I've been sitting here for the past hour trying to drop the set of balls that would allow me to write what I am about to write. All I've gained has been a racing heart and slightly sweaty palms. And no dear reader, I haven't got any cosmic revelation about my self, sexuality, financial status, spiritual enlightenment or political leaning to break to you, it's just that I have decided to share some of my writing and it feels rather awkward and life-threatening. You'll be excused to arch your eyebrows until they merge into your hairline at this point because, yes of course, I know that I share my writing on here all of the bloody time for crying out loud so what's the big deal on this one? Ehrm... the big deal is that I am a closeted fiction writer. I have been since I went to university and my imagination was beaten into submission by shelves and shelves of books by critics, as I told you in passing right here, and about how proper writing is done and about what proper writing is. At some point I thought, 'Blimey, I am not sure I want to write fiction anymore... look at how nasty and clinical all of these people are with their criticisms!' I felt The Anxiety of Influence weighting upon me like the proverbial ton of bricks and it wasn't until many years later, when I watched Ratatouille, that I started hopping from foot to foot, trying... Read more →