Too Full Of Myself

The other evening I realised something rather profound as I talked to an empty kitchen. Talking out loud to myself, I announced to the world, ‘that in my books…’ - books plural. The word ‘books’ sounded very odd as the word bounced back off the slightly grubby tiles and rattled down my auditory canal. It sounded a lot like I was a grown up for a change; someone with gravitas and bearing; the ability to stand up and be noticed.  No longer a plebeian but someone who had made his mark on the world, setting his banner on the battlefield of the literary universe and shouting, ‘I am here!’  

True, my second book is yet to be published and still languishes on my computer awaiting editing; whilst the others are currently just some scribblings in notebooks. But it is a start.  Saying the words out loud gave me an extremely deep sense of accomplishment; that strange little world I imagined all those years ago had finally sprung into existence. It had become real and solid, not just the ramblings of a daft idiot who daydreamed too much.

All of this, as I cooked a jacket potato after watching an episode of Doctor Who!  Pompous yes, self righteous certainly, but still an immense feeling of power and purpose.  But let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, I write comical fiction; probably one of the lesser writing genres and one that rarely attracts mainstream praise or notice. And yet, it is still a voice to be heard and a story to be told, and it’s my thing, a thing I like doing. So, as this sense of emboldenment and self-achievement washed over me, thoughts like, ‘what more can flow out of this brain?’ and ‘which characters are still to be born?’ Then as I took a deep breath and calmed myself, another thought popped into my cortex. ‘I probably shouldn’t have drunk all those Manhattan’s before eating; I probably should have just stuck with my baked potato and watched a documentary.’ Besides, it’s chilli and cheese, and that can never be underestimated. So I pack away the images of success and adoration, placing them back in the mental suitcase of daft reasoning, while settling back into my everyday life. But don’t worry world, I’m still coming for you, but just probably with a slight hangover.

Sometimes it seems, you can talk complete bollocks to yourself when you’re alone in a kitchen with a blood alcohol level in excess of 80 milligrammes. Perhaps that’s where inspiration lies.  That, or permanent liver damage.

Here endeth the lesson.

Oh, and if you’re wondering about the recipe for a Manhattan - Two parts bourbon, one part sweet red Vermouth, with three dashes of Angostura bitters, ice and a quick prayer to the god of hangovers.  Shaken not stirred.  This has been a public service announcement.