Sorry mum, but I am.
I’m a big fat whore of words.
A prostitute of prose.
*sigh*
I disgust myself at times… Surely if I sell all of my writing then I am not being a true ‘writer’?
I thought all of this to myself very recently and then promptly went cold-turkey and gave up all my freelance writing gigs.
I became very poor.
And sad 
And borrrrreeeed.
So out of necessity and need I picked up some new jobs – but this time I was extremely picky about my clientele, and the work that I would do. Call it selective or bitchy, call it whatever you want - I care not! Cos I’m writing again. And it’s fucken unreal!
I used to ‘churn out’ articles and blogs, ending up resenting the work, the client and producing some waffle (albeit still amusing waffle, but waffle all the same). I hated it.
Now, I’m writing well and getting good cash-olla for it. I took some massive risks and they are paying off. Fucking finally.
I write first thing in the morning on the train….reminiscent of my own short story The Broady Line – I sit in a corner seat with my moleskin notebook on my lap (thanks Leela) and inhale the fresh smell of morning breath and unwashed youth. Mmmmm…aceness!
Sometime between Broady and Ascot vale I realise that the sun has woken up and I’m two articles down and nearly at my destination. It pays for my train ticket and then some. Hmmm, why the fricken hell hadn’t I evolved before this?
The biggest payoff though is that I am working on my craft again.
Like a demon slut of syntax, a harlot of hellish text.
I am writing.
So, I am HAPPY.
And also a whore.
Yes, yes I am.
Sorry mum 
