The grass is always greener in the other fella’s lunchbox. At least, that’s what small Irish children are taught when they turn six and a half.
For writers with day jobs, this means dreams of a utopian idyll where they get up to the sound of birds in the morning and slink into mahogany studies in endangered silk dressing gowns with cups of Ethiopian coffee strained through a goat, to find literary genius pouring out of them like slush from a spigot the very moment their arses hit the chair.
For full-time writers, this can mean dreams of popping down to the shop for a tin of beans, inserting one’s bank card into the point-of-sale unit and not chewing one’s fingernails in a blind panic whilst approval is pending. Or of having boring office jobs which don’t follow them home at the end of the day and beat them over the head with self-loathing and inadequacy.
I was struck recently by a…
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