Have you considered a blizzard of lizards whose gizzards would give us the wizards new scissors?
I should explain on this chain and give context next, how I feel like a loner when I'm left out in October, starts on seconds, eleventh it ends and bends the public over, expensive drinks so you'll end sober, celebrity twats in old hats to make up for the fact they haven't written a thing.
Picture a blizzard, no a gale, a torrential fucking hail of the lizards from the city, from the shitty states and nowhere pretty. Cold, reptilians bastards with their logos and their colours and how much money they discover, they can squeeze out of a small country town until Montpellier park turns brown.
And they give us their gizzards, their art and pour out their contrite little hearts on stage and I rage at the fact they've took, what is a festival about books, and changed it into the story of their stupid career, and the public's fear. That fear they have of writing prose, who knows? They might draw attention so it's best to not vent, just go in the rented tents, buy overpriced food and overpriced drink and for goodness gracious, try not to think. Accept that Authors are important, as well as suited gentlemen with glass bottles of Fentimans for a fiver a bottle, and we'll all say how writing is hard, so the door to publishing is best barred, your novel attempts burned until charred. What did you think, this was a place for Literature? You'll have me in a fit here, sir. I'm simply here to network and to meet Neil Gaiman, no battle plan. This place is here for fun, so there's nothing there to make, but you should really try the cake, it's a steal at eight pounds, definitly not a mugging and chugging back feelings of grief are the authors at the altars and the pulpits, teeth grit as they try to explain what they were feeling when they wrote, where they came from, how they made notes, the mote of dust on their nose-diving career that is a member of the general public asking an author how he made a book.
Stop asking, they're all wizards, You should look at books and make one too and then get asked just why you did that, like a murdererous thug who's just sprayed a gat. "Why'd you do that?" "What were you thinking?" Well why do wizards weave magic? As luck would have it, I know the answer. To cut themselves away, to remove themselves, delve into something else entirely. The book is just the run-off, what's real is the scissors. But the public don't want that, when they could get a shiny new book, a fiction. And that causes friction. Friction because I just don't get how year-on-year we get showcases of nothing, celebrations of marketing, sponsors, sponsors, sponsors.
So you never considered the newts in the storm, born to muddy waters, slaughter newborns, the baby books fleeting that could've been for a moment, for a kid in a tent with a pen and some paper, warm words and a stapler.
With a cost so high that it's verging on celestial.
I couldn't give a toss about Cheltenham's Literature Festival.
