Notes from Eeyore's swamp

Apologies for the long lapse between posts. The truth is, I've been depressed. Or rather, Depressed with a capital D - for Do Not Ask Me How I Am. This question has of late instantly reduced me to a blubbering ball of misery who embarrasses everyone within a 100m radius with the amount of snot and tears generated. Literally within seconds.

Nor do I need any trigger. I'll be sat at the dinner table eating potatoes, and the next moment I'm flooding them in salt. It must be alarming to watch. Not even the most nostalgic Irishman should get teary-eyed at a plate of mash, no matter how pissed.

I've used up my three work-allocated counselling sessions to no avail. In fact, the last time I visited, the counsellor looked at the clock after 40 minutes of desultory chat, saying brightly "Well, you seem a lot better. Shall we just call it a day"? I've known stuffed elephants that were more effective. I'll stick to increasing my meds.

I'd be interested to know, however, just what proportion of writers wrestle with the dog. I can't be the only one living 12,000 miles away from the centres of film-making excellence and wondering how to bridge the gap between dream and reality. I think Writer's Despair is probably even more prevalent than writer's block, if anyone wants to commission a study.

The truth is, I know that even if all my imaginings come true and I hit the literary jackpot, with contracts thrust in my face from publishing houses and film studios of all stripes - it's not the cure. Depression doesn't have one. Only look at Stephen Fry's struggles with bipolar (I love you Stephen, don't you ever give in). Still, a contract would sure as fuck help.

Just how low can it get? Here are the darkest depths of my desperation. I actually bought a plane ticket to Wellington a few weeks ago - in winter - just because I read that the premiere of The World's End would be attended by Simon Pegg, Martin Freeman, Edgar Wright and Nick Frost. I live in Auckland, which is an hour's flight, by the way. And Hot Fuzz is my favourite movie.

I queued in the freezing wind outside the cinema at 5.45am for a ticket (and there wasn't actually a queue at that point). I bought a new dress, shoes and belt, and typed away like a demon robot in order to have something to show them. I wrote 100 pages in a week, and put up with my Wellington sister's three cats, even after one of them peed in my bath, and then on my bed. I Fucking Hate Cats.

Didn't matter that I knew how much actors and directors ABHOR being accosted by wannabes.
Didn't matter that I knew my chances of an Audience were slimmer than a starving whippet.
Didn't matter that my thing was a novel, not even a script yet, and it wasn't actually finished.

Nope. I had to try. I just wanted to talk to them - to get some goddamn advice.
And persuade Martin he was going to be in the film.

I was on coals all week. Went through two loo rolls in five days, such were the effects on my colon.

I don't think I need to tell you how this ended.

It turned out to be an enormous event, instead of the small but select screening and Q&A session I had fondly hoped for, and the whole assortment vanished as soon as the credits rolled. It really did feel like the world's end. My sister dragged me away for an $8 hot chocolate (and they call Aucklanders venal!) but even it couldn't punch through the fog.

The lesson is you can't leapfrog fate. I wasn't ready, my novel/script wasn't ready, and the timing just wasn't right. Can you imagine the reaction of those guys if someone had pushed their way over through 800 guests and minders to thrust a memory stick on them? Or leapt on them in a restaurant afterwards? It probably would have looked like a scene from the film.

But it's hard. Last week:

I was turned down for a writing scholarship that would have given me time and money to finish my novel.

I got a rejection email from an agent, just a week after submitting my pitch.

And to cap it all off, I went to a publishing roadshow hoping to meet my former editor for a chat, but she wasn't there. Instead, a former colleague of mine approached me, and the first words out of her mouth were: "So, you've given up on writing then?" I stared at her, gobsmacked, and then replied: "No - my publishers gave up on my series, but I haven't stopped writing". To which there came: "Oh, so you're just writing for fun, then".

Why do some people bother to breathe?

Meanwhile, seeing my doctor tomorrow, and still waiting to hear from some agents...Here's hoping it gets better. Any offers of representation welcome. Will also accept chocolate.

Is self-publishing giving up?

It used to be. They called it "vanity" publishing. Can't see how it's any more vain myself. Writing your thoughts on anything and throwing them out into public view is the most tremendous act of self-love after sticking posters of yourself above your bed. All writers ever want is to be worshipped, regardless of how they get it done.

It's just that if you're self-published, you've already been found wanting. Someone thinks you're crap. It can't get much worse for your vanity than that.

I resisted a long time before publishing my YA/adult crossover fantasy on Createspace. It felt like giving up. But I felt sorry for Cursed. Maybe I should have given it another title. Ten years ago, it was a film script. It's been entered into awards (shortlisted into oblivion). It's been kindly damned or even ignored by publishers and agents at home and abroad. It's been languishing in my hard drive ever since - and there it would sit if it weren't suddenly free to put it out there. It was too tempting. If I could just score one word of praise...
So in a moment of weakness, I caved. It's now for sale on Amazon, under the pseudonym Emma Benedict. If you want, you can even buy it here. All it took was a few easy (but incredibly time-consuming) steps, uploading content and choosing cover templates, and I was a published author again. But do I feel published? No. Like any other quick hit, this was empty.

Despite the few successes that self-publishing online has had (yeah, yeah, E. L. James and Amanda Hocking), it really is a fool's paradise. Instead of thousands of competitors being published every year, the sky is the limit. How on earth can anyone find your book in the digital morass? They're not in bookshops. They can't be browsed. Heaven knows, their DIY covers aren't going to catch anyone's eye. And without even the paltry sum publishers allocate to their midlist marketing, no one's even going to know they're there.

I wasn't invited to the ball. And while some people may be fine getting up to dance with their self-published friends and hanging out in the kitchen, drunkenly shouting I'm beautiful, I don't need a publisher! Ah, go f*!k yourself, you don' know wha' you're MISSING, yer wanker! it just isn't the same. I love publishers. I admit it. I was born that way.

Does this mean I don't support Createspace or Wattpad or any of those other creative vents? Of course not. People need hope. People need other people's encouragement. If anything else it's good practice. But it's not real.

If, against all expectation or likelihood, my book becomes a smash hit, I'll eat my words. Still, I'm not getting the table set.

Welcome, one and all, to the inaugural posting of...JOURNEYS ON A PAPER PLANE. In this blog, you will read about my hilarious but tragic and life-affirming battles with drugs and sex addiction and my love/hate relationship with the media.

Will you bollocks.

Sorry, but all you're going to read about is my attempts to write a book that sells (and consequently, a script that sells). All I've ever wanted since I was 15 was to be a scriptwriter, seeing my lines spoken by real people on screen. I didn't care about winning an Oscar, nor whether my scripts were on TV or the big screen, or making enough to scuba dive in my bath with its solid-gold taps. No. Writing Good Stuff. That's what it's all about.

If it's any consolation, I do sort of have a love/hate relationship thing going with the media. Oo, here comes my sordid past. I actually used to be a journalist once. It was an attempt to find a job I didn't hate and in which I could use my creative skills. However, by Day Two of my grad dip course I was admitting to my classmates that I just didn't have it in me to be a reporter. It's not that I don't care about today's issues - but you try giving much of a shit about one resident's crusade to get a decent footpath for their street.

"We've got little children in this neighbourhood. What if one of them tripped and hurt themselves on this crack? They could be paralysed for life. But instead we're getting a new bike lane that no one's going to use!"

I think I wrote about 10 of those stories in three years. I should have made a template and got them to fill in the street name and quotes. In fact, that's a good money-making scheme...Templates for suburban reporters...Christ, it works for celebrity reporting too.

Anyway, I simply lacked the killer instinct to take it further. It pretty well sucks to develop relationships with your contacts in councils and schools, only to have to turn around and rip their balls off with your teeth any time a member of the public has an issue with their performance. Most of them are just trying to do their jobs like you and me. Unfortunately no one was offering a full-time position as a travel reporter with free flights to numerous exotic destinations. You have to wait for someone to die to get one of those. Or kill them. If I'd had to work as a reporter for that length of time, I would have killed myself.

I think the Fourth Estate is a crucial part of any civilisation. At its best, it exposes corruption and injustice, keeping our guvners in line. At its worst, it's...a rotten, oozing, reeking, greedy, vacuous, trollopy little  mawworm. If you haven't read Flat Earth News by Guardian reporter Nick Davies yet, do. It's depressingly true. Doesn't matter if you're accurate anymore, just as long as you're first. Get the quotes, forget the rest. I wash my hands of it. Bah.

Now I work for a large regional library service, buying books and spreading the joy of literature. It's much better. But it's still...not scriptwriting.

Watch this space.