On Pride (And Other Sins of the Self-Made)

What I learned writing my breakthrough novel

You’d be grinning too if you’d got a cheque for £10,000 in your pocket. “What will you spend it on?” the BBC journalist asked me. “My debt,” I replied. “What, not your big writer’s yacht?” “Really isn’t a thing.” Okay, I made up the last 2 sentences. Image © Riot Media.

I’d been proud all my life of my (limited) achievements.

And what does that do but humble you, tumble you, back down to the rest of humanity because fuck you and your arrogance. What is pride anyway but a stitch in the back where your wings fell off? Now you can’t fly, and you’re proud?

Shouldn’t we be proud of ourselves just for keeping on going when the going gets tough? No, because that’s only the urge to self-preservation that never lets up, it says one more fucking day, and anyway, you’re a coward.

So be proud of what? Of being human? Join 8 billion others just like you, all alive by default, all heading towards not, faster and slower.

What about the abuse? Are you proud of yourself for getting out when others didn’t…