Up to Speed

Darn. Another early morning, guess that's the price to pay for an early night, although it kept being interrupted. The previous day's idea has been regurgitated as something rather serious. I knew this was going to happen. Why can't I just put down a straightforward pisstake without having to turn it into a Dostoyevskian Drama. Nevermind, that's me. I'm really pushing this one but don't know whether to approach the agents I have already got material with or try for a completely new one. I do wish some of the hopeless writers out there, and there have got to be many of them, and particularly those with money in their pockets, would just either give up or go away on a long extended holiday to give me a chance to catch an agent and get on with the writing. The terrible frustration is that so much time, effort, thought and money has gone into finding an agent. It's pointless even approaching publishers since they have given up on triage, as Richard Charkin put it to me, except when the author is called Ackroyd or Archer. On that point I notice that Charkin's blog promotes Macmillan NewWriting - advance free - with the story of a 68 year old Oxford Lit teacher, university and school. Heck, if someone that qualified can't get a proper deal what hope is there for the rest of us. Still, whinging don't pay the bills, as the old blues song should go. Back to work, Paul.