(This is fiction, clearly.)
A long time ago, in a town far, far away from anything remotely interesting, in a time that fashion shagged, and then completely forgot, a small child, perhaps seven, or possibly eight, sat in the blue-and-orange tank-top that his mother knitted him, day-dreaming.
He wanted to be a writer. He was sure. It was his destiny. He was a precocious little sod, even back then, and so he had no trouble persuading himself that he had the talent. ‘After all’, he mused, ‘I’m already more than seven years old, I once wrote a story my teacher liked, and I’ve done a poem. Surely, proof enough?’
At that time he hadn’t really read any proper books, mostly just comics. But, the Beano was an amazing window on life and introduced him to existentialism before he knew that’s what it was called. Comics were goldmines of post-modernist thinking. If the phrase, ‘Abolish Tuesdays’, is familiar to you, then you’ll dig it, (and score +1 for your knowledge of obscure references; Googling doesn’t count).
He even began to dabble in literature of a more adult nature, such as Spider Man and the Silver Surfer, although he found the latter a bit challenging and far too political.
Armed with talent, inspiration and a wide range of influences, he went about making his very own, Beano-esque, existential masterpiece.
The writing came easily. It turns out that the hardest thing was drawing the picture for the cover, and stapling the damned thing together. Oh yes, he was that naive.
After considerable effort, a nap, and some time-off to finish off another masterpiece, done in Plasticine, he produced the final version. A perfect, handwritten, 6-by-3 inch triumph that was hand-drawn with coloured pencils and crayons, and contained a whopping six-page story; there was writing on both sides and everything!
He was satisfied. He dreamed of the day when the world would read his book, which he imagined would be the following week, and he thought about the fame and fortune that was sure to follow.
His literary enterprise had taken him a whole day. This was much longer than he originally expected, and so he began to worry that expending so much creative energy in such a short space of time, might risk burn-out. He figured he better lay off the whole novel-writing thing for a bit. And besides, he had other urgent business. He’d been to see Star Wars the previous week, and that meant his mind was filled with a bewildering array of emotions and moments, but mostly laser-guns that needed expressing through the medium of Lego.
The book went into a drawer. The kid dived into his bucket of Lego.
***
It was exactly forty years later that the metaphorical dust got blown off that early outpouring of raw genius, and work on a novel began once more.
If he were to reflect for a moment, he’d probably agree that forty years was a little bit longer than he planned to ‘rest’ for. However, there had been a lot of Lego, and then Technical Lego and then Atari, and then sex (which required girls, mostly), and Red Marlboro, and cars, and music, and drugs, and of course alcohol, and then proper relationships (and these required credit cards), and holidays, and bills and taxes… and all of these things required lots of money, especially considering the quantities involved.
So naturally he got a bit distracted by having to do a ‘proper’ job. The kind of job that every other middle-class-muppet with more than five G.C.S.Es ends up doing.
***
Ultimately, after a highly successful career as a tosser, in a job that he excelled at hating, and having woken up in his own bodily fluids on one-too-many occasions, it became clear to him that it was time to return to the serious business of fiction. Making shit up.
But of course the world had changed. He was dismayed to find that in the modern webby-world, everyone-and-their-mother bangs out a novel. Not only that, but the price readers pay wouldn’t buy you a cup of pissy-weak coffee in Starbucks.
Reality didn’t so much hit him in the face, as kick him in the nuts.
However, a bizarre twist of good fortune came his way. His current relationship was brought to a timely conclusion by an incident of infidelity involving group sex (without him). With the wedding cancelled, and the neighbours more familiar with his fiancé than her own gynaecologist, he was forced to do the only sensible thing he could do. He had a nervous breakdown.
This was doubly fortuitous because he couldn’t stand his current job, which he promptly quit.
And so, fate decreed that he could stop worrying about novels and instead he could retire to the safety of someone else’s back-bedroom to grow his hair, keep the curtains shut and play so many hours of computer games that he could have been mistaken for a millennial.
It was a dark few weeks. Forty days, to be precise. Forty days and forty pizzas.
***
And then, on the forty-first day, he opened the curtains, picked the crusty socks up off the floor and threw them into the laundry bin, stacked the pizza boxes, tidily, in the corner of the room and brushed the dozen or so empty beers cans off the desk. He put on some clean underwear and began to write. No real plan, he just did it.
It came easily. Really easily. He was pleasantly surprised because this wasn’t what he’d been told about word-counts and stuff. He’s read about old Hemingway and his 500-words-a-day, and the struggle to get them, and he heard about how disciplined one had to be, and how hard it was to keep getting those words, every day… and he laughed. He could bang out five or six thousand words and still be done by beer-o-clock (three-thirty p.m.). No problem.
Something bothered him. As the mist of the alcohol rolled away, he worried that if he was knocking-out this many words-per-day, then there might be a problem, i.e. that they were shit.
He frantically re-read and re-read. Over and over again. Tweak after tweak. ‘It must be shit, it must be shit, it is shit’, he would say to himself. ‘Do it again.’
Then he stopped.
It was time to be honest with himself. He knew what the problem really was. He was trying to write the stuff that he liked to read. Biggo Mistakio! He realised that, although there wasn’t much wrong with his stuff, he was just churning out dreary, serious, drama-come-sci-fi-come-fantasy drivel. More slush for the slush pile. He felt the same way he assumed the writer of Twilight felt, every day. His heart wasn’t in it, and it showed.
The words dried up. The only lines he could manage were the ones that went up his nose.
For many weeks he was depressed and constipated, and on top of everything else he started to put on weight. He had always been precious about his appearance, and his new-found belly troubled him so badly that he was forced to go on a diet. He had to switch from beer to wine, that’s how bad things got!
Lost for inspiration, lacking in direction and with almost all thoughts of personal hygiene gone from his mind, he would to sit, every day, from eleven in the morning and work on his diet by getting slowly stewed on mediocre Malbec, in his local boozer. He mastered the art of meditation by focussing on watching his nails grow. Meal times became a packet of crisps (or three) at the pub and then one hand in the bread bin when he got home.
But then the universe nudged him again, and whilst doing so she slipped her hand in his pocket and emptied his wallet. He had run out of money and was literally flat-on-his-arse broke.. and no bloody money meant no bloody pub which meant… there was no avoiding it. The four-letter word that is ‘work’.
Crest-fallen, he returned to his career.
It was lucky for our tragic genius that he’d had the good sense to choose a career that was crap, but nevertheless paid by the cartload. All you really had to do was be slightly-less moronic than the other twonks around you. You could even do it half-pissed. And so he returned to management.
For many months he sat there, grinding his teeth. He turned up late, left early, took two-hour naps in the toilet-cubicle and attended all manner of meetings he didn’t need to in order to avoid actual work; and of course, the taste of sick in his mouth. Of course, he did his best to pretend he cared, to motivate himself, but there’s nothing more draining than working with imbeciles.
On the plus side, he saved the money he earned, minus alcohol-expenses, and managed to stick with the dismal affair long enough to build a small nest-egg, and also long enough to get himself fired. He’d never been fired before. It surprised him how good it felt.
It was a sign. The universe was smiling at him.
The keyboard began to click, the spellchecker didn’t know what had hit it, and the words began to flow.
***
And so, here we are today. Finally, he’s found it, the inspiration. As a result there are a few half-decent novels already in the pipeline**. He’s still drinking like a fish, but now he can sleep his hangovers off without being troubled by an alarm clock. It also turns out that a hangover creates exactly the right state-of-mind for the kind of satirical, dark, absurdist, bathos-riddled, stream-of-consciousness he now enjoys writing***.
So, he thanks you for your patience, and he hopes the forty year wait will be worth it. Although, to be honest, I’m not convinced he gives much of a shit, one way or the other.
Your friend,
S. Markem
P.S.
I skipped over a few bits and pieces. About thirty-eight years worth in fact. But that was just the military, the music, the partying, university, the alcohol and the drugs, the girls, the boys, the entire career, the globetrotting, the mountain climbing, the nightclub, the arrests, the bankruptcy, the tragic deaths, (did I mention the drugs?), the failed love affairs, accidental children and so on. Mostly because it was just plain boring. Well, I think it was boring, and I should know, I was there
*
** This is pure speculation on my part.
*** The next challenge is to find anyone who wants to read it. A hangover probably helps that too.