Furious!

One of the many questions I was asked at Tuesday’s latest mental health assessment was, “Do you have suicidal thoughts?” The honest answer to that is ‘YES’ but thoughts are as far as it ever gets. But as my writing career still hasn’t reached the starting line, I felt like completely giving up when I was gazing at the book shelves in Tesco tonight. There, in glorious hardback was ‘Love and Fury’ by Paris Fury.

Paris Fury is heavyweight boxer Tyson Fury’s wife, his “rock”, we are told. She’s the “hands-on” mother of their six children. We get the story “from her Traveller childhood, falling in love, making a home and a family, to coming through Tyson’s darkest moments.” I really can wait.

Of course, there will be a lot of people who will be interested in that stuff, which is why Hodder and Staughton were happy to publish it. I haven’t read it but my guess is that her story would be of zero interest to the reading public if she hadn’t met and married Tyson. But she did and – let’s be honest – her story about living with him is probably far more interesting than anything I’ve got to say!

Anyway, writing is not a meritocracy. Far better writers than I – a vast number, to be sure – have failed to land a book publishing gig, so should we begrudge Mrs Fury her day in the sun? Of course not.

Let’s be honest: you will find a better class of writing in the Times and the Guardian than in the Mail and in The Sun. But who gets more readers? Who makes more money? Danny Finkelstein or Richard Littlejohn? Marina Hyde or Rod Liddle?

The former topless model Katie Price has published an astonishing number of books, including no less than six volumes of her autobiography and 11 novels, plus countless childrens’ books. Christ alone knows what there was to write about in her autobiographies. “Got up, got dressed, went to work, got undressed, got dressed, went home, went to bed.” I suppose she can include aspects of her stellar career taking her clothes off and having industrial quantities of plastic surgery, but I’m struggling to find anything else. But then, I’m not interested. Millions are which is why she was rich, until she went – I was about to say bust – bankrupt.

Jealous? No, I’m not actually. Bitter? Why? I don’t begrudge others their success unless they are wrong ‘uns and absolute criminals. I didn’t make it because I wasn’t good enough and I didn’t have a story to tell, that’s all. Fury and Price had stories to tell, which people in their millions wanted to know about.

I’ll keep trying, of course, but I suspect hell with freeze over before anything positive will happen! But don’t worry: I’m not giving up on writing or life. At least not yet.

(It is worth pointing out that Ms Price’s books were ghostwritten by the late Rebecca Farnworth.)