Before I'd gone to the office, I had gone to the WH Smiths in the station. All those millions of casual words. And then I met them in their office. I was stunned they had an office. An office was tangible. More touchable than a secret dream. An office meant money. I was shitting it with fear, sweating in my suit. There were potted plants, and books, of course, and casualy dressed people demure with their success. I'd sweated on the train even though, as a mark of respect to the gravity of the situation, I'd stayed soberish the night before. On the train, I'd taken my shirt off and scoured my armpits with the rough toilet paper, hoping the feeling of being scoured was something to do with redemption. But I was still stained with sweat. Fear.

I sat in the office in my suit and the woman came in. She was wearing jeans and I got a flash of insight of how me in my suit must look to her. I got a flash of insight which I told my self to ignore. She smiled at me and it was alright. I went into her office clutching my manuscript. Thirty seven literary agents had rejected my novel with varying degrees of pefunctoryness and sarcasm. One said it was disgusting and I took this rejection almost like a proposal because at least it meant that someone, somewhere had read it. And here she was talking about promise. She was talking with her partner and I thought of all those happy successful people in the office and those millions of words in WHSMiths and I stood up and said 'I can't do this' and I walked out and that was the end of that. Failure is a relief.
(sirolimus, Thu 10 Apr 2014, 11:14, 3 replies)

You should write stories.

( edjogs Collared doves are shit., Thu 10 Apr 2014, 11:57, closed)

Only if they're really, really short.

( monster munch person, man, woman... camera... TV?, Thu 10 Apr 2014, 12:05, closed)

And only if they are even slightly plausible

(the other guy not the one that gave you coochie warts, Thu 10 Apr 2014, 13:03, closed)