Mrs Monk has asked me to explain myself to you because I have also been challenged by your notion that only fools write for nothing.
30 years ago I attended life classes in Richmond upon Thames painting and drawing bare naked ladies and occasionally uninhibited men like the late Quinten Crisp who would adopt centurion poses. Mrs Monk also appeared occasionally and attached is her work by way of example and proof.
After two or three hours of such endeavour we artists would retire to the pub and exchange stories. My friend Ian's day job was a lecturer in film studies and by coincidence I also happened to have a passion for film. He was into "westerns" and for that reason I still call him the sheriff. More to point we had both completed film scripts and had wondered what we might do with them.
Ian was after all the lecturer in this subject, so I was keen to get his view, which happened to be that you should keep unsolicited film scripts to yourself and to never share them with a single sole for fear that his, or my, or anyone's concepts would be plagiarised.
Over the course of two or three terms of bare naked ladies and centurions, we pondered this dilemma. In due course I gained Ian's trust and he shared with me his script. He explained to me that he might need to change the title of his proposed blockbuster, because he had given his script the working title, "Fatal Attraction." A film of that name had just been released and was the top grossing film of that year. Ian claimed to have been there before the Michael Douglas clap trap. Don't you hate it when that happens?
One other artist from the Richmond upon Thames life class was a best selling author of children's books, and he offered some discouraging insight into what happened to mountains of unread manuscripts in publishing houses.
I argued then that you should put your script out there, in the public domain, because you are therefore in a position to claim ownership of any perceived plagiarism, coincidental or deliberate.
So now I find myself blogging away for no more reward than the cathartic release of what is on my chest. I am disappointed to know that not even my own family and friends are likely to read, or care to read what I have blogged, but that has never quelled the flow of unwanted detritus.
I see it as like mowing the lawn to impress the neighbours, whilst knowing they don't give a shit.
Thank you Mark Twain, who did have a thing about challenging fools, but did not live in the age of Twitter. And who was it that said there is an impulse to write faster the older you get?