I’ve been preparing for P-Day. Despite what you may be thinking, P-Day isn’t where I spend the whole day pissing (although this is precisely what I’d like P-Day to be) rather it’s the day when I knuckle down and start pitching like a mad thing.
Yes I’ve said this before, but two things are going in my favour. One, I’ve given it a name – names help. More importantly, in a breathtaking display of stupidity (bravery) I’ve quit my job, allowing me the necessary space to execute P-Day successfully. Actually, there’s a third reason: I’m stupidly (bravely) moving down to Boscombe for a month. Screw Paris, there’s too much to do there. Bar dodging the scallies there’s not much to do in Boscombe except to pitch and write. Oh, we’re all writers and pitchers down here. “But you’re broke, you’re always bloke, you’re nothing, where in Boscombe will you live?” I hear you cry. “In my Nan’s dining room” I cry back, then cry.
Sexy, aren’t I? As a 35 year old man, living in your Nan’s dining room is definitely the sexiest thing you can do. It’s especially sexy if you’re writing a book that’s unlikely to get published and you’ve stupidly, not bravely, quit your job. But sometimes you have to give up the good to go for the great as I (not John D Rockefeller) have always said. Besides, Dorset has a rich literary history: Robert Louis Stevenson, Thomas Hardy and John Fowles have all written their finest work here and all have done so – surprisingly – from their Nan’s dining rooms.
Expect P-Day to start in about a week. I’ve decided to pitch at least 40 magazines a day until I’m done. That the phenomenon that is Pitching the World is around 18 months old and I’ve probably pitched no more than 40 magazines in total is no way an indication that I’m going to fuck this up. There’s no way I’m going to regret this. No way.