I have deliberately (and more than a little bravely) left this first submission on view, warts and all and complete with comments throughout by The_Bookshop.
I'm not really a masochist, but believe this is such a valuable learning curve for any writers who wonder what a critique is like - and to have a chance to discover its many values.

As you can clearly see, I have still a long way to travel around that curve... but then I look back over my shoulder and realise how far I've come and how steep most sections were.
And I nod and smile. 'No Pain, No Gain'. Couldn't have said it better.

It's not about not giving a fuck, it's about giving the right fucks.

Did I say that? Or hear it somewhere? Don't know. Don't care too much either.

On my shittiest days, I reckon I feel the same as this other dude I read about. I copied his words down and keep it well hidden from Mum and Dad. They'd only stress about it. Even more than usual... if that's possible. Mum'd turn away and try to hide her tear-jerking, and Dad would go all gruffy in his voice and clear his throat a lot. They're like totally bombed out with this gig of mine.

Yair well, there was this other dude I read about. Knew he'd be dying before too long – there's this disease chewing his muscles up or paralysing them. I think it's the one when the hardening creeps up your lungs - until you can't breathe any more. Shit of a way to go.

But I'm really into the first line he wrote -

I need to know how to stop giving a fuck about things like dying wa-a-a-y sooner than most people.

And his last one, too -

and finally, I'm going to die, dude... DIE!

In between, this kid raged about never having a partner. He's still a teenager like me, see. And I reckon he's been like a sort of artist and already losing touch with his paintings or drawings, whatever. And before too long, he'll have to have a trach in his neck – it's a tube thing so you can breathe - even be able to talk and be heard, he said. Already having trouble with his voice, he said.

On a good day I get really dirty on myself. What's one lousy leg compared to this sucker's goddawful luck ? I've still got my life - such as it is. Such as it will be. Aarrgh, stop it already. Goddamn tears are gonna start again. Stop it... just STOP IT for fuck's sake. Positives is what I gotta think and do. It's what whats'er name said - the physio chick. Think-think-think her name - might help to distract me from all this pain. Yair, sure!

I thought the freaking physical pain was something. This stinking thinking pain is bringing me right down, man. SHANI... that's what her name is! Knew it'd jump up and hit me right between the brain cells soon as I stopped searching for it. Shani. Yep. That's her name. Good old Shani. Like she'd know how it feels to be a one-legged kid. Not even all cripples are the same. Most would have both legs. Maybe not working right, but still, if you had two...

"Just take it one day at a time," she says. Like there's a goddamn choice?

"Don't waste your breath and energy on depression," she says. Yair, right lady - like I'm on top of the world, twirling on one set of twinkle-toes. Ha! Screw it, I know, for God's sake. I know it wastes too much time you could spend learning how to live again. That depression stuff? It chews you up and spits you out in little useless pieces. I KNOW!

There are days... oh man! Days when this bum rap gets me SO far down it's like I already bit the big one. Or wished I had. Wished it was all over... forever. Nope. Don't go there again! Think something else. Think...

My mates. How about when they visited? Had to come in a little group. Together. Well-meaning I guess, but could NOT get their feet out of their mouths, could they?

"Take it one step at a time," said one. Caught a bit of a blush there, didn't I? And later, when another said, "You have to put your best foot forward." A silence fell down over 'em all. So thick you could've heard a hypo needle drop. Suddenly everyone got busy gawking at their feet.

Mum says I ought to keep a journal sort of thing about the daily battle. She reckons it'd help me, especially when I look back on where I've been and how I've progressed from those worst 'black dog' days. Says it'd help others, too. Time to be thinking about anything at all outside myself, she says. Make something worthwhile come from this disaster, she says. It motivated me for a bit... then it kinda slipped away and the whole thing felt stupid.

On one of the endless hospital visits, I could hear in Mum's voice and see in her eyes how fed up she'd become, and after trying to reason with me for ages (and I admit to feeling SO shitty and broken that day, you know?), she finally said, "For all of our sakes, but mostly your own Jake, force a book out of your dumbed-down brain. Why not write it ALL about YOU! Don't worry about Dad and I and everyone else who's trying to help. Just make it all about you, like you do EVERY day, these days!" Her voice shook bad, along with her chin - and her hands. And then came the waterworks. Again! And I know that's not fair. She holds so many back SO often.

Ohh shit. Bad. That's bad and a half. I mean, for her to sound-off like a weirdo schoolteacher, or something. That's a bummer if ever there was one. Phew... it freaking freaked me out, I can tell you. Dad took her over to the canteen for a coffee and to calm her down, then came back by himself. He tugged at his shirt collar a bit, like he does when he has something he'd rather not say. But anyone could see he had more ideas on this writing game plan.

He reckoned if you can find a special thing you can enjoy - even maybe come to love - time will pass faster, and like help the mental and emotional healing stuff. He reminded me (though I didn't want to hear it) how good I'd been with my studies, especially English and creative writing and stuff. One of his most solid points was figuring I'd enjoy writing my story a whole heap more without all those study hours and deadlines and exams and crap.

He said there's government agencies that might be interested in publishing. You know, that mob who's always on your ass about further education. He tried to butter me up by saying I might even create a classic (Hahaha! As if.), telling me whatever I produced, it would surely make my life abso-freaking-lutely better. Well he didn't put it in quite those words. More like I could win back a bit of pride in myself. That's what he said. And he hugged me... hard. They're not too bad, the 'oldies'. Made me think outside the square, as the brains-trust mob say.

Sounded more sensible than those dodgy mates who reckoned I ought to do it all - drugs, grog, dope - 'live dangerously, dude. Wotcha got to lose?' Nah. Sounds like a waste of space to me. That's really the best those insane lame-asses can come up with?

Then I met this other old codger in rehab. He'd lost both legs to sugar problems - diabetes, he said. He told me about a young kid blown up by a bomb the other day in an Arab country - another one of the poor buggers getting maimed and killed over there. And he said, "And here you are son, still breathing, and SOON you'll be walking again... with help, I know - but walking, kid! Yer gotta live whatever life you can, the best you can, with the time you have," and he ruffled my hair (I usually hate that since I grew up, but he did it in such a kindly fashion, I didn't have the heart to whinge). "That there's the one thing we can ALL do... until we die. And we're all gonna shuffle off someday!"

One of the best bits of advice I reckon I've had came from that psycho-something-or-other guy, who suggested I choose a particular time in my week (say Sunday at 8pm) to wallow deep in self-pity for an hour if needed, then suck it up and get on with planning the week ahead. And LIVE it, without any more 'sorry for yourself' time, until the next week at the allocated moments.

I've given it a couple of goes... and man, it works like all get-out. You know, it's still Hugh Mongus tough when things go wrong or I start to let the weakies and the weepies take a hold and start dwelling on what I can't do anymore. I'm trying hard as... to stop taking anyone else down with me into the hellhole I've been in. I just didn't get it how much I'd been screwing with the feelings and stuff of the people who love me most. Like Mum said about it being all about me. Hate to say it, but Jesus! She's right.

I'm gonna do it better. Got to. Might even learn how to ditch the swearing, along with the self-pity! Might...