The Definitive Statement About Writing In The Era of Deproffessionalisation (Sic)

Ewan Povey 2013

It was the summer of 2013. If you could call it that. The weather was terrible. I was waiting for a date with a female person, that was due to materialise in a few weeks. Till then it was like watching paint dry. What could possibly be the better of my impatience? I considered volunteering but had no lunch money, maybe to read, but considered it to be a busman's holiday. Then I thought 'Fuck it. I'll write a novel. At least if I set off in that direction I'll have a novella by the end of the day.' I reasoned

It was at that moment that a man walked in with a gun. He was short, slim and still. He had a twinkle in his eye. 'How did you get in here?' I asked 'Oh I took a back door key last time I was here. I thought you knew.' He smirked.

'That's a pretty rotton deal.' I thought, but didn't let on that I was bothered.

'I mean. I'm here to rob you.' He said 'But at least I admit it.'

I must confess that this caused me great anxiety until I realised that he was just giving me material for my novel. Boy oh boy it was sure going to be a thriller.

I sipped a little tea and waited for the man to speak.

'So yeah, I'm going to rob you.' He smirked. 'Are you worried about that?'

I tried to think what I had to steal. No wealth. No wife. I certainly had no virginity of any kind to lose. I wasn't sure what worried me more. The fact that this sinister character was threatening to steal from me or the fact that I had nothing to steal.

'So yeah. I'm going to rob you. But at least I admit it.'

'At least you admit it.' I blankly repeated.

'Yeah I do.' He said with a slight inflection.

At that moment I thought of the song 'Because the Night.' By Patti Smith or Bruce Springsteen or whoever. Of how I used to lift my tee shirt over my head to do impressions of The Boss and how there's that line, 'they can't hurt you now, they can't hurt you now, they can't hurt you nowowowow.'

I settled a little bit, but not so much as to stop this being a thriller. Lets make no mistake about that!

'So I'll be back to rob you, or maybe I already have using some special drug, but you won't know how or when. I'll just leave you in suspense and just generally enjoy the Pavlovian effect of the whole thing.'

At that point a mutual friend walked in. 'Oh I thought that I'd find you two here. Laughing and joking rather than working as usual.'

It was then that I saw that my living room had become the sorting room at work. Amazing what a pen can do.

The man casually put his gun in his bag. 'Oh is that a gun?' The friend asked

'It's a toy one that I'm using to extract a Pavlovian response from the author.'

The friend chuckled and raised his eyebrows. His eyes darted about and then he lowered them, somewhat demurely. 'Do you fancy going for a walk?' He asked. 'Ok.' Said I 'Ok' Said the man with the gun.

Now I'm smart. But Satre is smartre. And I always try to remember that despite being French, his written English grammer was almost certainly better than mine, or easily could have been if he tried. So it is with some trepidation that I launch into the following inquiry. Is the man with a gun real or is he a metaphor? If he is a metaphor, is he a metaphor for something or someone real?

At this point I stopped to make coffee and ring my mum to tell her what a splendid job I was doing of writing this novel and how the trick to being a writer is to go to bed at dusk and get up at dawn. But this was getting boring so the man walked in with a gun.

'Are you coming to book group this week?' He asked, his eyebrows some what arched and his head oddly tilted.

It is at this point that I should say that I am constantly plagued with the fear that people have been in my house. I often have dreams about unlocked, or unlockable doors. So the man with the gun is not new to me. Though his face may be. The basic thread of a stranger intruding in my space is as old as the hills.

'No. Probably not..' I said 'Oh...Really...Why not?' The man asked with just the right amount of innocence...

And yeah well this prompted a couple of years of innocent fencing between us both. But yeah. The man with the gun is getting boring.

Let me tall you about the woman I love. She has tatoos. She's super smart. Tough. Funny. Loving. She's friends with the man with the gun. But nobodies perfect.

Its at this point that we should discuss writers block. In this instance I'm feeling blocked cos I've reached the limit of how much that I want to reveal. Ok so lets put my cards on the table in this fictional game with few rules. I have played my aces low and have managed an 11 card trick. Something my father said was impossible. My father. Bless his cotton socks as my granny would say. Could I be more passive aggressive? I hope not. I was certainly trying to be passive aggressive. But cmon now. This isn't a misery memoir, this is a novel.

It was at that moment that a man walked in with a raging ego.

He proceeded to imply that I was venal (I had to look that one up) that I was an unreconstructed racist, sexist, homophobe. Whatever. He then made some pseudopsychological insinuations about my psychological relationship with my father, bless his cotton socks. I invited him to take a second shot, but he sort of played to the gallery and told me and everyone in earshot how he planned such verbal assaults in advance. He said all this only in a general sense. Between friends you understand.

I took several sips of coffee and glanced over at Facebook. It sat staring at me all blue and white. It was powered by a P.C. that had belonged to another writer. A writer who had loved ice cream...

I scream, cry and laugh all at the same time sometimes. Hysterically and yet they cannot cure me with a hysterectomy for I have no womb.

Boy this is becoming gloomy.

It was at that moment that a photo of me with a top British comedian walked into the room. It demanded to know what I had done with all that promise and vigour that I had showed in my youth.

This gave me pause for thought. A moments silence broken only by the various noises in and around me.

Called mum to tell her that its all very bargain basement Joyceian. She told me, quite rightly, that I was unlikely to achieve a novel in a day. I said that I thought that the point was to see what I could get written and then call it what you will.

She said 'Good. Get on with it then.'

The gas fire hissed pleasantly beside me. He may well become my constant writing companion, I thought.

I just then thought how culture is always an assault on the same ever changing citidel in the sky. In the ground. Where ever we as a tribe or individual want to be. Culture's central question is desire. Does one particle desire another? Probably. Unless there are string theories attached.

I thought about going back back and reading what I had so far written. I said in my head, 'No Young Warrior. That way lies a cowards death. Plunge into the million strong army and kill their commander!'

I sipped some coffee. I consciously saved some as I knew I was not ready for a changing of the guard. Coffeewise that is.

How to translate coffeewise into Cantonese? I guess you start with 'regarding coffee related matters.' and take it from there.

I'm probably only making this harder to translate, but in all likelihood the only translator I will ever have is Google so why worry. But I do worry. What is a writer without a publisher or a movie deal?

My mate Tom says that I'm like an octopus and that a spine would be a hindrance. I think that he knows me better than almost anybody.

Coffee

Its sort of somewhere within the hypotenuse of Hemingway, Joyce and Harry Hill's T.V. Burp.

The writer chuckles

The feedback from one of his first assessed pieces of writing had compared it to Harry Hill without the jokes

But you know its interesting. The link between the sexual act for men, and childbirth for women, over whether one has been published or had a movie deal. You know, it all speaks to potency and fecundity

The writer sought for the man with the gun, but he wasn't there. He was out there sure enough. In nature. Bold as brass. Like a fox in the back garden.

Time to make coffee.

Its Time To Change they say. However if I write too much about mental health will I be pigeon holed as such? I think likely so.

I look at the picture of my niece and nephew. Cheeky pair that they are. I also am cheeky. It is one of my most enduring, infuriating and endearing habits, when it isn't sunk beneath earnestness and unhappiness.

The writer looked for someone to walk through the door but no one did.

Perhaps he would have to get naked.

Again

Don't you think you've pulled that stunt enough now?

I'm not so much aiming for a stream of consciousness as a canal of consciousness. This is between Leeds and Liverpool. The rest of youse stay out of it.