The Loneliness of the Long-Distance Writer

Okay, here’s a little teaser for you:
What have Chopin, James Blunt, Rameses II, Kenneth Williams, Sheila Hancock, Arthur Schopenhauer, Bruce Forsyth and Me got in common?
That’s right. We were all born on the same day. And, for me, this has been my ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card for as long as I can remember. With a hand to the brow I have escaped many a sideways remark with my claim to arty fame. We’re a very sensitive bunch, us Pisceans – although I’ve heard that anyone born between 19-22nd of any month could reasonably be termed a Cuspian because it’s such a close call, day-wise. Anyway, we are the creative Cuspians of the Zodiac.

I’m actually more than a little disappointed that Tony Hancock, Lord Byron and Sylvia Plath weren’t born on this day because at times I feel a total empathy with these people as well. And whenever Brucie’s on the TV, I always get a warm glow. But that could be more to do with the sofa; there’s probably a small empire of hitherto undiscovered life-form living in the depths of that and none of us would know.
Arthur Schopenhauer, as we all know, was the quintessential Philosopher of Pessimism and for that reason alone, I respectfully doff my creative Cuspian Cap and I bet even HE tried to be a bit of a laugh on the quiet.
You see, for all the hard skin we writers have to develop, and be seen to be sporting, we’re nothing but a bunch of totally tormented artists, deep down. And this is what I find the toughest thing to cope with in writing. To harden my fragile, approval-seeking skin to the rigours of this very subjective pursuit.

I’ve been wondering recently if Dickens had had access to the internet, whether he’d be trawling through Amazon listings and the Authonomy website hoping to see his rankings increase. And if Jane Austen had a Facebook page, if she’d be constantly fretting over how many ‘likes’ ‘fans/friends’ she was getting daily. And how tortured would Shakespeare have become if he hadn’t got any comments on the blog post he’d spent ages honing to his idea of perfection that morning?
 My internal meanderings even took me as far as finally understanding why and how and in what place Van Gogh must have been to have gouged off his own ear. Web-surfing will do that to ME at times. I guess it all boils down to the eternal struggle for artistic recognition, doesn’t it? Our readers. Our audience. The people that we hope we can entertain. The ones who will applaud our finer bits and perhaps ignore or heckle or reassure our bad. And if we don’t get the kind of support and recognition that we hope we deserve, that we strive to achieve, then at times it does make you feel like stuffing dampened blankets round the kitchen door frame and turning the gas up a bit.

My personal response to rejection disappointments is one of retreat. Much like the injured wild animal. I prefer to take my wounds away from societal scrutiny and go somewhere quiet and dark until I am repaired. Until I feel strong enough to try it all over again. Because this is an exhausting road we have lain before us - the road to literary success. And there are other, less scaredy-cats out there who seem to instinctively know how to bounce right back and keep on going for their particular kill. But then if all animals were all like that, Charles Darwin wouldn’t have had anything to research, would he?

Which is why Mother Nature invented Little (literary) Chefs.
I haven’t given up my journey; I’m just having a pit-stop and rethinking my route, that’s all.
And the All-Day Breakfast looks nice too.

Help! I think I need to be Katie Price!

And not in a big-bazoomer-y type of way, not in an orange-hued, stick-thin celebrity B-lister type of way either, in fact not even in an "I married one of the fittest, most tolerant, funniest blokes in the universe but it still didn't make me happy" kinda way either.  No, I think I need to be Katie Price because of what happened to me in the shower this morning.
Incoming elaboration...
As regular readers already know, the bathroom is where I get  my best ideas.  And  today, even through the fug of the current mucus-based-bug - which let me tell you turns any wet room into an unprecedented danger zone -  I had SUCH a double, no.. triple - oh soddit - make that a gazillion-whammy of a creative inspiration that I actually left the room shaking and pruned to the eyeballs, I'd stood under the shower for so long trying to work it all out.
I KNOW it's a great idea.  I KNOW it'll be an absolute blast to write.  I KNOW it'll hit home on so many levels and touch a whole generation and I KNOW the subject so well that it'll be almost painful (in a good way) to write- but.  And this is not a massive but.... BUT I already have tandem WIP teen books I'm writing, I have a list of about 15 other 'tentative titles' of ideas that I know I'll to get round to penning "One Day" and I vacillate from one to the other according to my general mood, the weather and my state of un/dress.
(This, in case any Agent-type person is reading - is because I NEED AN AGENT to discipline me in where/what/which I'm supposed to be doing first for optimum effect.. ok, manic screech over...)
And you know what?  This, is what I imagine Katie Price has the ability... nay, the luxury to do.  She can have a great idea whilst in her equivalent of MY creative shower (she's certainly not welcome in my shower - let me make that perfectly clear - not whilst there are red-blooded men and impressionable teenagers about the house) and, knowing that she doesn't have to actually sit at a keyboard - much less LEARN how to use one to begin with - and start to draft the bones, research until three in the morning whilst ensuring surrounding areas are kept free of smeared chocolate, hob-nob crumbs, spilled tea and small creatures on the sniff for said scraps.  AND keep a bloody house running.  Oh, and a turn up regularly at a part-time job.  And feed a family - which includes cats.  Does she? Well, does she?
I'm guessing not.  Although I'm quite happy to be corrected on this point.  I'd welcome it to be frank.  It'd be nice to have a creative chin-wag with a 'writer' of her calibre. 
In my mind, she has these ideas (in whatever room of her house in whichever state of undress she chooses) and promptly farms them out to some other poor (more professional, who can spell, knows where a comma's supposed to go and which law of imperative verbs is the most important) writer who will grab her 'ideas', mould, shape and form them into some kind of semblance of order which won't make *blood pour from a reader's eyeballs and proceed to type them up into a story for her.
To which she will then put her name.
And sell a million in a morning because she's who she is.
At least Martine McCutcheon had the grace to write her 'book' herself.  I'm guessing.  Judging from the excerpt I read and the hundredweight of tissues I had to use to soak up *the blood.