His Own Downfall


It’s an odd sensation knowing that you’ve created something of value, something that has the potential to set a fire in others but has yet to be recognised.
I wonder if the guys in say, Muse, had the same thoughts about their music? They must have known, though there is always doubt no matter how certain you are that the work is good, the underlying doubts of the so-far-unsuccessful will always lead to the belief that somehow we’re not worthy, that we can’t be rewarded, that there will always be someone else ahead of us in the queue and yet…

His Own Downfall is one of those.
Masterly; the level of skill I’ve reached is way beyond what has gone before and yet, working on my last novel, ‘The Act’, I can see I have more in me.
Metaphors, imagery, the use of grammar to enforce a point or hold the dialogue as real conversation…pauses ~ for ~ effect.
I love it, I’m starting to understand the full range of effects available and yet still the agents resist.
Still, my books reach air and nothing more. The market is saturated.
Anyone can publish online so why would anyone notice me? Like it or not, the only way of gaining the audience I deserve is through traditional publishers and the advertising contacts they have access to. You might as well piss into the void as place a book on amazon, no matter how good it is. Like most things, the first to use the service were the ones to make headlines. The rest of consider ourselves lucky to sell copies a few to friends and acquaintances (I rarely manage that, my friends are illiterate) before interest fades but the thing is I’m not trying to write for readers, I’m writing for me and the many who believe in literature as a dark art, a skill that can be taught but the sort of naturalistic flair, the love of language, grammar, panache, cannot, that has to be within you from the beginning.
Perhaps I am too arrogant, maybe I kid myself but though I know there is a danger in self-belief turning into blind arrogance, the ego spilling over into fantasy, I am certain that I’m now on that level, among those that create something a little special, a little off the wall, memorable.
If His Own Downfall doesn’t break me then ‘The Act’ will or, I swear, this time I really will take the floor-cleaner job and place my pens back in the drawer and let the young ones take over.
As it is I wonder if I belong in another era of Nabokov’s, T.S. Elliott’s, Tolkien’s and the rest though obviously I wouldn’t dream of comparing my scribbling to their work, it’s just that level of literary pretension, that’s what I’m aiming for.
You’ve got to aim high or you won’t get off the first rung.


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