Delayed

It comes to something when you have to constantly re-write a blog about starting a complete re-write of a series of autobiographical essays that you have written, but that’s what I’ve done with this blog. And if you think this one is crap, just imagine how bad the others were! The essays themselves weren’t all bad. Some were okay, some actually quite decent but I’d failed to put together some kind of overall narrative, something that vaguely linked them together. In short, in its current form, the material just isn’t good enough.

For the benefit of my loyal reader, the book will cover the first 33 years of my life when I lived in Briz, otherwise known as Brislington, a village (or at least it was) on the eastern fringes of Bristol. I needed to write it and, for reasons I don’t really understand, put it out there to a public that is not exactly waiting to find out how I came to be born, went completely mad from time to time and by and large achieved little. By the time I left Briz, it was nothing.

Given that anyone daft enough to pay good money for it would quite reasonably expect something reasonably well written and certainly interesting, the draft as it stands is neither. It’s clunky, it’s dull and quite frankly some of the stuff I have recently posted on this award-winning (I wish) blog has been far better, or not as bad, depending on your point of view.

Anyway, there it is. That stocking filler you were so desperate to acquire for someone you really don’t like is delayed, in the same way that someday never comes.

Wish me luck as I begin to polish this literary turd. It will be available on second hand book shops in early 2022. Possibly.