So what happens when someone who writes in their teens and tries to publish a short story (after being told by his English teacher that he should publish said short story) gets a nasty knock back when he submits it to one ‘publisher’ who, quite frankly, may have been a fraud (ah, the wisdom of youth…)
Well, that teenage boy puts away his old fashioned typewriter (yes, the real thing) and goes off to have a career.
Then many years later he has a minor mid-life crisis when he realises that, having achieved much of what he always wanted to, there is only one demon left to exorcise. Gotta write a book. Gotta write a bloody book.
Having started the book a nagging voice in his mind wonders why he couldn’t have begun with something a little more achievable. Flash fiction maybe? Short story perhaps?
Of course I have now published a few things. Has that expunged the urgent need for recognition? The need to know that (perhaps) I might be able to write something worthwhile? Well, no actually, it hasn’t, but I do feel a little better for being on the road toward my little dream… Are the books any good? You be the judge, I guess…