My Brain is Melting

Hello, faithful friends who are oh so much more reliable than me. I do not have a story to regale you with this week, but believe me I have been whittled to my very core these past few days trying to write a script for my drama devised piece. When that's done and dusted, I may put it up here. But until then, please accept the apologies of an extremely stressed young writer, which are, let's face it, a dime a dozen.

Why I'd Rather Go for a Walk in the Woods Than a Night on the Town

Well, hello there. Fancy seeing you here. How've you been? Me? I've been positively fine.

What am I going to talk to you about. Well, I'm afraid I haven't completed another massive piece of creative writing this week, nor do I have an interesting anecdote to share with you. You may be wondering why this update is going out so early, well, truth be told, I kinda procrastinating in that I really should be writing up an interview for English Language. Either that or figuring out what I can fill an hours worth of time with tomorrow when I'll be on the radio again.

I've been managing to avoid procrastinating too much lately. I've started learning the guitar again (this time from an excellent free teacher online who goes by the name of Sask Strum). I've also been giving myself a larger amount of time to complete essays and homework than I normally do which is reducing my stress. Well, partially reducing my stress, anyway.

I'd like to talk to you today about my weekend and since this is my blog, I probably will do. You see, yesterday I found myself having to go into town in order to pick up some books for college (Dracula and Doctor Faustus, if you're interested) and today I had to take my dog (a Lakeland Terrier named Archie, if you're interested) for a walk.

During my trip to town, I got what I came for, took a look around some shops and got home in time to cook the first meal I have ever prepared (a spaghetti bolognese, if you're interested). During my walk I lost my dog for a panic-stricken five minutes (he turned up in a field, if you're interested), twisted my ankle and damn near froze to death.

And yet, I would take the walk every time and I'd like to explain why, and if cracked.com has taught me anything, it's that if something is worth saying, it's worth saying in list format:

1. The People

Imagine crossing paths with a stranger in a town. Well, you hardly need to, towns typically are full of people. But what happens? I'll tell you: Nothing. No eye-contact. No spoken words. Not even a remote acknowledgement that the other person is there. Nothing.

In the woods, if I see someone, I'm guaranteed to at least get a smile from them - a nod. If I'm lucky, I could even get a few remarks about the weather or where I was going. People seem friendly and ingratiating.

"But Joseph!" the people cry, "You cannot honestly be telling us that you, a positive paradigm of solitude, could ever find solace or comfort in the words of strangers!" Well my garrulous friend, actually, I kind of like it. I don't like deluges of people, great masses and oceans of them, all uncaring. What I like is solitude broken by the occasional friendly greetings of a few people. Which is exactly what I find in the woods.

Fewer people make the times where you do meet feel special, for both parties.

2. Privacy

Correlating to the above point, in a town you are surrounded by people, watching you. Passively watching you, yes, but watching you all the same. When I am watched, I become extremely tense and very self-conscious. Or at least until my mind starts to wander onto something else, at which point it will inevitably snap back and I'll wonder what minor acts of foolishness I have performed in the meantime.

In the woods, I can do what I like. Do I suddenly feel like running? Well, run all you like! Has a song come on my iPod that I love to sing along to? Then sing it! Am I bored with the path I'm walking down? Take a random new one! Need to pee? There's a tree!

3. It Looks Nicer

In town, everything is composed of adverts and signs on concrete; bright primary colours on dull grey. Everything feels like it either really wants me there or wants me to go.

The woods, even at this time of year, are full of a thousand shades of green and orange, blending together into a picture perfect landscape.

4. It Costs Less

I am notoriously tight fisted and it would take a pack of wild horses to happily separate me from what little money I have (because, hey, everyone wants a pack of wild horses, right?). My trip to town cost me approximately £20 in total. My trip to the woods? Nothing. The perfect day out.

5. The Feeling

Ok, this one is hard to pin down, is probably a combination of all the above and is going to take a few metaphors, but here it goes:

Imagine being a spider in a room, now imagine there is a person in this room, in fact, the room belongs to this person. Now imagine that this person has noticed you. Now imagine this person doesn't really like spiders, but can't quite be bothered to get up and kill you. Imagine what you feel (overlooking of course the fact that the brain of a spider is infinitely different from that of a human and its emotions would probably be incomparable to our own).

That is how I feel in town. I feel like I don't belong there and that there is a vast intelligence that doesn't want me there, but can't quite be bothered to do me harm. A sort of passive aggressiveness, only originating from some superior being.

In the woods, I get a similar feeling of un-belonging and vast intelligence, only imagine this time the person whom the spider-you is sharing the room with doesn't really mind spiders and in fact sort of likes them. It doesn't do anything as obvious as communicating with you or making life easier for you (Why would you want to help a spider?), it only radiates a quality of acceptance and warmth.

In short, town seems to be radiating the feeling: "You do not belong here, please leaves as soon as is convenient." while the woods generate a feeling of "Though you do not belong here, you are welcome to visit."

So, there you have it. I hope I haven't bored with my inane ramblings of passive aggressive towns and ingratiating woods. Anyway, I must go now, a 1000 word interview of Sri Lanka doesn't write itself...

Writer vs Editor

[Fanfare]

It's finally. Frickin'. Done.

Hello everyone. You've all been very, very patient with me and I'd like to reiterate that I really don't deserve it, but here I am, short story in hand.

That's right, Writer vs Editor is finished.

Appropriately, it's about a very patient man who is forced to deal with someone who may not really deserve his patience.

Ironically, it's been written without the use of an editor, though I have actually gone through this one to check for mistakes, unlike my usual habit of immediately leaving anything I've finished forever.

Uncomfortably, it goes a bit bromantic towards the end, but hey, I can't control what happens to my characters.

Unfortunately, it sort of doesn't know where to finish, but considering is basically a single phone conversation, I consider that fitting, as that always seems to happen to me on the phone.

Incidentally, I have no idea about how publishing works or indeed how editing works, so please forgive me any fictitious happenings.

Staggeringly, it is long, coming in at just over 4300 words, so you might want to get a cup of tea, coffee, hot chocolate, or indeed any hot drink of your choice, now, before it's too late.

Without further ado, here it is:

Writer Vs Editor

Richard Pennyworth carefully rotated the stack of assorted paper on his desk half a degree clockwise. After a few moments’ contemplation, he rotated it half a degree counter-clockwise. It was still not exactly in line with desk edge.

He sighed and gazed out of the window at the grimy London streets. It was raining a sad yet consistent rain. The kind of rain that probably dreamt of being a thunderstorm when it grew up, a thunderstorm that would roll across a parched and thirsty desert, ending fifty years of drought, but instead found itself falling miserably upon the streets of London and upon the bustling heads of its inhabitants, trying its best to do its job and not to think of what it might have been.

Richard began to drum his fingers on the desk. He then lowered the height of the office chair he sat on with a squeak. After a few seconds he raised it again. He looked desperately around the room, hoping that some job would present itself. But no, he’d done everything else he needed to do. There was only one thing left on his itinerary. A perspective observer may have noticed the way he purposefully did not look at the phone on his desk.

Suddenly, he noticed a minute cobweb on the picture that he had hung up on his office wall. He quickly stood up and, with the edge of his shirt, wiped it off. The photo, he noticed was him at some party or other. He was sat at a large round table, his slightly too wide smile doing nothing to hide the terror in his eyes. Even looking at it he could recall the cold sweat and the tightness with which he held the glass.

Around him, the writers sat. His writers. Ten of them, old and young, fat and thin and every one mad as all hell. He remembered how other editors had praised him on the night; not one of them had such a menagerie of successful writers for whom they edited. Their praise however was mingled with pity, for they knew the effects that editing for such unbridled creative geniuses had on the mind of any sane. So they gently patted him on the shoulder and spoke softly as if the sudden movements or loud noises would cause him to have a heart attack. They probably would, he reflected.

He looked with happy reminiscence at the faces of all the people sat at the table, some smiling, some frowning and some too engrossed in a conversation to notice they were being photographed. What he didn’t look at was the man that was only half in the picture. The man that was purposefully not looking at the camera. The man who was holding in one hand a wine glass and a cigarette whose smoke curled upwards partially obscuring the “No Smoking” sign behind him and in the other a pencil poised before a notepad. The man with the pale white face and the dark sunken eyes.

Richard sat back down at the desk and sighed an even deeper sigh. He rotated the stack of paper once more half a degree clockwise.

He looked at the phone, squatting in the corner like a grinning troll. He knew he would have to do it sooner or later. He opened the desk drawer and drew out a huge stack of paper, full of notes, and slammed it down into the centre of his desk. From another draw he drew out a small bottle of pills. He swallowed two and reached for the phone. Hesitantly, he dialled the number he so wished that he didn’t know by heart.

He decided he would wait for three rings and if he didn’t answer try again tomorrow.

The first ring succeeded in waking Karl Malkovich up, drawing him from his deep slumber back into a sitting position in the chair he had fallen asleep in.

The second ring saw Karl Malkovich frantically searching his dark and dingy living room for the phone. Overturning huge stacks of books and papers.

The final ring saw Karl Malkovich locating the phone at last, buried under The Complete Works of Charles Dickens and a half eaten Chinese take-away.

Richard’s heart nearly burst with joy as the final ring died away. A split second contained a multitude of thanks to whatever beneficial spirit had arranged things so that he wouldn’t have to communicate with Karl and could now go home, have a cup of tea and watch Countdown with Janet. The reason these feelings of thanks and praise lasted only a split second was because at that moment, there was a click and a voice that sounded like it had just eaten a bowl of gravel washed down with a glass of powered glass crackled down the phone.

“Richard.” The voice said, simply.

“Karl!” said Richard, feigning enthusiasm as best as he could. Of course he picked up. The Universe is like that sometimes. “How are you?”

A series of coughs that would seriously concern anyone remotely concerned with the medical profession erupted from the earpiece of Richard’s phone.

“Not bad,” replied Karl, once the coughing had subsided, “You’ll have to excuse me; I’ve just woken up.”

Richard glanced up momentarily to the clock on his wall to confirm that, yes, it was four o’clock.

“No problem,” said Richard, with as much cheer as he could muster. “You know, we should see each other more often, it feels like I’ve hardly-”

“What do you want, Richard?” interrupted Karl.

Richard winced, “Sorry, it’s just I got some notes back from the publishers about your latest novel, what was it called now…”

“The Extraordinary Escapades of Charlie Higgs, the East End Anarchist, and How he Learned the Simple Joys of Hate and Love, or Demand More Than You Expect and You Will Receive It, or My Private Orange Grove,” rattled off Karl, “What could they have possibly found fault with, it’s perfect.”

Richard winced once again – this was going to be difficult. He began falteringly to speak. “Well, the thing is, in its current state, no publisher is willing to touch it.”

“Agh! Publishers! They wouldn’t know true art if it tied them to a chair and cut off their fingers!” there was a pause in which Richard hoped Karl had hung up in disgust as he often did. No such luck. “Who normally publishes my books?”

“Gilligan’s, but event they aren’t willing.”

“There must have been at least one offer.”

“Well, we got one from Ratchet Limited-”

“Fantastic! Let’s go with them.”

“- But only on the condition that we pay them.”

“Ah.”

There was a long pause.

“Listen, Karl, I want this book to get published as much as you do. Quite aside from the fact that I really need a paycheque right now, I think it has potential. Gilligan’s have said that they might be able to publish it if we just made a few little changes.” Richard said this with the care of a bomb disposal expert.

There was a very long pause.

“It’s perfect.” Said Karl.

“Yes, but with a few changes it might be, erm, more perfect.”

“No. It’s fine the way it is.”

“Please, Karl, just hear them out.”

“Fine! What are they?”

Karl looked down at the notes on his table, “Ok, first, which title do you actually want?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, do you want it to be called: The Extraordinary Escapades of Charlie Higgs, the East End Anarchist, and How he Learned the Simple Joys of Hate and Love, or do you want it to be called: Demand More Than You Expect and You Will Receive It, or-”

“No, you don’t understand,” said Karl, “The Extraordinary Escapades of Charlie Higgs, the East End Anarchist, and How he Learned the Simple Joys of Hate and Love, or Demand More Than You Expect and You Will Receive It, or My Private Orange Grove is the title.”

Richard grimaced, but he had been prepared for this, “Right, Ok, it’s just that I think that the publishers are kind of looking for maybe a shorter title.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!” roared Karl down the line, “I spent a good few weeks narrowing it down to that! That is the title! It sums up the book completely! Maybe it doesn’t conform to the supposed parameter set in place by people who couldn’t even write a haiku for what a title should be, but that doesn’t stop it from being the buggering title!”

“Ok, Ok! Calm down!” Richard felt his pulse begin to rise, despite the pills, “But all that doesn’t change the fact that publishers don’t like it.”

“I’m not changing it.” Karl said, with the petulance of a child, “I’m not, it’s fine.”

“Ok, I’ve got an idea.” Richard pulled towards himself a sheet of paper and began to scribble furiously on it, “How about we call it My Private Orange Grove-”

“No! I refuse to compromise my artistic vision!”

“Hear me out. What if we call it My Private Orange Grove, and have ‘The Extraordinary Escapades of Charlie Higgs, the East End Anarchist, and How he Learned the Simple Joys of Hate and Love’ as a kind of subtitle?”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

Tentatively, Karl said “But what about Demand More Than You Expect and You Will Receive it?” his voice regained some of its former passion “I will not give that up!”

“Hmm,” Richard thought intensely, running through his repertoire of possible editing techniques, “Oh! Easy! We’ll just put it in italics and give it a page to itself after the title!”

“But,” said Karl after a moment’s hesitation, “What does that mean?”

“Nothing at all.”

Another silence swallowed the conversation.

Finally, Richard heard a sigh, “Well I suppose if it will keep the corporate suits happy.”

Richard murmured a silent thank you. “Terrific!” was all he said aloud.

“What else was the problem?”

Richard glanced down at the three major problems he’d found with the book. This was going to be difficult.

Throughout this section of the conversation, Karl had been collecting himself, picking out the pencil-sharpenings that had become implanted into his face after sleeping head down at a desk, opening the windows to his room to try and air out the smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap wine that permeated his apartment and trying to ascertain if whatever had become stuck to the roof of his mouth had gained sentience. Where Karl was, it was sunny, the kind of semi-diffuse golden light that blinded him as he opened the blinds.

Now, he was making his way into his washroom to perform his limited morning ablutions. It was a tiny room, barely bigger than the shower it was attached to, with the tiles the kind of yellow that could only be justifiably described as ghastly.

“Well, what are the problems?” he said, as he turned the rusty tap, sending a cascade of ice cold water into the stained sink which he proceeded to splash onto his face.

Richard broke from his unhappy musings, “Oh, right, well, firstly, I’ve noticed some problems with Chapters 52 through 59. Do you need reminding what was in those chapters?”

“Lord Carlos is imprisoned in his own wine cellar for six months by the Glasgow Grin Five. What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, Ok, it’s just that during those chapters we sort of don’t really see, erm, are you ok?”

For the last thirty seconds or so, Richard had heard a strange wet, rasping sound, like a wire sponge cleaning mud of a wall.

The sound stopped, and Karl’s voice said “I’m uhing I eeh.”

“What?”

There was a sigh, more frantic rasping, the sound of somebody spitting and then “I was brushing my teeth.”

“Ah, Ok. As I was saying, it’s very interesting, what with all the hallucinations he’s having, but I wondered if it might be a bit too long.”

“What are you talking about, Richard?” said Karl, the impatience returning to his voice. A spraying noise had started up as well.

“Well, it sort of covers all of Chapters 52 through 59. 69 pages.”

“Yes?” Said Karl. The spraying had gotten louder now and was accompanied by a peculiar drumming noise, as if raindrops were hitting the phone.

“The Publishers think that that might be a bit too long for a, erm… Sorry, are you in the shower?”

Karl, who had begun humming tunelessly, stopped and said “Yes, what of it?”

“While on the phone?”

“I would have thought that part at least was obvious.”

There was no mistaking it. The noises Richard were hearing were clearly the spray of a shower hitting the phone. He also fancied he could hear the vague noise of Karl washing, something that he forced himself not to think of.

“Erm, isn’t that dangerous or…” Richard trailed off.

“Fine, I’ll get out! Jesus!”

Richard heard the spraying stop to be replaced by damp splashes and the noise of Karl towelling himself off. “What were you saying?” he said.

“The Publishers think that readers might lose interest after a while.”

There was silence on the other end of the line but for a strange spraying noise, softer now. Finally, Richard heard Karl’s deep sigh, equal parts exasperation and fury.

“What, prey tell, did they deem to be an appropriate length for readers not to lose interest?”

“Well, what they were kind of looking for,” said Richard over the scraping that begun coming from the other end of the line, “Was something more in the region of maybe the first half of a chapter.”

A loud, barked curse shook the phone in his hand.

“Sorry,” said Karl after a moment, “Cut myself shaving. What were you saying about the length?”

“First half of a chapter?”

The curse that rung out this time was much worse and forced Richard to yank the phone away from his ear as if it would bite him.

“How the hell do they expect me to do that?! Those chapters are marvellous! A real in depth look into the inner workings of a man’s mind! There is simply no way I could cut them down any further than I already have.”

“Ok! Ok!” said Karl, all the more disturbed by the tinkling he could hear which could only mean Karl was relieving himself as he spoke. “Why don’t we simply leave that one be for now, and move on to the next points, Ok?”

“Fine! But this better not take too long.” Karl had just washed his hands in water slightly too hot and a bright pink block of evil smelling soap, the kind of soap they don’t seem to make anymore. He left the washroom and made his way across the hall to his bedroom. This room was just as messy as all the others but seemed especially full of crumpled clothes. A single bed lay in a corner, its thick heavy blankets scrunched into a ball at the centre despite the fact that Karl had not slept in it last night. In the corner of the roof was a spindly, grey spider, but Karl didn’t mind.

“Right,” said Richard in a sullen voice, collecting his notes. He knew that it would be heavy going from now on. He could see in his mind’s eye the image Janet and tea and Countdown fading away, but he must try. “Ok, do you remember Chapter 78?”

“For the last time Richard, I could recite to you the entire book now if I wanted to.” Said Karl. The soft spray of a deodorant-can could be heard. “Chapter 78 is where Dmitri is forced to go through the brothel through the secret backroom to go and meet the Swing King.”

“Well,” said Richard, suddenly unsure of himself, “I’m not sure if you remember, but there was this guy we met in the brothel-”

“Oliver Sparrow. Swing King’s Boy. The one who leads Dmitri to the Swing King.”

“Yes, Oliver.”

“What’s the problem with him?” said Karl, “He only appears for two chapters, and then he’s gone; bullet between the eyes. What could have possibly offended the Publishers about him?”

“Well, that’s just it. He only appears for two chapters.”

There was a pause. “What do you mean?” Said Karl, confused.

“I think,” said Richard, steeling himself for an explosion, “I think he’s such an interesting character with so much potential that I think maybe you shouldn’r kill him and instead flesh him out into a full fledged character.”

There was a very long pause in which Richard could hear the soft rumple of fabrics. Richard couldn’t see, but knew beyond a shadow of a doubt what Karl was dressing into: A rumpled black shirt, black trousers and a black jacket. The same thing he always dressed in.

“Hmm,” said Karl at last, “I’ve not really developed a full back-story for Oliver. It’ll be difficult.”

In a sudden burst of courage, Richard said, “Karl, I know that no matter how small a character he is, you’ve probably already developed enough of a back-story for him for you to tell me what his favourite flavour of ice-cream is and why.”

There was a moment’s pause before Karl sulkily said, “Clotted-Cream; reminds him of his grandmother.”

“So can you give him a wider role?”

Karl could practically hear the creative juices in Karl’s head flowing in new directions as he said “Well, maybe if I make him get involved in the betrayal of the Swing King, order his execution, but be saved with others when the Death-Wish Sisters bust them all out-”

“Don’t worry,” said Richard, a tentative smile beginning to bloom on his face, “You can think of the details later. For now, let’s get to the final point.”

Karl was dressed exactly as Richard had predicted. He lightly sprayed his neck with some gentlemen’s perfume that an elderly aunt who didn’t know better had bought him for Christmas one year, before making his way into the kitchen.

It was only just bigger than his bathroom. Everything that could be stained was and everything that could be rusted was. A small lamp, clearly designed for the living room, lighted it.

“Ok,” said Richard. He was nearing the end now – he knew it. Just this one last point, and that was it. It would be a struggle, but he could feel practically taste the cup of tea now, practically see the huge Countdown clock on his tiny TV, practically feel Janet snuggling up next to him. He was going to make it.

“Well, do you remember Chapters 117 through 119? Well, of course you do.”

“The point when Frigid Thomas shoots his way out of the motel after the deal with Uncle Fatty goes wrong before being joined by the rest of the Down Street Vagabonds.” Said Karl absently, as a mysterious hissing sound started up.

“Good, well, the Publishers were wondering if perhaps, maybe if we didn’t need a shootout at that point.”

The hissing noise was escalating and turning into a bubbling sound. The rising tension of the noise seemed to mirror the rising tension in Karl’s voice when he said, “They don’t want a shoot out?”

“No.” said Richard.

The bubbling was getting louder now and was being joined by a harsh whistling; Richard fancied it was Karl’s blood boiling in his veins.

“And what did the Publishers,” Karl spat this as a priest might spit the word “Blasphemer”, “What did they suggest I fill the chapters with instead?”

“They were kind of hoping-” Richard realised how squeaky his voice had become and begun again, “They were kind of hoping that Frigid Thomas could maybe solve his problems somewhat more… amicably?”

The noise suddenly cut off. “Kettle’s boiled.” Said Karl, with ice-cold calmness. His anger had seemed to leave him disturbingly serene. Richard knew it was only the eye of the storm. “They want,” resumed Karl, “Frigid Thomas not to shoot his way out and that instead for him to have a nice chat with Uncle Fatty about all their problems? Why do they want this change?” A faint whoosh noise could be heard over Karl’s speech.

“Well,” said Richard. He knew he was playing with matches in a firework factory, but he had no choice. “They said that it wasn’t… quite… reaching the right… audience.”

An explosion of hissing and crackling sprung up at the precise same moment that Karl unleashed a torrent of curses. “Those incompetent, artless hacks! Have they even read the book, or indeed any book!? Don’t they know how the impact of that gunfight brings the whole second act of the book together?! Of course they haven’t read it! They’ve seen a chapter by chapter summary spewed up by one of their nubile secretaries and gone through it piece by piece deciding which bits would appeal to which target audience to land the greatest net gain before bumbling of the go play golf with their other spineless cretins and chat about how many people they’ve slept with who aren’t their wives in the past week!”

Richard could only find himself silently agreeing with half of what Karl was saying. Gilligan’s Publishing were infamous in the industry for their bumbling incompetence but normally the fact that they didn’t really read what they published could be worked to Richard’s advantage. Not this time though. Occasionally they got it into their heads that they needed a firmer business strategy when in truth the way that they published practically anything that was sent to them was the only cause of their wealth, despite of, or possibly because of, the controversy that always surrounded them.

The hissing stopped.

“You still there?” said Richard.

“Yes,” said Karl, “And I’m calm now.” Richard heard the sound of someone biting into a sandwich. “I’m ‘ot ‘angin’ it.” said Karl. He swallowed and then said, “Ketchup, ketchup, can’t have bacon without ketchup… Anyway, as I said, I’m not changing it. Ah! here it is.”

“So, you’re adamant on this?”

Richard was rewarded with the wet raspberry of someone squeezing ketchup out of a bottle. It was Richard’s turn to sigh.

“Very well,” he said. As the noises of Karl wolfing down a bacon sandwich filled Richard’s ears, he looked through the notes he’d made. It was going to be tough, but if this book was ever going to hit the shelves, changes were necessary. Big ones.

Karl finished the bacon sandwich, downed his coffee in one gulp, swore when he realised it was too hot to reasonably drink and, his breakfast finished, headed out into the hall.

“Hmm,” said Richard, “Right then, so, you’re not willing to change the shoot-out?”

Karl put on his two huge black, hobnail boots and began lacing them up. They had belonged to his grandfather, or so his mother had said. “No, I’m not budging.”

“But you are willing to turn Oliver into a more prominent character?”

Karl thought for a long moment as he put on his huge black coat, it’s pockets heavy with the detritus of his day-to-day life. “Well, I suppose I could give it a shot.”

“Good.” Said Richard, relieved, “So we’re even then.”

“What about the bit in the wine cellar?” Karl said as he reached into one of the pockets for his cigarettes and lighters.

“Well,” said Richard, his relief fading slightly, “Personally, I don’t think that it needs cutting down to just part of a chapter. But maybe you could cut it down to say, I dunno, one?”

“Four.”

“Two?”

“Three.”

“Deal,” said Richard, the relief rushing back to him. He could work with this. Sure it would be difficult to convince Gulliver’s, but not impossible. There was a reason he was considered as one of the greatest editors around.

“I’d only do this for you, you know.” Said Karl, a smile creasing one half of his face as he lit the cigarette and drew in deeply.

“No problem,” said Richard, smiling too, “Sorry I have to be such a pain.”

“Don’t worry. If you hadn’t have woken me up, I would have been late.”

“Oh, are you going somewhere?” said Richard, genuinely interested.

“Oh yes, I’ve got a date.” Replied Karl, with more than a hint of pride.

“A date?”

“No need to sound so disbelieving.”

“Sorry. With who?”

“A woman called Mina Darke. She’s an artist. I’m currently writing a short story in which she dies.”

“Ah,” said Richard.

“Yeah, it’s a kind of trade off, you see she’s doing a painting of me dead so, yeah. How’s your story coming along Richard?”

Richard had stacked away the notes on his table and was about to put them into his briefcase. The simple act of politeness given by Karl astonished Richard. “Good Karl, I’ve got to the bit in the windmill now, thanks for asking.” He said, and meant it.

“Good to hear.” Said Karl, and meant it too. There was a very long pause before Karl spoke again, “Well, I don’t like to keep the bromance levels up too high, but, erm…”

“What is it?”

“Well…” Whatever Karl was trying to say it was paining him. “You’re a patient man, and a damn good editor, and, er, I probably shouldn’t have shouted at you and I can be… tense, sometimes, and…”

Richard realised that he was trying to apologise. “No problem.” Was all he said.

“Yes, well, see you around, Richard.”

“See you around, Karl. Good luck on your date.”

“Thanks. Enjoy Countdown with Janet.”

Karl had hung up before Richard could ask him how he knew where he was going, but that was Karl all over, always in need of the last word.

Richard looked up at the clock. Half four. The tea would be hot, Janet would be pleased to see him, and, if the traffic was good, he might just make it home in time for Countdown.

It was, and he did.


Assuming you've made it to the end, thank you. It does me no end of good to know that somebody reads these things. I know that it's hopelessly long-winded and not very interesting, but with any luck I'll get better soon.

Thanks for reading readers. Take care.

A Short Piece: The Wordsmith Apologises

Bleeding coursework! Taking up all my God damn time!

Sorry, hello all. Now, I'm sure you're all sick of me writing what amounts to: "Just another week, please?" on every week, so I thought I'd actually give you something to read. Therefore I've delved into my collections of short stories and puled out something a little different.

It's called: The Wordsmith Apologises. I suppose it's a sort of a monologue for a character who doesn't exist whom I've given the moniker Wordsmith to. It sprouted from an idea I first read in Terry Pratchett's wonderful book Wyrd Sisters that there is a resoundingly true metaphor between the concepts of words and of water. That though some might perceive them as being weak, they can in fact bring down mountains, slice through continents, kill entire armies, or bring joy and happiness to hundreds. It's a metaphor that I found particularly striking and so decided to incorporate into a piece.

In the piece, Wordsmith, a person who is extremely talented at using words to manipulate people and create acts of great good or evil has found himself/herself in a situation that he/she finds that he/she cannot escape from through words alone (or can he/she?). His/her troubles originate from a woman/man (don't they all, eh, men/women?) whom he finds himself/herself in a position with wherein he/she has to apologise.

It's the sort of thing I write with the intention of eventually putting into a piece of literature. I may do that eventually, or perhaps turn it into a poem, it might work better as a poem. For now, it's just a fairly mediocre stand-alone piece.

It's not comedic, it's pretty unpolished, it's probably ludicrously pretentious, and it goes a little something like this:

The Wordsmith Apologises

You know that I have always been a great believer in the power of words.

I have always despised those to whom words are weak and meaningless. Words can change the world. I am fascinated by the way in which a chemical impulse leads to an electrical impulse which in turn leads to the movement of the tongue, lips, larynx and lungs to create susurrations and vibrations in the atmosphere that travel such a short distance in the grand scheme of things but which can break a heart or mend one; that can raise a thousand voices in song or lead young men to die for a cause they don’t believe. Or such impulses could lead to me scratching brief sigils, in which case I could change the hearts and minds of men and for years to come. People in the far future could know what I thought and felt and saw.

Words are soft, yes, like water. But that comparison extends far beyond that. Words are like water; enough of them can change the world. They can break your heart like a sunset on the calm sea. They can bite and pierce like frozen rain. They can take you and swallow you up in their passionate fury. They can bring the mightiest mountain down to dust and sand or teach the dirt to live and breath.

In time, they can change anything.

Almost.

But I know, that some things water cannot wear away. Some things are always renewed. Which is why I know that no matter how many times I whisper that I’m sorry, I cannot change what I have done. So rather than say I’m sorry a thousand times, and hope a thousand droplets form to make a wave that I know can never pull you back, I will say it only once, and hope that the water that rolls down my face is stronger than all the ocean.

I’m sorry.

So, there you have it. A short, not very good piece about a man/woman who I haven't really created yet.

Well, that's all for now, so goodbye.

One More Short One?

My Sincerest apologies, but what started out as a mere one pager is now pushing five pages and I've been doing those five page in and amongst coursework, homework, dog walking, radio presenting and weddings, so it will be as soon as I possibly can make it.

Bye then!