I Quit by Colin Cotterill

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Really. What’s the point? Let’s face it, apart from a few superstar authors who are drawn here whenever I use their names in vain and the Google name check rats me out (and Brent and Kevin) nobody reads this blob. Most of those hundred-and-eighty thousand people on the stat counter, if they really exist, were actually looking for Realty Check. Nobody can afford houses but they can dream. And then there’s the Moore bloke’s Auntie Maude who he hires eight hours a day to click ‘enter’ over and over again to bring the numbers up. And, of course, other crime writers who surf all the other sites to see who has the most readers. So once you’ve excluded all of them (and Brent and Kevin) you’re left with about 150 fifty people who are fascinated with the site. And 148 of those are here for the Moore and the Rees and the Nadel. For a bit of class. Insights on writing. Stories about old dead scribes I’ve never heard of. My blob’s the DVD trailer you fast forward through to get to the feature.

You know? I bet you I could write, ‘All work and no play makes Colin a dull boy’ 200 times and nobody would notice. I could blaspheme. I could say ‘Jesus bloody Christ’ in a non-ecclesiastical setting and I wouldn’t get one abusive letter from the middle American bible belt. I could certainly do a Rushdie without fear of getting my house blown up. You know why? Cause nobody reads my blobs. I could write anything I like. Knickers.

I used to do a weekly comic strip for a national newspaper. It was cool to see my pictures in the paper every week but it would have been a lot cooler to get paid for them once in a while. So, after a long dry period, I submitted a cartoon entitled, ‘Do editors read the cartoons they put in their newspapers?’ The editor put it in without reading it. It was very rude. And, just my luck, that particular copy was given to a European royal who was visiting the paper that day. I didn’t have to worry about not getting paid ever again. They coughed up my dues and fired me.

And here I am trying to write a book. It’s intense. It involves putting words in a certain order so that readers understand them and are prepared to fork out thirty bucks to buy them. What do I need to do to unwind from this stressful profession?
a. Go for a walk on the beach.
b. Read comics and play Sudoku
c. Write a blob which will almost immediately dissipate into the blobosphere like a drip of blood in the English Channel
(answer……)

My mum’s second husband, Bob, was a truck driver. He spent his entire life driving petrol tankers around England’s frustrating motorways. Then he married mum. You’ll never guess what my mum’s favourite holiday was: coach tours. On his brief, two-weeks of annual vacation, she’d have Bob in a bus traveling around the motorways of England. To his credit he suffered in silence and it wasn’t like they made him drive the coach. But I know how he felt. I write for a living. Why would I want to write for a non-living in my free time?

So, I quit. I’m out of here. I don’t want to play any more. You can mail me my gold watch. Nothing can make me reconsider. But here’s the deal. I’m prepared to test my theory that there are no more than 150 actual people stopping for service at this site (not including Brent and Kevin). If there is a huge public outcry begging me to reconsider, and I mean an international campaign on the level of Band Aid with common people uniting in a show of solidarity, I’m on me bike. It’s a concept I’ve just invented called Reality Blogging. (Big Blobber). You get the chance to vote me off the island and you don’t even have to do anything. If I haven’t got 148 people on their knees by Wednesday, (I’ve excluded Brent and Kevin) you’ll never see me again. You know what? I’m going to enjoy those weekends off.

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