It’s hard to describe the elation of this moment. I’m not sure I fully believe it even now. It’s as if Simon Cowell came down and gave me a record contract with all the clout that he has to promote it.
Is there a serious writer in the world who wants to be tarred with a cheap tabloid brush? Is there an individual anywhere who wants to be rejected by the people they love most in the world as I have been?
I like to write about challenging paradigms. Constructs. Neuroscience. Sex? Not so much. It reminds me of my body and boy is it difficult to concentrate on good writing when you’re writing about the flowing of your own vaginal juices. Because writing about it means you have to live it in the moment. In order to write it well, I have to feel it…
‘I am finally an adult. I’m free to make my own unquestioned decisions without her looking over my shoulder.’
She was 60. Will you wait?
Fortunately for those of us who aren’t inclined to make the epic effort it requires to wade through the opening pages of Hemingway’s epic piece of literature–as boring as it is wise–you can satisfy your hankering for death and survival in almost every current Richard-and-Judy-stickered novel out there, from Harry Potter to The Lovely Bones.
In the aftermath of one of my own battles, I sat and reflected on whether I still believed in making my private opinions… public through blogging. And why I was doing it. Was it purely attention seeking?
It’s taken courage to keep writing honestly in the face of criticism (although I must admit, it was easier because I was far away from people I knew). My (old) friends think I’m crazy. Self destructive. Wallowing in self pity. Which is really weird, because I’m shinier and happier than I have ever been in my life.
There’s an argument afoot that the changes should come from the top. That we have no chance of making it in this world “when society rewards lying and cheating, and punishes whistleblowers”. Honesty in our society is not rewarded.