first story I submitted (‘Thirteen’), saying it wasn’t really a story at all – because it didn’t do the beginning, middle and end thing; because it didn’t have a conflict and conflict resolution – but that it was more of a memoir, and not really what they were after. I was gutted, at first, and railed, thinking, why be so limited? I mean, if it’s good, and short, what’s wrong with that? Talking it through with <i>this amazing girl I know</i>, though, I started to see where I’d gone wrong. Probably they’re right; probably it’s not enough just to describe an experience, and hope it does something for the reader, but you have to work at provoking a reaction, an emotional response. It has to have some kind of excitement (thanks, C, for helping me see that!) Still: bummer.

I wonder what they’ll make of the story I submitted on Tuesday, ‘I Fly With My Little Spy’? I thought it was pretty crazy at the time of writing – and then when I’d finished it, and described the plot to my housemate, Holly, I was like, that’s fucking insane! But who knows what they’ll think? I mean, there’s no accounting for taste.

I wrote a lot last week; less so this one.