“I have a pretty much inescapable deadline that will see this project wrapped up. At the end of January, Pitching the World will be no more.” – Pitching the World, December 2009.
Ambitious, wasn’t I? Bold, wasn’t I? Wrong, wasn’t I? Still, the following year it seems I continued to be wrong.
“On Friday I will take Pitching the World down, never write another entry, and go and work on the bins for the next decade or two.” – Pitching the World, August 2010.
Seems that I was marvelously tough back in August 2010. Couldn’t leave the house without getting into a brawl with some fishermen back in August 2010. ‘Go and work on the bins.’ Wow, watch out. And not only work on them, but work on them ‘for a decade or two.’ Yeah, that’ll show them. That’ll show me. That’s what people who live in their nan’s dining rooms go and do when things get tough: they go back to their roots and go and work on the bins.
“This, I fear, could be my final post. I’ve had enough. Enough of being a writer or a journalist or whatever the hell it is I’ve turned into and I am on the verge of quitting. The reasons are too numerous and complicated to go into, but let it be known that I’ve had enough. Enough enough enough. You know what the worst word in the English language is? Hope. I’ve had it with hope. Me and hope used to be pals; I used to take hope round the back of supermarkets and have sex with it in big bins. That’s what I do with my friends by the way: fuck them in bins.” – Pitching the World, June 2011.
Bins again. Threatening to quit, again. What’s the thing with bins? What’s the thing with quitting? I wanted to quit again this morning. From now on, unless I say otherwise, always assume that I wanted to quit again this morning. You know why I didn’t quit? I don’t have the balls. I don’t have the guts. Do you know what Marlon Brando said? He said – and, while we’re at it, are all these questions pissing you off as much as they are me? – this:
“Acting is the expression of a neurotic impulse. It’s a bum’s life. Quitting acting, that’s the sign of maturity.”
Swap acting for writing and that’s pretty much how I feel at the moment. A bum’s life, but one I don’t have the guts to quit. Do you know what I’m doing at the moment? I’m writing out The Great Gatsby. Once written out, I’m going to write about my experiences of writing out The Great Gatsby for a writing magazine in the US. Beadier-eyed readers will note that at this precise second I’m writing about writing about writing out The Great Gatsby. A bum’s life.
It’s okay though, I’m going into forced exile in East Horsley on Friday. Nothing bad ever happens in East Horsley. Just you wait and see.