Life Post-Mortem.

Recently I've been suffering from what I call Talent gangrene', and now I've effectively got no limbs left that aren't rotting slowly in their own juices. I've been told my writing is suffering from some sort of degenerative illness, what one critic called Word syphilis'. The reviews say it's dull in a suffocating, disturbing sort of way, similar to marriage. Our anniversary was last week. We went out to dinner, the highlight of our conversation was; "Pass the salt." It was down hill from there, and I know who to blame, cynics. Or as I call them, talent leeches.

With every bad review my life seems to get worse. Quite obviously it's their fault. They refused to like my last novel: A Family of Broken Glass. I can't see why, it's not like I'm asking for much. I just want people to read my work and think: Tarquin Middleton, he's the Shakespeare of tabloids.' Is that so much to ask? The cynics seem to think so, with their zeros stars out of ten and their snide comments. A lot of people just don't realise how awful a bad review is. It's like being stabbed, but with a knife made of letters. Imagine that kind of horror, I can't, it's too disturbing.

Cynics are everywhere these days, giving out their opinions.' Even my editor is now a critic. When I show him my writing, which is basically me saying: "Look, here's my soul" He's less than grateful. He even starts pointing out what he thinks is wrong with it. Who gave him the right to do that? It certainly wasn't me. The only conclusion I can make, is that he just doesn't appreciate me or my work any more. He said he's seen more vibrant prose in carpet samples, and coma patients who move faster than my latest novels plot. Normally I'd outwardly agree with him, then promise that later, outside, I would scrape my real opinions into his Mercedes paintwork with a front door key. That might appear unnecessary, but if you remember I trusted him with my soul, in the form of paper. He spat on it, then probably attacked it with scissors. Normally I wouldn't condone such actions. However this time, unfortunately, I had to agree with everything he did and said. I imagine only myself and the dead know how terrible that feels.

Last week I panicked as yet another deadline arrived, I had nothing. I was meant to write two thousand words to compliment a health feature they were running called; Do Midget Gems Cure Heart Disease?

I was in the kitchen at the time, trying to decide which obscure relative

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