This is what worries me about my ability as a writer. I don't think I'm tormented enough. I think all the truly great literary geniuses had demons- they were damaged, mentally scarred beyond recognition. I had a lovely childhood, a fantastic upbringing and I'm very happy with myself. It's a real cross to bear.
Anyway, about me. I have been writing for as long as I can remember which on a good day is several weeks ago. I once won a Mars Bar for a model I'd made from a vegetable. I don't like fish. I have a problem shaving, there's this little bit under my chin I can never get. People think it's a 'soul patch', I have no idea what they are talking about. I enjoy erudite and witty conversation, I wish I lived in one of those brilliant film noirs where every exchange is delivered with sexually-charged panache, machine-gun fire banter as sharp as a new pin. Clowns freak the hell out of me. I'm constantly amazed at the capacity of the human heart (metaphorically not physically). I recently discovered I could roll my tongue which was a relief because, genetically speaking, it means I'm not adopted. Not that I was that worried, from my Dad I got my sense of humour, from my mother my vulnerability. Neither of them saw fit to bestow upon me their fantastic organisational skills. I can juggle though, not that it's a direct substitute or anything. I'll stop now.
