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He waits, that's what he does...

One reason I became a writer was so I could be my own boss: I’ve always hated having to wait on, rely on, other people. So why is it that in every single aspect of my life that’s what I’m doing? Waiting on people, most of whom I do not know, like, understand or respect; yet without whom I am utterly impotent.

I won’t name names; let’s just say these people include a fair few editors and others who have somehow been placed in a position to judge my work, who have somehow managed to assume power over my destiny, despite any real evidence that they are able, that they know what they’re doing.

If I were a Banksy I would go do my stuff on a wall; if I was a musician I would stick a performance on youtube; a photographer simply takes pictures and a dancer dances in the street. Writers, unlike almost any other artists, cannot do this. So they wait.

In the meantime, I work on projects I’ve been putting off for ages. My radio play, “What will survive”. “Bushed”, a strange little piece about watching obscure pop videos in an Australian suburb. “Roman Synchysis”, a poem about ancient and modern Rome. Oh – and I check my emails – about a million times per day. Waiting – on what? Why, after everything, am I powerless?

Well: no more my friend. It’s all going to change...

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