I feel I should actually tell you something about my novel.
It’s about a bloke who’s contacted by an old university acquaintance with an amazing offer, and when he accepts it – as is traditional in Faustian pact tales - his life all goes horribly wrong. At its core it’s about a man who really isn’t very happy with his life, who is looking around desperately for some way to change it and when it comes leaps at the chance with both hands, then has to deal with the horrible consequences. When I wrote it I wasn’t particularly thinking of myself. I was more looking around at some of my friends who’d reached their thirties and just seemed so unhappy with their lot. They didn’t have that dream job they’d promised themselves, their ideal lover was not between the sheets with them each night, and the beautiful children they’d envisaged were as far away as ever, All they had – as far as they were concerned – was shit, and it clearly depressed them. At the time I thought I was happy; that my life – although nowhere near perfect – was often quite fun.
How things change.
Now I feel so fed-up, am just disappointed with it all. And now I look at this book I wrote a little while back, about a dissatisfied man who recklessly grabs a chance to change things, and know I would seize any ludicrous proposal offered to me with both my hands.
Somehow I’ve written my autobiography before I had even lived it.
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