For what seemed like the millionth time I deleted and re-typed the same sentence. Oh don't worry, it wasn't like I was typing exactly the same things over and over again…oh no…I was adding all sorts of interesting things. Such as different fonts, colours and sizes. Wouldn't that be a lot more interesting for the editor to read? No? Oh. It was worth a shot.
What I was supposed to be doing was writing my debut novel. One day-after a few too many espressos I believe, I told my boss exactly where he could shove his poxy little job. And for some strange, completely unknown reason he took this to mean I wanted to quit. Don't know where he got that one from.
I had a pretty average job. Average hours. Average pay. I mean who doesn't work for a boss that expects you to go out at 3 in the morning to get him a bottle of wine? Or demands you do his dry cleaning? And then proceeds to complain at you when you haven't done the accounts because you were out getting his mid-morning coffee. Those coffees were the bane of my life. Never, not once, were they the right temperature for his Majesty's regal tongue.
'…but life in the outback was never simple.' Delete. Delete. Delete! The delete button and I were fast becoming friends. The outback for Christ's sake?! What was I thinking? I could just imagine my publisher's reaction to a novel about our sworn cricket enemies, 'Oh yes John, you're really going to make it as a respected writer by writing about bloody Aussies'. I needed an espresso. I had all my best ideas when highly caffeinated. Like quitting my job for example. On the other hand maybe I'd just stick to water.
Sorry, I was talking about my boss wasn't I? Novels can be such distractions. Other, less knowledgeable people, may see constantly tidying my flat, re-aligning my pencils and taking regular walks to 'clear my head' and 'gather' my non-existent thoughts as procrastination devices. But no, I see writing my novel as procrastinating. It completely distracts me from my every day life of…erm…drinking coffee, watching films and pretending to be a hip and happening Londoner. People say hip don't they?
See! Look at me! I'm doing it again! Right. My last boss. Power driven, glory seeking, money loving fool that he is. I reckon that at night he used to consult with Satan about new and twisted ways to torture and distress me. You wouldn't believe that this self same man was the owner of a dusty little bookshop at the end of my quiet isolated road. The man has been known to wear tweed for God's sake!
'…fear suddenly filled every fibre of my being. He stood towering over me, like a great ruler overseeing his kingdom. My heart raced. My head spinned, thoughts spiralling and…' I paid a visit to my new best friend again. Whilst I had been 'writing' my novel the backspace button had become my only friend. Trapped in the solitary confinement of my own home all day long I longed for company. I don't know how my real friends hadn't sent out a search party for me yet. I'd neglected them for far too long now. Maybe I'd go out to see them tonight…not that I was trying to escape my novel writing duties. It's funny that. Here I am continuously trying to think of new ways to escape writing my novel, when books to me are all about escape. They're about transportation. Getting away from the monotony of every day life. Transformation of yourself. Books that really reach out to you and make you reassess. Books that spur emotions inside of you like no other person or thing can do. That make you want to cry and laugh and everything in between. Books that keep you hooked and gripped until the very last syllable and then some. Books that somehow make you feel for these fictitious characters like you don't even feel for a friend or a relative or a lover; characters that somehow become a part of your very existence. They shape you and mould you and become something so significant, so poignant that you can't possibly forget them.
I remember reading 'The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe' late at night in bed, thinking my parents didn't know I was awake (the thought that they might have realised I wasn't tucked up asleep never even crossed my mind at that age; parents were oblivious to everything after all) and wishing desperately to be transported to a faraway magical land. I used to check my wardrobe every night, just in case. I remember my copy had said 'a book for children' on the front of it. But it was as if he'd written it just for me. Like a secret between old friends. And just like C. S. Lewis so brilliantly did, I want to create characters that when you come home from a long day you know you can rely on, that will always be there. People that you can relate to and connect with on a level you never thought were possible from a book. And I'd be so in control. Of these characters destinies and of the reader's emotions. I've never been in control; not of my life, or my relationships or anything else you may dare think of.
Sorry. I've completely gone off on a tangent haven't I? My boss. Always in control. Didn't appreciate the musky scent that the books in his shop contained. Never stopped when he opened them just to look and smell and take in everything a book has to offer. An alcoholic, cheating, angry man. Wouldn't stop for a frail old dear crossing the road unless it was worth his while. And when I told him on that fateful day just exactly what I thought of him and his whole idea of book selling, I probably didn't damage him in the slightest. But to me it was the single most courageous thing I have ever done in my life. And when my book is placed on his rotting old shelves, I'll be sure to thank him in the acknowledgements section that nobody reads unless you know you're mentioned. 'To Edward Jones-for destroying me, for sending me to my bleakest moment. Because of your cruelty and severity I learnt to stand up for myself. And here I am leading the life you've always wanted to. So thank you good Sir, for being everything I'm not.' I might even pop round and give him a signed copy. Tell him it'll be worth something in a few years time and he'll jump at the chance. I doubt he'll even recognise me. They'll be someone else in my place by now. Someone else for him to order about. I pray to God that they don't end up murdering him like I so many times thought of doing. It'd ruin the smell of the books.
'For what seemed like the millionth time I deleted and re-typed…' Genius.
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