INT. DINING ROOM – DAY
14:16 Thursday 16 June, 2011.
MATTHEW HAMILTON: Hello. Is that Steven?
ME: I think so. Is that my award-winning agent?
MH: Hahahahaha. Yes.
MH: I was speaking about you last night. For an hour.
ME: Fuck. Really? To the police? They’re lying. Your therapist?
ME: It wasn’t my Mum was it?
MH: Ha. [beat] Look, let’s talk Pitching the World.
And so we do.
Here’s what we’ve decided. Matthew is going away on holiday and I’m going to work on a proposal (and sample chapters) for a book based upon this blog. Sounds – or rather, reads – ridiculous written down, doesn’t it? Once Matthew gets back from his holiday (wish I was going on holiday) at the beginning of July we’re going to send off the proposal and sample chapters (wish I was a proposal and sample chapters) to publishers. Said publishers are going to start a bidding war (wish I was etc.) and eventually one is going to rise out of all the filth and offer me lots of money to write a book based on Pitching the World.
That, I think, is the idea. And there’s no way it’s going to fuck up (wish there was no way I was going to fuck up).
I haven’t quit by the way. That last post wasn’t my last post, by the way. I think it all just got a bit too much – my soupy ways, lack of money, living arrangements, the ridiculous idea of pitching all of these magazines – and I just wanted to curl up in a corner of a room somewhere and stay there, like a dying mouse or bear or horse or whatever animal goes to the corner of a room to die.
But then, this morning, a breakthrough. Who says this whole caper needs to be a success? I mean it clearly will be, but so what if it isn’t? Isn’t that something still? A kind of anti-journalism book, or a guide on how not to live your life – wouldn’t that be something still? The best bits of biographies are always the first 70 pages or so when the subject is struggling – going to auditions and not getting anywhere, or having manuscripts rejected, or living in a subway eating cans of tuna and drinking super strength lager. These are the best bits. And the book could – could – be like that. Imagine: a whole book of that. With no success (in fact I’m far, far less successful than when I started), no uplifting finale and no lessons learnt except perhaps JOURNALISM IS FUCKED or THE WRITER OF THIS BOOK IS FUCKED.
I don’t know though. We’re tossing around a few ideas at the moment. That’s right, tossing them around. And the end of the book could – could – be more uplifting than the end of Rocky, you never know. After posting this I’m going to write and send a letter to editors of magazines practically begging to write for them. It will be a good letter. A begging letter – can you imagine? Oh I’ve sunk low, I’ve sunk low all right. But I can sink much lower. Just you watch me.
If anyone needs me, once I’ve written that letter I’ll be in a subway in Boscombe eating tuna out of a can and drinking super strength lager. Come and say hello.
*Format courtesy of Rob Long, author of Conversations with My Agent. Go and buy it, it’s good. Incidentally, Rob Long’s second book was represented by my agent – perhaps you can go and buy that too, although I can’t remember the title.