Things have taken a monotonous though not entirely unsurprising turn. I say turn, but it’s nothing so dramatic – more of a steady decline. My life now is one of bananas, cigarettes, cans of lager bought with 20 pence coins and inactivity. That, more or less seriously, is all I do: eat bananas, smoke cigarettes, drink lager and sit at this desk that is barely even a desk and pitch or write or research and miss one deadline after another. It’s thrilling stuff.
Another 600 magazines to go. It’s good having something to work towards, something with a bit of a resolution. After said 600 magazines have been pitched I reckon I’ll either be: (a) rich (b) mad (c) divorced (d) sick of bananas or (e) a combination of (b), (c) and (d). Depending on where I’m at mentally, financially, and in my relationship after all the pitches are complete, I can then decide whether I want to carry on writing for a living, become a male prostitute, or get a normal job. Whatever the hell that is.
See? Something to work towards, something with a bit of resolution. In the meantime, I’ve given myself 70 magazines to pitch this weekend. I already have an uneasy yet entirely predictable feeling that I’m not going to do any work tomorrow so that leaves Sunday (and to be honest, probably only Sunday evening) to do 70 pitches. I’ll start posting them up next week, along with pitches that have worked in the past and some that haven’t.
Thanks to everyone who keeps reading. I’m not as much of a fuck-up as I make out, but I almost am.