My fellow blogger, I come to you – in pretty good shape to be fair, all things considered. A lot of shit’s gone down over the last few years, hence the embarrassing gap between this post’s date and that of my last entry.
In writing this blog’s exposing stories, I failed to disclose that, between bouts of sucking dick and trying (and loathing) anal, I was also caring for my terminally ill mother. Three years after her incurable breast cancer diagnosis (and nine days after my last post), the crazy, beautiful, wickedly funny broad passed away. But during those three years, my dear friend and mentor encouraged me to write about everything that was happening and turn it into a book. Reluctantly, I made half-hearted attempts at diary entries, very similar to posts on this blog, and after a few years, I compiled everything – cunnilingus one day, chemo appointment the next; Torture Garden one night, rubbing my mum’s back while she puked the next – and after months of painstaking editing, reading, rewriting, reading and another rewrite that came to 117,000 words, I sent the fucker out to a handful of publishers recommended by my incredibly supportive mentor friend, who happened to be the first person to read the first draft. I value her opinion so much that if upon reading the draft she had suggested I drop it, I would have done exactly that.
So imagine my surprise when my correspondences with these agents was met with tumbleweed. One cunt even had the nerve to say it was “too angry”. Too fucking right the book is fucking angry!!! Barely days after my pasty boyfriend left me, my mum was diagnosed with a death sentence and I had to grin and bear being her carer for three years. The only thing that kept me somewhat sane and gave me respite from that role was hooking up with loser men. And the story isn’t all doom and gloom. It includes some of the posts from this blog, as well as some hilarious exchanges between my mum and me. What motivated me to finish the book was the realisation that I struggled to find stories about carers at the time. I felt like I was the only woman in her thirties dealing with watching her mum fade away. I wrote the book for people in similar situations and it ends optimistically. Ultimately, no matter what horrible thing you’re living through, you will be okay!
My friend, if you are contemplating turning your blog into a bestselling novel, I wish you all the luck in the fucking world. But a word of advice: Purchase the latest copy of the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook. It will not steer you wrong. I made the fatal error of purchasing this little chicken nugget after I’d already sent my manuscript out to a bunch of pompous cunt flaps, but if my mistake can serve others as a ‘What Not To Do’, then it was worth the humiliation of sending my most intimate stories to unappreciative human beings and the ensuing depression of undulating rejection emails and equivalent non-responses.
If you’ve read any of my previous posts, would you do me a favour and tell me if you would hypothetically read a novel with such stories? Do you think I should give up?
Miss Adventures 