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Back in March 2009 I sent the following pitch to Charlotte Northedge, who at the time was acting features editor at Guardian Weekend. It had been a good day: I’d just been asked by the editor of Square Mile magazine if he could sell one of my features on, I’d been asked by my boss if she could add an extra five hundred pounds onto my invoice to help her ‘sleep at night’, I wasn’t bald and mad and nearly always broke as I am now, and I was a day or so away from flying home to see my wife, because then I had a wife. Oh, and I was in Singapore. Jesus, this is tough. Writing this, I mean. For reasons both too boring and too complicated to go into, I can only really see about eight out of every ten words I write. Anyway, here’s the pitch.

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To: Charlotte Northedge

From: Pitching the World

Subject: Where have all the porn stars gone?

Date: 12/03/09

Hi Charlotte,
Where indeed. I’m out in Singapore at the moment working for [redacted] but have to go to California at the end of this month. I’ve already been commissioned to write a couple of fluffy travel articles, but would ideally like to do something with a bit more substance.
Here is what I’m thinking. Over the last year or so, there have been problems within the porn industry: the rise of amateur sites, free sites, economic vagaries and so on have all left the industry in a pretty sorry state. “So what?”, you might be thinking. Well, my idea would be to visit San Fernando Valley (the porn capital of the world, apparently) and the surrounding areas to track down ex-porn actors and actresses to see what they’re up to now. What are they doing to make a living? How do they feel about their previous careers? What (prostitution?) have they done or considered doing to pay the rent? Are they taking drugs? Alcohol? And so on. I’d aim to interview 8-10 people.
Legs? I’ve got quite a few contacts within the industry from previous work I’ve done for men’s magazines, including the head of one of the biggest porn companies in the world and one of the most well-regarded directors. Both their numbers are in my phone.
Hope everything’s going well there.
Best wishes,
Steve
Oh, incidentally, about 3 months ago I nearly pitched you the exact same article appearing by Tanya Gold in today’s (well at least over here) Guardian. Bummer.

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Rubbish, isn’t it? It’s okay, you don’t have to be kind, I know it’s rubbish. It’s one of the worst pitches I’ve ever sent. Here’s why, in red.

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To: Charlotte Northedge

From: Pitching the World

Subject: Where have all the porn stars gone? [Don’t know. Nowhere?]

Date: 12/03/09

Hi Charlotte,
Where indeed [I sound like a right 1930s prick here]. I’m out in Singapore at the moment working for [redacted] [Who cares? Why am I showing off about working in Singapore?]but have to go to California at the end of this month [Not true]. I’ve already been commissioned to write a couple of fluffy travel articles [Not true], but would ideally like to do something with a bit more substance [Possibly true].
Here is what I’m thinking. Over the last year or so, there have been problems within the porn industry [Have there?]: the rise of amateur sites, free sites, economic vagaries and so on have all left the industry in a pretty sorry state [Possibly untrue]. “So what?”, you might be thinking. Well, my idea would be to visit San Fernando Valley (the porn capital of the world, apparently) and the surrounding areas to track down ex-porn actors and actresses to see what they’re up to now [Dreadful – and dreadfully boring – sentence].What are they doing to make a living [repetitive]? How do they feel about their previous careers? What (prostitution?) have they done or considered doing to pay the rent [Yeah, brilliant; they’re definitely all prostitutes]?Are they taking drugs? [Probably – isn’t everyone?] Alcohol? [What? Are they ‘taking’ alcohol? What is this – the 1930s? Am I my Great Aunt?] And so on [Clearly beyond taking drugs and ‘taking’ alcohol, I couldn’t imagine what else these people might be doing.]. I’d aim to interview 8-10 people [Would you? Well done].
Legs? [I actually liked that bit] I’ve got quite a few contacts within the industry from previous work I’ve done for men’s magazines, including the head of one of the biggest porn companies in the world and one of the most well-regarded directors [Pretty accurate, but I sound like such a dick]. Both their numbers are in my phone [Still sounding like a dick].
Hope everything’s going well there.
Best wishes,
Steve
Oh [Oh, look how casual I am. I’d actually been planning that ‘Oh’ for about four months], incidentally, about 3 [Should be ‘three’] months ago I nearly pitched you the exact same article [Not true, probably. I certainly can’t remember anything about this] appearing by Tanya Gold in today’s (well at least over here) [Yeah, I’m still in Singapore. Look at me, I’m so fucking international I don’t even know what time zone I’m operating in] Guardian. Bummer [Bummer? Far out, we’ve gone from the 1930s to the 1960s].

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Anyway, it received a positive reply which I’ll pop down below. After a week of toing and froing I very, very, very nearly flew out to California to spend a week or two with ex-porn stars, but I ended up screwing it all up. Bummer. But it’s made me think that it might be worth revisiting my archives to dredge up some old pitches and re-pitch them. Laters, potatoes.

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To: Pitching the World

From: Charlotte Northedge

Subject: Where have all the porn stars gone

Date: 12/03/09

Hi Steve,
Good to hear from you. I’m actually not working on G2 any more, I’ve moved to Weekend magazine, but I think the porn stars idea could work for Weekend. My only concern would be how varied their stories would be. If they were doing quite different things – eg. window cleaner, estate agent, pimp – then that could work really well, but if they’re all struggling actors or working for internet porn companies, then it’s not such an interesting story.
So I’d be interested in principle, but it would be great if you could get in touch once you’re there and have more of an idea of who you might be able to speak to. 
Hope all is well with you.
All the best,
Charlotte

Dear Editors,

What’s happening? What’s happened to us? Where did we go wrong? Back when I began this madcap, pleasure-destroying project almost two years ago to the day you used to commission me to write things for you. Often I didn’t even have to ask. I’d open up my email account in the morning and there you’d be, all “Sorry to burst into your life like this, but we’d like 2,000 words on whatever” and off I’d go and write 2,000 words on whatever. When I did suggest things to write about, most of the time you’d say yes, but when you didn’t say yes you would at least say no very kindly.

That was two years ago. Now, nothing. Now, a kind no sees me smoking a sleeve of Camel Lights in celebration. I can only imagine that one of two things has happened. Both are bad. Either I’ve been blacklisted by the entire industry, or the entire industry is in such a state that you cannot afford to pay me any longer. But that can’t be it, because I still know a handful of freelancers who make a decent living. Or at least a living.

There might, of course, be a further possible reason. Namely that I’ve become absurdly bad at writing and pitching. That can’t be it though, can it? It might be half true. Oh, and it could be that I write things on my blog like, “Editors make you fuck them in bins and buy them hats before commissioning you,” but I didn’t really mean that, only said that to be funny and it’s not that funny anyway.

Anyway, editors, anyway, fuckos, I just want you all to know that Pitching the World isn’t terribly representative of my work. I care about what I do and have always delivered crisp, attractive, compelling and error-free copy on time. Always. Except for one feature I did for the Independent back in October 2007 about prefabricated housing that was absolute dogshit.

Please start commissioning me again.

Thanks for listening.

Yours sincerely,

Pitching the World

A picture of Pitching the World looking rubbish at a rubbish looking party, earlier. This is perhaps why I don’t get commissioned an awful lot, now. 

Yesterday morning I made a momentous decision. ‘I’m not going to get out of bed today,’ it began. ‘In fact, not only am I not going to get out of bed today, I’m never going to get out of bed again. And not only that, but I’m not going to even see anyone ever again. They – whoever they are – can’t stop me. I’ll barricade myself in this room and demand that food be shoved in under the door. It’ll make for a slightly inelegant diet – bacon, crisps, pancakes, that sugary rice paper stuff – but it’ll be worth it. Perhaps cream cheese can be squirted through the keyhole. Will cigarettes fit through there? Balls. Well, I’ll quit smoking. But where will I toilet? And who’s going to be squeezing stuff through the keyhole and sliding stuff under the door? No one, that’s who. More balls. Okay world, you win. I’ll get up, but only after four cigarettes and two panic attacks.’

My quickly abandoned (and not at all momentous) decision to remain in bed for the rest of my life didn’t stem from not giving a fuck. If anything, I give too much of a fuck. Or I did. But one quickly find oneself going from giving too much of a fuck, to giving a reasonable amount of fuck to hardly giving any fuck at all. No fuck. Not giving any fuck. The stream of rejections and walls of silence one encounters can get a bit much at times but what really seemed to grate yesterday was that I seem to spend all my time writing about things that I don’t want to be writing about and none of my time writing about things that I do want to write about.

You’ll be delighted to hear that I’ve found a way around it, to beef up my levels of fuck-giving. Let me show you. Okay, so I’ve half-heartedly pitched an idea about going to a Muay Thai training camp in Phuket, training for four or six or however many weeks it takes and then having a semi-professional fight at the end of it. The condition I’m in at the moment, it’ll probably take a year. It’s not a particularly novel idea, but it’s a good one – one I’d really like to do – and one I could write up pretty well I reckon. I’m planning on pitching it around some more (I’ve only sent it to Men’s Fitness so far) but if no one picks it up I’m going to do it anyway. The training and the fighting, I mean. I can’t afford to do it, but I’ll find a way. Not having a commission makes it seem a little pointless, but it will be good for me and I can still write about it and put it up here.

There’s plenty of other stuff out there that I want to write about and if no one is willing to pay me for it I’m going to do it and write about it anyway. How’s that for a plan? Don’t answer. Anyway, you’ll all read it won’t you? Don’t answer. I realise that this way is massively logistically flawed but it got me through the day yesterday and had me leaping from my bed this morning and I’m trying to give the logistical side of it not too much of a fuck right now. Watch this sweary space.

Someone not giving a fuck, earlier. 

One of the first features I had published was about buying a property in Brighton. At the time – 2007 – I didn’t know a great deal about writing features, knew less about Brighton, less still about buying property and even less about buying a property in Brighton. Thankfully I still don’t know about these things.

My brief stated that I was expected to write 1,600 words on buying a property in Brighton. This was worrying. I didn’t want to write one word on buying a property in Brighton (although I did want to write two: Fuck This) let alone 1,600. Luckily I had a plan, and found myself in Waterstones on Gower Street copying into my notebook some 150 words from the introduction to Graham Greene’s Brighton Rock, which I then used as the opening part to my feature. “How relevant is the above? How is today’s Brighton comparable to that of the 1930s?” I (probably) began. “Come on – how? Because I sure as fuck don’t know. I haven’t even been to Brighton. I have absolutely no interest in buying a house. I’m really the wrong person to be writing about this.” And so on.

I didn’t really go on like that. In fact, I was just looking over some old correspondence to see if I could use the exact quote I used in the feature and came across an email from the editor saying that my piece – called (and don’t read this next bit unless you’re already planning on killing yourself in the next few minutes) ‘Brighton Up Your Day!’ – had been passed around the office and was one of the finest the magazine had ever published. The magazine has since closed down, perhaps because the entire staff were clinically insane.

Since then I’ve often used quotes when starting a feature, particularly if that feature is about travel or property – two topics that I’ve written way too much about. Quotes, as Mark Twain famously said, are “a fucking brilliant way” to lead into a feature. They make the writer appear better read and smarter than they probably are, the reader picks something up that they can regurgitate and bore someone with later, and they eat up a bit of space.

I don’t really use famous quotations in features anymore.  This is partly because I don’t really write features anymore and I certainly don’t write features on property or travel anymore. But the proposal based on Pitching the World is (at last) being sent off by my agent to publishers at the weekend and I’ve been trying to find a quote to put at the beginning of the book. At first I considered this:

“No  great achievement is possible without persistent work.” – Bertrand Russell 

Or this:

“Nothing in this world can take the place of persistence. Talent will not; nothing is more common than unsuccessful people with talent. Genius will not; unrewarded genius is almost a proverb. Education will not; the world is full of educated derelicts. Persistence and determination alone are omnipotent. The slogan “press on” has solved and always will solve the problems of the human race.”  – Calvin Coolidge

Or even this:

“Talent is cheaper than table salt. What separates the talented individual from the successful one is a lot of hard work.” – Stephen King

But then I thought I don’t really agree with any of the above. And Pitching the World could well turn out to be an anti-achievement book. There’s persistence, but the only real persisting going on is my persistence at not persisting at anything. Does that make sense? Who cares, check this out:

“I think I’ve discovered the secret of life – you just hang around until you get used to it.” – Charles Schultz

This is I love. Seems pretty accurate too. However, the following may be more appropriate for a book about writing:

“You don’t try. That’s very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more.” – Charles Bukowski

Good, isn’t it? Well I think it’s good. But I think the following is the quote that will be going inside the book, assuming it gets picked up.

“You tried your best and failed miserably. The lesson is: never try.” – Homer Simpson

Whose side are you on? Are you with Bertrand “I think I’m a ghost” Russell, Calvin “Who the fuck is Calvin Coolidge” Coolidge and Stephen King? Or do you take the advice of a cartoon character, a woman beating alcoholic and Charles Schultz? Let me know. I reckon you’re somewhere in the middle.

Just over two weeks ago, a good thing happened. Sometimes I know when a good thing is going to happen. I find that I stop feeling like I’m made up of right angles or bits of old cardboard and start feeling like I’m made of ivory or pure running water or something and then something good happens. I know: strange.

Anyway, I was headed to the house I’m staying at in the Mallorcan countryside. I was walking in the heat along an old dirt track that looked like it had been lifted straight from the Bible and gradually felt myself shift from old cardboard to ivory and when that happened I thought to myself, “Something good is going to happen soon.”

When I got back to the house I checked my computer and saw that lots of people had been coming to Pitching the World via Twitter. I hunted around Twitter and saw that an editor whose magazine I like very much had called it “The best blog on the internet” and a writer whose work I admire very much said that he “Agreed.” This made me go a bit heady. Finally, I thought, I’ve somehow managed to convince the editor of a magazine that this is the best blog on the internet, even though it clearly isn’t. Perhaps I’ll be able to crowbar this information into one of my future posts. People may see how happy it’s made me and may want to copy the actions of the editor I like and the writer whose work I admire. That would make me happier. And if people were to do that then I may give them money and hats and fuck them in bins. Something for you all to chew over.

That’s not the good thing that happened. I know, I know, it’s completely compelling but watch out because this next sentence is going to completely blow your mind to pieces.

After I read what people had been saying about me on Twitter I checked my email. (Told you.) Among the usual guffs and bits of old cardboard that usually suffocate my inbox was a little piece of ivory. The company that I used to work for were asking me if I had the time and inclination to go to the Caribbean for a few weeks to work on a project involving “crime, recidivism and gang culture.” Good money, all expenses paid etc. etc. – would I be interested?

“I would be interested.” I wrote back. “I mean, I am interested. I’d love to come and help. I love crime, recidivism and gang culture. Actually, I hate crime recidivism and gang culture. Is that better? Oh God, what’s the right one? Whatever the correct answer is, that’s what I think. Just tell me the right answer and I’ll think it – that will be my answer. Forever. See you at Heathrow on Monday.”

See? Do you see what can happen as a freelance writer? One minute you’re all cardboardy walking down a dirt track wondering what to do with the rest of your life and where your next sleeve of Camel Lights is coming from, the next you’re being whisked off to a Caribbean island to make everything okay for everyone and getting paid lots of money to do so.

Regular readers will know that this isn’t being written on a Caribbean island. Regular readers will know that something along the way got fucked up (or rather that someone along the way got fucked up) and that instead of being on a Caribbean island interviewing gang members I am, in fact, still in Mallorca and writing a 5,000 word report (on a Sunday) about voting behaviour.

It’s actually all rather pleasant and stimulating. And it’s made me think that doing corporate work is perhaps the way I should be heading. For me, freelance journalism is tough at the moment. Anecdotally, freelance journalism is tough at the moment. I’ve heard of a handful of people in the last week alone who have either given up or are on the verge of giving up. Rates are low and dropping. Editors make you fuck them in bins and buy them hats before they commission you. Accounts departments spend all their time laughing and masturbating at you. All very grim and seedy, I’m afraid. Whereas in the corporate world they pay you several hundred pounds a day – sometimes more – for doing cool, interesting work and they will even pay you money before you start working. I kind of love it.

But I kind of love writing for newspapers and magazines more. You just have to find the right ones. Luckily for you and for me I’ve been researching the right ones and I’ll be popping back on here in the next couple of days with a list of publications that pay very well and/or very quickly.

Imagine: real, practical advice.

When I began this ill-fated adventure back in September 2009, I thought it would lead to all sorts of things. Happiness was one of those things. Increased knowledge another. I also thought it would turn me into a better writer and journalist. Perhaps, if we want to get all schmaltzy – and let’s face it, we do – I thought it might even turn me into a better man. I’ll leave it to the reader to decide if this has happened. More than any of that, however, I thought Pitching the World might have led to me getting a column in a national newspaper.

It hasn’t. Of course it hasn’t. But at one point I thought it nearly might. Within a couple of weeks of starting this ill-fated adventure I sent an email to Jason Deans, editor of Media Guardian, suggesting that I write a weekly column about pitching all of these 642 magazines. At the time I was incredibly excited about the whole thing, and my enthusiasm and determination must have come through in my pitch because he wrote back almost immediately and said:

steven – it is an intriguing idea. let me talk to a couple of people here & get back to you. 

regards,

Jason

Oh how splendid, I thought when I received that email, I’ve got a regular column in Media Guardian. I quickly became very fond of Jason.

Over the next few weeks I would periodically send Jason emails checking if my column in Media Guardian had been officially approved or whatever the process is, but Jason ignored the few emails I sent. I became very unfond of Jason. After two months I sent him an email just saying “No?” and he sent one back saying, “Sorry, Steven, not one for us after all, I’m afraid” to which I childishly replied, “Thanks very much for letting me know, albeit two months later” and there ended my career as a columnist for Media Guardian.

It wasn’t my first experience of writing/not writing a column. I’ve not written columns loads of times. I’ve become quite good at not writing columns, excellent in fact. And although I’m better at not writing columns than I am at writing columns, I did actually have a (sort of) column for a while. It was about estate agents and estate agencies. Actually it wasn’t really a column at all, more of a review slot but I’ve written about 400 words so far about writing columns and I’m going to put some stuff down there that isn’t going to be that good but is about the sorts of columns I want to be writing so I’m afraid you’ll just have to live with it.

Some people reading a column of mine, earlier.

So, columns. I may be sticking my neck out here, but I suspect the majority of journalists would like a regular, well paid column in a quality national newspaper. They’re tough to land though and if you go looking for advice on how to get a regular column, this is the sort of stuff you’ll come across. (This, bear in mind, is from the top hit if you google “how to become a newspaper columnist”)

1. Find a willing newspaper who needs a columnist. It would be easier if you already worked for that newspaper or freelanced for it. If you don’t already have a job as a reporter, freelance writer or editor for a newspaper you must send out your resume to secure the job. In most cases, newspaper companies require a journalism or English degree.

2. Brainstorm some catchy ideas. Take in account the region your newspaper is for and its main readers. Make sure you can fully relate to your ideas as well. For an example the newspaper is the main newspaper for a very small town. I though of small town ideas and it helped that I also resided in that town so I knew first hand what to write. Also come up with a catchy title for your column. It has to be short and will grab the reader immediately. Mine is “Making It After All.”

I didn’t get much further than that. I know, sickening. Here is another picture of someone reading one of my columns.

Someone reading a column of mine, earlier. 

Against my better judgement, I took the advice above and brainstormed some “catchy ideas” of columns I may want to write in the future and have put them down there. If Jason Deans or someone who commissions at FT Weekend wants to get in touch, then please do. But please don’t break my heart again.

1. The Man Who Can’t Go On Holiday Properly. Most travel writers are smart, knowledgeable, authoritative and always have a good time when they go away. I am none of those things and never have a good time when I go away. My first idea for a column, then, would be about a man who can’t go on holiday properly. An alternative title could be Holiday Prick.

2. My Name is Steve. Based on the possibly award-winning series that I haven’t even seen, I realise that the reason my life is so dull, ill-fated and Novemberish is because of karma. I resolve to go around correcting previous mistakes in my life and write about the results. I actually pitched this idea to the documentary strand of Channel 4 when My Name is Earl first aired but they turned me and my idea down and referred to me as Robert whilst doing so. I think it’s an excellent idea, albeit about six years too late. The column, I mean, not being called Robert.

Fucking hell this post is almost a thousand words long and feels like it’s taken about four afternoons to write. Let’s have another picture of someone reading one of my columns.

Someone reading a column of mine, earlier.

3. Being Danny Wallace. I discover a secret portal into Danny Wallace’s mind and each week go in there whilst he’s writing his regular column for Shortlist and document how much of it he makes up. There will also be a weekly exclamation count.

4. College Bear. I dress up as a bear, go back to college and write about my experiences.

5. What a Writer Does When a Writer Stops Being a Writer. Clearly I’m going to have to stop writing for a living very soon and this column will be a wry look at my attempts to assimilate back into the working world. That I’ll be writing an award-winning column about not writing anymore can be overlooked.

6. Cricket

7. What Would Henry VIII Do? When I find myself in scary, unfamiliar or uncomfortable situations I often wonder if I would be better served by behaving how I imagine Henry VIII would have responded in such situations. This column, which will definitely be commissioned the minute I hit ‘Publish’ will be – actually I can’t be fucked with this. I’m not going to get a column. Ever. Here is someone not reading one of my columns.

Someone not reading a column of mine, earlier. 

So, I’m in Mallorca. I’ve fled Paris, thinking that I’ll go back in the Autumn. Paris in August is no place for a writer, but I think we all knew that. Mallorca, on the other hand, is the perfect place for a writer in August. At least it’s the perfect place for this writer. For a start, there aren’t many other writers here. That’s good. In Paris you can’t move for writers and I can’t bear them. Second, it’s hot, stupidly hot. This sounds bad but it’s actually pretty good: the blades of the helicopter that brought me over here turned into the blades of the fan in my room and I spend all my time inside in the half-light staring at said blades. Sometimes I do press ups. If I had to describe myself in one word I would plump for “withdrawn”. If I had to describe in two words how I wanted to be, it would be “not withdrawn”. Getting out of yourself – once in – is no cakewalk.

I’m still pitching the world of course. Oh of course, why would I not? It’s nearly two years down the line now and everything has worked out perfectly. I suspect that a tiny part of me thinks that this project has done me no favours and has led to divorce, increased alcohol consumption, baldness, a lack of boldness, eczema on my right hand, a deterioration in writing ability and night terrors. I also suspect that that tiny part of me suggested to a larger part of me that leaving the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook back in the UK was a good idea. So that’s what I’ve done. I’m now trying to pitch these 642 magazines from memory (fuck you, memory), and, as regular readers will know, my memory is weak. It’s almost non-existent. Seriously. I was in my room the other day and turned my head to look at something on the wall and in the time it took to turn my head towards the wall, I forgot what it was I was supposed to be looking at. That’s how bad my memory is.

Yet I can remember whole strings of magazines listed in the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook. And I’m thinking I could pitch with a more international flavour. More accurately, I could make my pitches Mallorca-specific. Rather than simply pitch Cat World with an idea about cats, I can now pitch Cat World with an idea about cats in Mallorca. Thrilling, isn’t it? And Practical Boat Owner – I could be all “Yes, you own a practical boat in the UK but imagine – just IMAGINE – what it would be like being a practical boat owner in Mallorca.” And there are a whole load of magazines on electricity, farming, running and architecture that I have to pitch and we have electricity, farming, running and architecture over here. I just need to think of angles. What could be simpler?

Well, lots of things. Going back and working on the bins, for one. And the simplicity has been further compromised because I’m reading Dispatches and have decided I want to become a war correspondent. I wish there was a war happening over here, that would make things easier for me. Can’t the western forces who orchestrated an uprising in Libya and elsewhere just do the same thing here? Can we get the proud, spirited Mallorcan people to rise up against their oppressive regime, whoever that might be? Ooh dear, look at me, getting all political.

That’s enough for today. I’m going back to stare at my fan to think about cats, farming, electricity, architecture and running. Ideally I need to find a cat that likes running, is a farmer, uses electricity and likes buildings. If said cat owns a practical boat, even better. If anyone knows of such an animal, please drop me a line. Thanks.

A cat in a boat, earlier. 

So, I’m in Paris. Paris hates me already, Paris wants to beat me up. I suspect Paris hates me because I’ve spent the last day or so walking around in some fizzy, angular fog due to a lack of sleep, a waking hangover, and an excess of coffee that somehow seems to have both negated and intensified the lack of sleep and waking hangover. Yesterday I arrived at 6:00 am having not slept and spent the day still not sleeping whilst looking and behaving liking a maniac.

It hasn’t been fun. In fact, it’s been disastrous. For a start I can’t speak French. In order to make up for this I’ve embarked on some English-Spanish-French hybrid language, the likes of which hasn’t been heard on the streets of Paris before, perhaps hasn’t been heard anywhere. I keep saying “Si” when I mean “Oui” and blurting out “No parlez vous Francais! No French! I’m English. J’Englais! Hablas Espanol?!” when anyone asks me anything which seems to be all the time. Seriously. I’ll be sitting there minding my own business in a park or outside a cafe and strings of people will come up to me and ask me things. What things I don’t know, so I’ll just bark at them in my mixture of French and Spanish and English or otherwise just sit grinning at them like a maniac until they leave.

I don’t think I like travelling to foreign countries. I don’t like it because I’m pretty terrible at it. I hate those travel writers – or any writers – who write stuff like: “This hip, easy to miss gem is tucked down some obscure side street but make an effort to find it and hang out with the beautiful people.” I don’t think I’d ever like to visit a hip, easy to miss gem and if I ever did want to, wouldn’t have the patience to find it. Wherever I am I like to know – or at least look as if I know – where I’m going. I also hate consulting maps and so I’ve spent the last day or so just careering round Paris, pounding the streets as if I’m on my way to an important business meeting and am already late but this acting means that I keep getting lost and having to walk much further than I should and so spend all my time thirsty and tired and covered in blisters. If I were to ever write a city guide book my advice would be along the lines of: “Just fucking bowl around the streets chain smoking like a maniac until you collapse.” It’s actually quite good fun, in a way.

But as regular readers will know I didn’t come to Paris to simply pound the streets and have some kind of irregular holiday. I came to Paris to write, to work on the three books I feel I should be working on.

Regular readers won’t be surprised to hear that that hasn’t happened. Nor is it going to. Shakespeare and Company – the bookshop I was hoping to stay in for free – is full of writers at the moment. They can’t house anymore. They told me as much this morning.

“We’re full,” said the girl behind the counter. “We’re always full. And the owner’s not here. All I can suggest is coming back at the weekend and trying again when she is here.”

“But you’ll be full still?”

“Probably, we’re always full.”

“Okay. But if you weren’t full – if I came back at some point and found out you weren’t full – what are the criteria for staying?”

“You have to be a writer,” she said and then looked at me for a while. “And young.”

I wanted to say, “Is 35 young for a writer?” or, “I thought this was a refuge for penniless writers, not a place for young rich American college girls to hang out in the summer and pretend to be writers” but I didn’t, I probably said something like, “Cool, I might pop back then” and walked out.

When I walked out Paris was still there, still hating me, still sucking what little money I have out of my pockets and I thought about buying a raft of wine and sitting in a park and drinking until I passed out but instead I just pounded business-like through the streets until I found a cheap hostal where I am now. I’m a little concerned that I have hardly any money, only one pair of clean underpants and no clue what to do next.

I need a plan, and fast.

Want to hear something stupid? I’m going to Paris next Tuesday. Want to hear something more stupid – even stupider? I’m going there with the intention of staying for free in a bookshop called Shakespeare and Company which houses young (and otherwise) writers. Apparently August is the worst time to try and stay there because it gets very full and the worst time to visit Paris in general as everyone is on holiday and those who aren’t on holiday are moody and hate you and spit at you. I don’t know where I’ve picked this information up from. It’s quite possible I made up.

The reasoning that lies (more cowers) behind my decision to go to Shakespeare and Company at the worst time of the year is that I intend to work on three books. Not one book – one book would be more than enough – but three books. One of those books is the book that I was working on in Dubai and the dog-end of last year. The other book is a book based on Pitching the World. The final book is a novella. A fucking novella.

Why I thought booking a coach – a coach! – to Paris to stay in a bookshop to write three books was a good idea is currently beyond me. I’ve had 35 years to write one book and failed. What are my chances of writing three books in a week or two whilst sleeping in a bookshop? Slim, would be my guess. And that’s assuming that they have room and like me. I might have to write three books whilst sleeping in a park in Paris. Perhaps that’s what I need. Perhaps my life has become both too unbearable and too comfortable at the same time. Who knows? Not me.

I could perhaps do with your help. Do YOU live in Paris? If you do and would like to take me out for cocktails on my birthday in a couple of weeks then please let me know. Otherwise I’ll be spending my birthday in a park alone trying to write three books at the same time.

In other news, I met a friend last night who is the deputy editor of a fitness magazine and he wants me to train for a triathlon and write about my experiences. This I like. This is the sort of stuff I should be doing. I might have to fit the training around my writing of three books – oh, and an article for a magazine about the bookshop – in two weeks in a bookshop in Paris, but I’m sure I’ll manage.

Oh Jesus, I thought when I woke up this morning, not again. Not another hangover. Please not another hangover. How many has it been this year: 60? 70?100? Some people don’t manage 100 hangovers in a lifetime. I asked my Nan recently how many hangovers she’d had in her life and she said one. Wish I’d only had one. Wish I was my Nan.

None of that’s true. Well, some of that’s true: I do want to be my Nan and I probably have had somewhere in the region of 100 hangovers this year but I didn’t wake up this morning and think ‘Jesus not another hangover’. For a start, I don’t wake up anymore. Something happens to me in the morning but it certainly isn’t waking up; more moving from one petrified state to another. Second, I didn’t have the cognitive ability to think ‘Jesus not another etc.’ so probably just thought ‘erk’ or ‘uhhhng’ or ‘neerrff’ – I’ve given up thinking in nicely constructed formations of words and prefer to think in grunts these days. Much less taxing. Try it, please, it’ll change your life.

Where were we? Ah yes, we were hungover except we weren’t hungover. I’ve had a period of sobriety you see (since Sunday – doesn’t really qualify as a period) and so there was no way I could have been hungover. Except that I was. So it seems that I get hangovers even when I haven’t been drinking. Where’s the justice in that? Up my ass, that’s where.

I think this morning’s hangover was a stress hangover. I’m currently working on my proposal for a book based on Pitching the World and that proposal is being sent off to my award-winning agent tomorrow and he in turn is going to send the proposal round to a bunch of publishers who in turn are going to tell me go fuck myself, to perhaps stick my proposal up my ass along with the justice. Oh please don’t let that happen. Please, publishers, don’t tell me to stick things up my ass.

The reason for them potentially wanting me to stick my proposal up my ass is because I have no idea on this retarded planet what Pitching the World is about. None. Do you? How do I make it attractive to publishers? My approach at the moment is all “In 2009 Steven decided to pitch all 642 magazines in the Writers’ & Artists’ Yearbook. Now, some two years later he’s pitched very few of them, hardly been commissioned at all, has lost his hair and his looks and his confidence and learnt nothing. Seriously, nothing. If anything he’s unlearnt stuff. He also suspects he has been blacklisted by the entire UK media industry. If he has, he’s fucked. If he hasn’t, then he’s genuinely paranoid, and fucked. He did, however, have a football trial and drew some good pictures and wrote for the British Journalism Review. Thanks. Can I have a £45,000 advance please.”

That’s my approach so far. I know: not good. But what’s it all about, this whole Pitching the World business? This is half rhetorical/half please help me out because otherwise I’ve a lifetime of hangovers and hangovers that aren’t even hangovers to look forward to.

Thoughts welcome. Thanks.