It’s been a while. The weekend saw me convalescing after my grim superman sleep cycle ordeal and I’ve barely pitched a thing. Right about here, regular readers (Alan) would expect another tale of woe, and over the next few hundred words some half-baked polemic about the state of journalism propped up by some not-as-funny-as-I-think-it-is tale about getting drunk and splitting some part of my body open.
And that’s exactly what you’re going to get. Not really. No, today I can’t really be bothered to repeat myself again and come up with promises about putting up my pitches, promises that I rarely deliver on.
All I’ll say is this: The only thing people regret is is that they didn’t live boldly enough, didn’t love enough. Nothing else really counts at all.
Impressive, isn’t it? All my words too, not Ted Hughes’s words that I nicked out of the paper at the weekend, and they should provide inspiration to fellow pitchers who may be a little timid in their approaches to editors.
I’ll endeavour to put up some pitches real soon. I’ll also get spectacularly drunk and write about the fall out.