So what, I beg, is the issue with an incredibly beautiful woman, who happens to be one of the most photographed, talked about, and recognised American icons of the present day, realising and claiming her worth, and capitalising on it in a way that any other corporation would love to have the chance to?
So I wanted to be an author. Perhaps like others in the 60%, I had the romantic idea of a desk, an old typewriter (in reality, I had a Windows 486 PC...), pots of coffee and French cigarettes. I wanted to be an author SO BADLY that when I left college, I became... a call centre operative.
Recently the YA blogosphere, Book-tubers and the section of Twitter especially reserved for that of YA book fanatics have been talking about one thing and one thing only: the YA Book Prize, a prize for UK and Irish YA books set up by the publishers The Bookseller.
Words became no more than practicalities, an idle invariance when the unbearable stresses of pressing the 'SHIFT' button, or scribbling a capital became too much to shoulder for those with another thing on their mind, such as texting, or reality television, maybe both.
What are you still doing here? You're like a stray following me home; shoo... go away... start writing! Alright, we both know I don't really want you to go away, otherwise I would have just stopped writing and gone and made another coffee.