Murder, We Wrote

Mostly we’ve been pretty calm recently but it’s inevitable that a rant would break out sooner or later. Surprised it’s been so long. We rant like it’s a lost art form. You might need some ear plugs *taking deep breath and cracking knuckles.* Two words. First word, 3 syllables. No wait, this only works when you can see us miming. Scrap that. Two words. PRETENTIOUS. WRITERS. Even reading those words back is making our eyes twitch and our fingers curl with rage. You know the type we mean. They write for the prestige of writing. Because they think it’s glamorous, because they want the lifestyle of sitting in a perfect office sipping red wine, listening to classical music and gazing at the singing birds in the cherry tree whilst not actually doing any writing. They seem to think that’s what writing’s all about. It’s not. Murder She Wrote LIED TO US! We regularly visit different places. NOT ONCE have we’ve got to participate in a murder investigation! In fact, no-one’s ever died on one of our adventures, much to our raging disappointment. The only way we’d get to participate in a murder investigation would be if we were the ones responsible for it! And trust us, if you’ve been with us when we’re stuck behind time burglars or screaming toddlers, you know we’re capable of contributing to the rising body count in Government statistics. But we’re going to use this opportunity to unmask Jessica Fletcher for the cold, calculated murderess she is. She writes murder mystery books. Everywhere she goes there’s a murder mystery. Has the sheriff actually read her novels? If he had, he’d see the murders closely resemble her plots. She’s not writing murder mystery fiction – she’s writing her autobiography! :O

Hang on, as usual in a rant we’ve gone off track. Now that we’ve exposed Jessica Fletcher as a wanton killer, back to the subject matter. Aw crap she’s going to come after us now isn’t she? *sighing* hey she’s old we’ll just push her over in some snow, break her hip. Writing isn’t glamorous. It’s sitting in front of a computer playing with your imaginary friends, trying to cut out all those random images from your head, splatter them across the page and hope it makes sense to someone who can’t see inside your twisted imagination. We don’t have an office. We either write sitting on our front room settee being harassed by the cats or sitting  in our cold summer house. Which is basically a posh shed with carpet and Halloween decorations. No we’re not taking them down. Again, usually sharing with one of the cats and watching our duck. Instead of classical music we listen to My Chemical Romance and instead of red wine we drink Red Bull. Genius does suffer without Red Bull. *looking round for sponsors* What’s it going to take for them to sponsor us?

There’s no money in it. You spend hours, weeks, months, slaving over your work for no pay. There is no minimum wage for writers. People don’t understand that when you’re writing, you’re working. They think they can interrupt you constantly because you’re at home all day doing nothing. Just because writing doesn’t come with a P45 and a pension doesn’t mean it’s not work. It can be soul destroying when rejection after rejection comes flooding in. Luckily rejections don’t bother us. It just means the story can go elsewhere. Writing’s in our blood. We HAVE to write. We spend all day living in an imaginary fantasy land with little human contact. It’s the greatest job in the world! 🙂

We’re doing a ghost walk tonight so if you don’t hear from us for a while you know the spirits got us. How cool would it be to be ghosts? Think of the people we could harass? Think of the hot guys we could stalk without danger of getting caught! Think of the…wait. We can’t take over the world if we’re ghosts. There’s just no respect for the dead these days 😦