Wot, no benefits?


It's gone five on a Friday afternoon. I can stop trying for a couple of days.

It's been tough, keeping this working week going with a heavy cold. I've managed to stay productive in a number of small ways, but curling up in bed feeling sorry for myself would have felt more appropriate. How lovely, the concept of paid sick days.

I've also just seen through my own naivety. For all my working years I've presumed that my books will be my pension, even to the extent of cashing in my teachers' pension to buy more writing time. It's part of the effect of having grown up on a diet of Penguin modern classics. There was Aldous Huxley, D.H.Lawrence, George Orwell, and soon there would be me. I may not be paid much per title, but I would gather my own backlist which would keep me in funds when age slowed me down.

Times have changed. The concept of loyalty between a publisher and writer, developing a writer's career, has largely evaporated. Of course naivety and optimism as vast as mine can't really be dented. I still believe in that backlist of my classics. Monday I'll recommence the process of bringing it into being.

For now, thank God it's Friday. Time for the first of a few hot toddies.

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