The Writer.
Ever since I was a young Miraclefish, just starting to realise that the written world was greater than the televised and computerised world in every manner possible, I came across a writer. A gonzo journalist, in the vein of Hunter S and Kerouac. A man who weaves words like a seamstress.

Long did I read in open-mouthed wonder. Then one day I got a job in the media, a junior position on a title he used to write for, nay, the only one he'd write for in the country.

There came a day, a long-standing member of staff turned was leaving. And he was coming to wish them well. My hero in the same building as me? Words couldn't describe. He turned up. He told a story involving malaria, some tabs of acid and the hospital at the French Embassy in Buenos Aires. This man was everything I'd hoped.

We all got drunk. I stood next to him when I went for a piss. He told me the secret to being a great writer.

He then asked if it was a normal thing to do to ask a complete stranger if he could sleep on their sofa. He then asked if he could sleep on my sofa.

That was a long time ago.

We've been friends ever since. I had a chance to work and write with him, a trip into Europe that was the best and worst experience of my life.

And, because of the advice he gave me, and the inspiration his work gave me in the first place, people are beginning to say I'm better than him. They're completely fucking insane, but it's the greatest compliment I've ever been paid.

So, cheers, Dan, you're a legend.
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 0:23, 2 replies)

But... but...
seamstresses don't weave.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 7:38, closed)

Ahh, but...
I never said I was any good at writing. Therefore my less-than-apt similie stands!
(Miraclefish How appropriate, you fight like a cow, Wed 22 Apr 2009, 18:37, closed)