Hell hath no fury like a writer scorned!

Another rejection! Usually Sebastian would let it lie but this time something was gnawing at him. This time he would use his pen as a sword, literally. He knew that he had written a 'tight beauty' this time. It had all the ingredients bar one, the audience appeal. What he had written would not appeal to genteel audiences, it would be awkward to cast, getting actors cheaply over 60 at short notice is tricky for any receiving house and the fact that perhaps only a 1/3 would understand the language written. Writing had recently become a competition in 'precis'. "Keep it brief ya fuckers" was the message from the Theatres. "Our audiences have the concentration span of gnats on shit and so have I for that matter". Let's let the audience decide? No, because these are the audiences who watch X Factor and Strictly Come Dancing. Sebastian had been patient, he had done all that was required in these competitions, he had abided by the rules or was it abid but this time he was rabid. It could have been the yapping dogs next door, the fact that he had thrown the ghastly word processor in disgust at the wall having scanned the brief, impersonal email from the receiving house that could have been written by a robot. It could have been his borderline diabetes, the fact that he was an addict and could find nothing suitable to be addicted to. He had become addicted to flogging his soul on the keyboards to get some kind of recognition from somewhere. "He perceives himself to be some kind of writer" was written in flashing neon as Sebastian walked across town to the Theatre. The Theatre thought that he was going to pay £8.00 to see the work of the other writers that had been chosen. 'The Chosen Ones'. If he'd had some success along the way, if he'd had some encouragement and nurturing rather than begrudging comments then perhaps the 50 year old Sebastian would have behaved differently but this time, this time......Toilets! The Theatre did not know that Sebastian had left a trail of blocked U bends across the world and last night's vindaloo, pork pies and out of date strawberries and Guiness were fermenting nicely in the guts of this writer. A so called writer wot had had a guts full. The door to the cubicle fair fell off its hinges after Seb had done the 'Business'. The toilet in Trainspotting had nothing on the one that Sebastian left in the 'Receiving House'. 'Take that you Bitch', thought Sebastian as he looked in the mirror, and left his fountain pen to the side of the sink. 

     

As he left the Foyer, it occurred to Sebastian that if he was 50 and had had no success, then perhaps, just perhaps he was a shit writer but it was too late now. The alarms in the Theatre had started to go off.