I love reading and writing…
….and
…I’ve always wanted to write a Best Seller. So I’d like to set out for you in a half page, how I go about ‘My Writing’; the when, what, and where?
THE SUMMERHOUSE
When I write, I take the key from under the stairs and make my way across the kitchen through the opening into the conservatory, and out across the patio to the summerhouse in the garden.
It is there that I spend my time writing. I believe I create my most interesting prose when my emotions are at their most active; such as an uplifting or perhaps sad experience, a tragedy in the family or amongst my friends.
Some of my best work has been produced during torturous emotional experiences. Social interaction with interesting people is a catalyst for some of my best writing.
The summerhouse has a helpful ethereal atmosphere. It is there that my very good friend, Bert, spent a lot of his time before I acquired the property soon after his death.
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It is difficult to distil the art of creative writing down to a scientific formula but if I attempted the exercise it would be something along the lines of,
OBSERVATION, MOTIVATION, FRUSTRATION + A LITTLE PERSPIRATION = COMMUNICATION (TO THE READER)
The following scenario is an attempt at ‘finishing the end of a best seller written by the world’s top living author.’ ……………………….
*******
Suddenly the telephone rang.
“Who the hell could it be, at this time?”
Was it Lindsey? Yes, it would be him; wanting to know if the manuscript was ready at long last.
“Overdue more than three months,” he would be sure to say. “You’re all washed up. You’re empty…. You can’t write anymore! Your time is finished. Make way!… Make way! There’s plenty of new young, more vibrant talent out there, ready to take your place.”
I just can’t take it any longer.
The ringing’ ringing’ continued. It went on and on … and on ……. Then silence.
Not a sound.
The silence was different.
Different than before because it had more presence.
God!…. I need a cigarette… The cigarette! The last one! The final smoke! The flame flickering from my lighter lit the room, allowing strange images to dance briefly across the bedroom wall.
Now the blue of the water outside had changed, was changing still. the lake was a deeper shade of blue’ indigo’ almost purple. The moon was moving behind cloud, and was almost completely covered.
It was as if without warning, that the nicotine suddenly began performing it’s magic. My thoughts becoming ever so startlingly clear. or was it the drink from earlier taking effect? Swallowed slowly at first and then a little more quickly. The last few drops gulped’ laced with death. A potent cocktail of liquor and painkillers.
Yes, of course, it comes to me now. I must have been stupid not to see it.
The seven of diamonds.
It had been Lindsey’s doing.
Delivered personally, he would have pushed it under the door, at the dead of night, having crossed the lake by boat, the only access.
This could have been best seller number seven if completed, if I had lived to tell the tale, or finished the tale, or whatever. If, if… if…
Mortality’s end makes it so clear. The seven of diamonds. Each book, each best seller, each a ten carat diamond, each of them earning a fortune.
The water, the water, is so much darker now… Purple.. Black… The Moon… No longer there.
***
Here’s another excerpt of a piece from recent attempts at creative writing; specifically dialogue…
It was raining when he rang the doorbell.
“I need to speak to the vicar,” demanded the handsome black youth. He was all of six feet tall, a dark grey sleeveless tee shirt clinging closely to his upper body.
“I’ll see if I can find Richard for you, he was putting the finishing touches to his sermon in the study just a few minutes ago. Wait here, while I fetch him,” I said pointing to the small oak settle in the hallway.
I had met the young man, Adam only once before when accompanying Richard to the youth fellowship disco night. I remembered him as strikingly good looking. Those dark brown slightly merciless eyes exuding hypnotic animal magnetism.
“What do you want me for Miriam?” Richard asked as I entered the study unannounced.
“Its the young West Indian, Adam. He’s waiting for you in the hall. I think he may have come with the answer you have been waiting for.”
Adam jumped to his feet as Richard entered the hallway. He looked hesitantly at me as though questioning whether it would be permissible to speak openly in my presence.
“Have you anything to tell me Adam? Have you had word?”
“Yes, vicar, the words are: That which does not kill us makes us want to die!”
*****
More of my recent short pieces followed by a short story or too……..
*****
MINI-SAGA
SEX ADDICTION
Thomas always loved to stay out all night. He would often have several liaisons. He was never embarrassed at the noise he made. On returning home in the early hours, he would usually wait until the postman had made his delivery, and then jump through the cat flap.
IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME AGAIN
“Take another deep breath and push a little harder,” advised the wise old woman. The little monster made his entrance and his presence felt, with a great healthy yell; splattered in blood and legs kicking wildly. The brand new father clasped the baby machine, with a firm but loving hug.
HAIKU
‘Portugal summer; sun sparkling Atlantic surf. New California.’
SHORT STORIES
WHAT THE FUTURE MAY HOLD
***
I am horizontal. Lying down, arms outstretched. My head and my shoulders are supported by several pillows. Breathing deeply, with mouth masked, there are two plastic tubes; one coming up obtrusively entering my right nostril whilst the other tucks into an incision on the back of my right hand. My consciousness drifts like a seesaw.
In a lucid moment, I observe in the direct line of my vision a ceiling light. My view is briefly obscured by a face, the kind caring face of a young woman. She is wearing a blue garment and my focus sharpens on a round disc-like shape. The face of a pocket watch, affixed to her tunic by a safety pin just below the collar.
Is she nurse, or angel?
My face, neither smiling nor frowning, has a bland taciturn appearance. I am pale, wrinkled, with dark around eyes deep-set, sunken within a hairless skull, covered parchment-like, with tight stretched skin.
Am I waiting to die?
As routine would have it, since my teens, I wear what for me, is normal bedtime attire, a pair of boxers and a liberal squirt of Pour Homme. Unsurprisingly, the latter has now all but vanished.
The wall behind my bed is painted with an ubiquitous shade of magnolia. A small plain white sign displays my consultant’s name; Mr P Jackson.
My left hand grips a pad with a button to press if I need to summon a member of medical staff. It permeates the faint smell of disinfectant.
As my fogginess dissipates and consciousness returns, I lift my head a few centimetres fractionally to enable me to see beyond the bottom of the bed to a freestanding cabinet. Upon its top surface I see a pair of thin beige-coloured rubber gloves.
Turning my head to the left, I observe a window, and through it, white clouds against a background of the blue of the sky. On the ledge below is a strange pair of old slippers I have not seen before.
****