Literary Vampire

I first started writing in an 8ft cell, turning the darkness around me into fiction. I sucked inspiration from my other peoples misfortunes and misdeeds, like a literary vampire. It was a mentor that made me push my writing to the next level, to open my eyes and attempt poetry and short stories. I even ended up visiting the Tate a few times as a free man, something I never thought I'd do as a child.

As I currently sit here at McDonald's opposite the Rock of Gibraltar, stealing their wifi without so much as looking at one of their filthy excuses for food, I'm doing as much research about book publication and self promotion as my laptop battery will let me. At the same time, I'm reflecting on the events that lead me to this point, feeling somewhat nostalgic. When life was sufficiently more terrible, it was also simpler. All I had to do was grab a pen and a piece of paper, card, tissue, whatever, and get writing. Now, I'm thinking about Twitter followers and marketing. Not to mention the hours upon hours or editing I've crawled through. As I reach the end of this novel I'm hitting a wall of doubt.

I find it a scary thought, unleashing a book upon the world. Onto the last chapter and I'm reluctant to finish. What exactly am I trying to say? Why did I start in the first place? Will anybody care either way?

Perhaps not, but in the end it will not matter. It was for me, and it will always be for me. If others like it then great. If not, I still wrote a novel.

Anyway, I feel somewhat ill so I think I'll return to the flat and make some dinner.

Thanks for listening... or reading.