Are You Jealous of Your Dead Grandmother?
Why didn’t fate send me some patience; I had trouble at the supermarket this morning – I had to wait four minutes for chewing gum. That was tough, and I’m in the writing business for Christ’s sake.
What the hell am I doing?
Writing is the loneliest thing; I’m alone in a tawdry café opposite a library. And I have no-one to talk too.
I have no wife, or girlfriend, or children. I have nobody to love.
The aching crevice of solitude is ever-widening. They say the first sign of madness is talking to yourself. That’s what writers do: they speak and the reply is a gaping all-enveloping silence.
Nobody wants to be shunned. Every character in every unpublished book wanders alone. They should be on a desert island where they can keep each other company.