It is my profound hope that this inspires at least one person to ditch the rat race and follow their dreams. If it does, then 44 years of shit will have been worth it.

I’ve been trying to pinpoint my main reason for wanting to be prolific in my writing. I mean, I’ve written and self-published four full length novels since October 2019 and I’m currently in the planning stages of my fifth with a further six in the proverbial pipeline. Could it perhaps be my age? I am almost 56 years old although age is no barrier when it comes to being an author. Could it be my health which at best could be described as poor. As I type this my arms feel like they are being wrenched out of their sockets by a deranged, crack-addled, psychotic baboon. Could it be that I’m just no good at anything else and so it’s the only option left to me. Possibly…

But I think I’ve got it. It’s… Frustration. No, I’m not obsessed with the 70’s board game, I’m talking about real deep-rooted, inner frustration.

You see, my life up to the age of 44 was, well, for want of a better word – shit! And I’m angry about that you see. The thing is, I’m not a strong person, or rather wasn’t. Mentally I mean. In my younger days I would have easily wrestled any challenger to the ground such was my physical strength but what I possessed in great quantities muscularly I lacked when it came to spinal fortitude. Ok, ok, I’ll keep a long story short. I wish I’d told more people to ‘FUCK OFF!!!’ There, I’ve said it. I’m talking ex-bosses, ex-teachers, ex-in-laws, ex-wives, ex-lovers, ex-friends, ex-colleagues and a whole raft of ex-pisstakers. I would love a time machine so that I can go back and royally fuck them all off. One-at-a-fucking-time.

I’m frustrated that I allowed my natural intelligence (I’m not an academic but I do possess a good brain) to be side-tracked and taken to places where it didn’t want to go. Because of my lack of mental strength I wasted years battering my, once fit, body in manual work-horse jobs or dulled my wits in repetitive mind-numbing roles that any five-year-old worth it’s salt could have easily done.

I’m frustrated that I grew up being told to get a steady job, no matter how tedious, rather than follow my dreams. I’m frustrated that I allowed that imaginative, wonder-filled, exploratory kid that I was to grow up believing that working for the man every night and day was the only way. I’m frustrated that I let pip-squeak, self-important, jumped up little turds in a different hat to mine tell me how to do my job and tell me that I wasn’t good enough. Christ almighty! I shouldn’t have just told them to fuck off, I should have broken their noses with my huge fists and put them on the floor where they belonged; but then, violence never was nor never will be my thing. I wasted my youth, virility and beauty making other people wealthy whilst I just meekly went home, washed the sweat off and had an early night so that I could get up on time to go and do it all again. C***s!

Well, now, here’s my new thing – ‘DON‘T TELL ME WHAT TO DO!!!’

Especially if you’re offended at being told to fuck off by a published author. That is my new mantra. That is my new resolution. Not just for this year but for the rest of my life. I’m angry and I’m frustrated and you really don’t want to piss me off any more. Don’t tell me how to do things, don’t tell me what to wear, don’t tell me what to eat or drink, don’t tell me how to best live my life. It’s my life, not yours. Go and balls up your own and leave mine be. Oh, and for your own sakes, don’t dare tell me what to write.

Aaaah! That’s better. I needed to get that little rant off my chest. Apologies for the language but I ain’t changing it so grow some and get over it. I mentioned earlier that my life was shit until I was 44 years old. And it was. So what changed? Well, I met the wonderful lady who would go on to become my third wife; the lovely Ange. I finally found someone who let me be me without judging me or trying to tell me what to do. Someone who encourages me to follow my dreams and harry them to fulfilment. The years since I met her have been the happiest and most creative of my entire life.

So why the frustration? Well, simply because it is frustrating. I wasted too long thanks to wasters. I wish I’d forged ahead with my little dream of being a published author instead of bowing to peer pressure and other peoples desire for my conformity. And that is why I am desperate to be so prolific. That is why I want to publish two books a year for the remainder of my days. Let’s say I make it to 75 (God willing), that will be over 40 books. Not a bad legacy for anyone.

All writers have a driving force; be it greed or hunger or anything else in between. Mine is frustration at wasted time and time wasted on people who, looking back, really didn’t matter one iota in the grand scheme of things.

And, as a final word, for anyone who may be reading this who knew me way back when and might be thinking, ‘He’s talking about me,’ I’d just like to say – Yes I am and fuck off!