Sorry, that should be A. Mole. I read The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole and its follow-up, The Growing Pains when I was roughly the early Mole’s 13 3/4. The books had only recently been published, which I guess makes me Adrian’s more-or-less contemporary. They didn’t really influence me that much: I was already sex-obsessed and quite political – I’d like to think I was more sophisticated than Adrian – and I quite fancied myself as an intellectual. I’d love to say it inspired me to keep a diary, but it didn’t. I would occasionally scribble some unoriginal observations in an old school exercise book, but I never had the perseverance to do it regularly.
Since then I have regularly made notes about my life in notebooks and, more recently, Word documents; I’ve never got into the habit of keeping anything resembling a diary, however. Just what kind of a writer am I? A rather embittered one at the moment. I’ve had a couple of rejections over the last week. When this happens, I tell myself that I’m an undiscovered genius (like Adrian Mole) and that’s their loss. The only reasonable alternative is giving up, which I’m not prepared to do. It’s this that makes me embittered: not rejection, as such, but forcing myself to believe something uncharacteristic (I don’t usually have a high opinion of myself) just to carry on.
To cheer myself up I’ll watch this: