Dammit! I was this close, just THIS close *puts two fingers together* a mere ball hair width separated me from being South Africa’s very own JK Rowlings! Arse!
I could have been a contender!
I had a dream with a light bulb moment where I got the best idea for a book that I would write. I even remember in my dream saying to myself “Oh fuckydoo you are going to write that awesome book and make squillions which you’ll squander away on Aston Martins, Klippies and Cola and hookers!” some of which would have been true if I hadn’t have woken up and forgotten the whole bloody dream besides the part where I KNOW I had the best idea for a novel yet.
My sack Universe why do you hate me so!
I want to write a novel. Don’t we all. I want to write one novel and make so much money from it that I never have to do anything ever again. I can lie in bed all day in my drafty castle in Scotland that I’ll buy and yell at my midget Umpalumpa servants to “Bring me my dinner or OFF with your heads!!”… and they won’t poison me in my sleep because I’ll pay for their exorbitant dinky toy cars and really ickle little custom made shoes that they wear. I’ll have a slip and slide super tube instead of a staircase and a moat filled with Snockadiles (They were originally crocodiles and snakes – but in a bizarre sexual experiment… these things happen).
But alas… no storyline ideas. I have a puppy mentality and am forever being distracted by shiny objects which never leaves me any time to formulate just one damn get rich quick story!
What if… I wrote about a little orphan boy who discovers that he is magic and gets taken to a castle in Hungaria called “GenitalWorts” to study magic… and at this school of magic they busy their days with studying and a nifty sport called “Jockitch”….
Bet you that stupid gobshite who wrote "Run Rover Run. Fetch the red ball. The red ball rolls down the hill" made a fucking fortune...