I find myself more than usually pleased by a little bit of news I heard yesterday. A chap called Steven Wyatt, an author I encountered on Authonomy, turns out to have garnered a publishing deal with Tim Roux's "Night Publishing" outfit. Now normally, let's face it, news like this is frequently greeted with ambivalence at best and hostility at worst. We congratulate through gritted teeth and trust that Karma will not allow the bill for such good fortune to go unpaid.
Jealousy, though, is a foul emotion and one with which I seldom have truck, by and large but (it pains me to admit) one whose foetid breath I occasionally scent whenever a fellow straggler on the road of creativity manages to flag down the minibus taking the Olympic Swedish Massage Team to an event in Mauritius.
On this occasion, however, I begrudge Steven none of his good fortune. Don't get me wrong; I am jealous. It's just that it's the kind that falls a long way short of wanting him to develop a yeast infection or something. I think I may be in severe danger of developing a soul.
Steven Wyatt is a fine writer and "Presumed Killed", his marvellous coming of age tale set during and shortly after World War I, will be on my Kindle as soon as it's been shattered into zeroes and ones. In addition, I shall no doubt buy a hard copy as a gift for someone who has not yet been seduced by the little grey screen. For now, I shall take delight in his good fortune and may even bring myself to acknowledge that some of it is almost certainly down to talent and hard work.
I cannot believe my own generosity of spirit. Sainthood surely beckons.
Jealousy, though, is a foul emotion and one with which I seldom have truck, by and large but (it pains me to admit) one whose foetid breath I occasionally scent whenever a fellow straggler on the road of creativity manages to flag down the minibus taking the Olympic Swedish Massage Team to an event in Mauritius.
On this occasion, however, I begrudge Steven none of his good fortune. Don't get me wrong; I am jealous. It's just that it's the kind that falls a long way short of wanting him to develop a yeast infection or something. I think I may be in severe danger of developing a soul.
Steven Wyatt is a fine writer and "Presumed Killed", his marvellous coming of age tale set during and shortly after World War I, will be on my Kindle as soon as it's been shattered into zeroes and ones. In addition, I shall no doubt buy a hard copy as a gift for someone who has not yet been seduced by the little grey screen. For now, I shall take delight in his good fortune and may even bring myself to acknowledge that some of it is almost certainly down to talent and hard work.
I cannot believe my own generosity of spirit. Sainthood surely beckons.
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