The Price of Ambition

I would like to live in a farmhouse in the country.

I think it's a very worthwhile ambition. I just have to work out how exactly I can make it happen.

This picture above shows exactly the kind of place I'd like to live in. An old American farmhouse in New England (in this example, upstate New York.) Somewhere with trees and rivers and those beautiful slate-grey mountains that make the rural wilderness north of New York city so beautiful.

I like the idea of having my stupid old car in a barn, so I can tinker with it. I like the idea of Tina pottering around with arts and crafts in a downstairs studio. I can imagine the old fashioned kitchen, with it's wood-fired range that crackles comfortingly in winter (and has a couple of Dachshunds lazing in front of it.)

It would be great for Martin to grow up with woods and fields to explore. Maybe we could have a horse. A little stream or river to go fishing on. I'd buy him a sheepdog, since I swear I was never fitter than when my parent's dog Tig used to take me on long voyages through the Cornish countryside.

This is a warm and cuddly dream and maybe, one day, I'll achieve it (like I eventually managed to get myself to America.)

But the question is: How?

Now the problem with my generation - brought up on a diet of non-celebrities like Jade Goody - is that we all feel that we're entitled to our dreams without actually having to do anything to deserve them. Jade Goody, for example, was rewarded with fame, TV shows, lucrative endorsement contracts and millions of quid purely for being a thick-as-pigshit, hideously ugly, racist, ignorant chav.

No, I've evolved enough to realise that I'm going to have to do something to achieve this ambition. Now, I'd like to imagine I could do this by writing. I can just imagine getting a successful series of books published, which gives me an excuse to buy a remote farmhouse and type away in my study in the tranquility of the upstate backwoods (while Martin plays outside and Tina makes pottery downstairs.)

I'd be like one of the typical protagonists in a Stephen King novel, except my farmhouse wouldn't be in Maine and hopefully the walls wouldn't start bleeding and the ghost of my cojoined twin/murdered black woman/half demonic hellspawn wouldn't attempt to murder me and steal my soul.

The problems with this dream are:

1. The chances of me getting a book published are, I think we've estimated, 1 in 500.
2. The chances of that book being successful are probably about the same.
3. In fact, the odds are more likely to land me a murderous cojoined twin/murdered black woman/half demonic hellspawn than a publishing contract.

There are some things I can do to improve my odds, though.

I can actually finish what I start writing. So far, I've got 30,000 words into a wacky spy thriller, 9,000 words into a Gothic horror adventure, 2,000 words into a gritty spy thriller (notice a pattern) and I've got a fully completed book, The Bootleg Boys (which received a thumbs up from Saint Club chairman Ian Dickerson) and I've not sent it out to anybody. I need to finish what I've started!

I can continue to improve my writing. Although I haven't written anything fictional in, like, a year - I have learnt a huge amount (I might write about this later.)

I can quit wasting time - abandon the unsellable writing projects, focus on what I can achieve and possibly even tone down the blogging. I need to write more targeted articles and essays and send them out to see if I can get them published (I've got two things in print this year, Woot! Woot! Why not continue the trend?)

All in all, I think the major thing I need to do is get focused and organised. Energy and enthusiasm are useless unless they're pointed in a particular direction (otherwise, you're just spinning your wheels.)

I've set myself this ambition. Now it's time to get out there and achieve it.

When Copy Writers Attack (spell check hates me when I write things like this)

Behold, the new Ford Kuga.

Yes, I said 'Kuga.' As in 'cougar.'

There is already a Ford car named after North America's native mountain lion, so when Ford executives decided on the name of their new quasi-crossover-concept, they decided to keep the macho sounding 'big cat' name, but give it an edgy 'text-generation' spin by spelling it wrong.

Kuga.

Good grief.

I mean, I do realise that naming cars isn't exactly an easy thing (what does it involve? Open dictionary, randomly insert push-pin, email marketing department...) but this one really takes the cake.

And that's even by Ford standards (who's Car Focus Group managed to come up with the highly original car names 'Ka' and 'Focus.' Wait for the Ford 'Group' in 2009. But they'll probably spell it 'groop.')

I mean, seriously, people.

I know I'm a writer. I know I'm in marketing. I know I once dumped a girl because she pronounced the 'd' in Wednesday. But doesn't anybody else think that 'Kuga' is just the most ridiculously stupid name since Nissan produced the 'Qashqai'? Or am I just being anally retentive.

In any event, when it's announced in five years time that Ford downsized their marketing department to a bunch of chain-smoking chimpanzees with typewriters (they knock out romance novels in their spare time) don't say I didn't warn you.

Ford! In fact, car manufacturers around the world - we need REAL car names.

Like Mustang, Firebird, Blaze, Roadster, Bulldog, Hirondell, Furillac... Names that sound big and gruff and rough and tough and CAR-LIKE.

Kuga is just DUMB.

Although, in retrospect, it's less dumb than car manufacturers who just name their cars with numbers. BMW 318. Peugeot 407. Come on, people! At least make an effort!

End of rant.