One
In a series of increasingly irritating interludes to the narrative, the author introduces himself and comments upon his incipient creation, along with observations of a trivial and foolish kind.
I believe it was Pasteur who said something along the lines of �Chance favours the well-prepared mind�. Well, in that case, I can expect no great opportunity to befall me, as I am utterly unprepared for the task ahead of me. Fifty thousand words in one month! What a stupid enterprise to enter without a notion in the head as to plot, characterisation, and whatnot. Yet, I am determined to give it a shot. I am, as you may guess, the author* of the following sad story, in which � what? The plot is, so far, nonexistent, the characters a series of mere wisps of the imagination, the scenes in which all shall be played out nothing but speculation. As such, there is clearly a need to, as it were, pad things out a bit, with a digressionary chapter here and an aside there, or the judicious (or not) use of quotes and summaries to head my chapters. Besides, I see no reason why I may not intrude upon the action as I see fit, as and when I want, just as Henry Fielding did in Tom Jones. This is my piece of fiction and I may do with it as I will, and hang the consequences. The consequence, of course, being that no-one is likely to read this (save my aged, future self, cackling over it), but, well, this is meant to be a bit of amusement. Of course, if you�re one of those readers who just wants to get on with the action, you can quite easily avoid these rambles altogether; I feel, however, that you may be missing out � after all, the rambling road is all the more interesting than the motorway.
So here, I present my tale. At the moment, it involves a man in a pub. I don�t know what�s going to happen next; At the moment, he is just sitting there, nursing a pint at around two in the afternoon, wondering what to do next. The location: My home village, in my hometown, namely Emmer Green, in Reading, Berkshire. After all, one of the exhortations to any new novelist is to write about what one knows, and why not start with the pub I know best in the world? And the character�s name? Let us call him Dan. And why write about Reading, of all places? Well, as I said, because I know it; But also, because no-one else ever has written much regarding the place, as far as I�m aware; Hardy calls it Aldbrickham, and is not particularly nice about it; Jerome K. Jerome denigrates it; Defoe praises its wealth; and that�s about it. Of course, the Reading I write about should not be confused with Reading, the real place, just as one should not confuse a fictional character with someone who ostensibly resembles him or her, even though they share the same name, family, clothes, opinions, lovers and so forth. No, the town is as much a character as Dan, even if it is a boring one. This is Reading as a metaphysical place, and yes, I am well aware I can here spluttered laughter erupting from the mouths of any reader who lives in it, or who has had the pleasure of getting lost on its ring road. It is metaphysical inasmuch as any real place can be made representative of other things. It must be said that Reading is about as solid and real a place as you could hope to visit; For that reason, let us try to render it as evanescent as cloud, and the characters that appear in it as solid as the bricks from which the physical place is built.
As the author* of this tale, I�m not sure what�s going to happen next; I am as swept along with all this as you are, so permit me to be not so much the Chorus to this story, as an interested bystander, drifting behind my own creation, recording his every move along the way, using different voices to catch him. That is, of course, if he deigns to move � I�m not sure how much he likes his pint, or lounging in this pub on a sunny afternoon in July, smoke furling in the light from languid cigarettes and an international football match on the TV in the corner. I feel, however, there is some frustration building within him, and that some other shall come along presently. Now, of course, the problem arises: How to present him?
Which narrative style to use? Externally? Let my voice alone guide, present, manipulate and swoop through each character as and when? Perhaps different perspectives: the character seen through the lens of a camera, a layer of smoky fug, a police report, a diary entry, someone�s email, a hastily scribbled note, a lover�s letter, a court summons, a news report. It will immediately be obvious that our hero, and all those others who may appear, will appear to be almost completely different people according to which perspective I, the author*, use. The only way of being certain of whom is being described is from a physical perspective, and that is itself unreliable: I don�t even know what my character looks like yet. So, how about internal monologues? We gain a perspective on the individual�s psyche, but it is a necessarily limited perspective, a view restricted by what the teller of the tale can know, see and feel � and again, it makes our story tenuous. Well then, and how else? Photography? Cartoons? This is an exercise in words, not pictures, so that counts those out. Dialogue solely? Perhaps. Descriptions of coughs, shuffles, movements of hands, gestures, looks? Maybe. Crosswords, acrostics, logic puzzles? Entertaining, possibly.
Merely by writing, as I write, possibilities start queuing up to be counted and used � the whys and wherefores of those phantoms, my characters, rising to feed on the blood of the pen and utter what they must; Different possibilities for writing styles and perspectives parade for my inspection; And the reader � the great Objective Reader, for whom I write � who are you? What would you like to read? How shall I entertain you? Your host I must be; Here is the scene, here the bill of fare; I hope you will be amused and fed, and then go on your way content. And so, let us swing into the scene, and find, for want of a better word, the hero of this book. There he is; His back is to us as we come in the door; In his mid-thirties, although he looks younger, except for the streaks of grey in his hair, which has just begun to thin; Handsome, but haunted, and his face is scowling into his pint; a lit cigarette is in his left hand, and his right holds a pen, and he is scrawling over a crossword. He is arranging some letters in a circle, and then reading them backwards and forwards, side to side, up and down. His circling pen stops, then rapidly he writes seven letters in one of the clues. It says:
* Of course, I may not be the author, but the Author, another layer of characterisation in this story. But then again, that�s for me to know and you to work out, isn�t it? Ha ha ha.*
*In which case, who just wrote this?
Two: At the sign of the White Horse
Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer.
W.B.Yeats
In which our hero, Dan Thompson, ponders his thunderingly tedious life, and seeks escape; Upon which he meets an unexpected friend from the past; They have a drink, then the friend suggests moving on to another bar.
�FUCK OFF�.
�I�m sorry?�
�That�s what I�ve just written. Fuck off. Begone. Go away, you fucking weirdo, and stop staring at me like that�
�Oh..sorry��
And off he fucked, the weirdo. Looked like a scarecrow, with wild hair, staring blue eyes, unshaven and overweight. And he was dressed like a right arse.
I was at the end of my tether. I felt knackered, lost and unwanted. Here I was, thirty-five, and hideously aware of time�s rapidly spinning thread. I was pondering what I�d managed to do up till then with my life, and I didn�t really like any of the answers coming back my way. Sure, I�d been abroad for most of the past decade and had had a blast, but it had been a voluntary exile in many ways: When I�d left, the country had been a total shithole, as was my life. Now, I was back, and here I still was, in my old boozer, with the same faces lining the bar as from before, living the same lives, and me back as though nothing had changed at all. I felt fucking bilious and weary. It seemed to me that my foreign sojourns had been nothing more than an escape, an adventure, a diversion from the dour realities of Reading. What I found even more galling is that they hadn�t had the good sense to leave of decorating the White Horse. Where it used to be liberally caked in crappy old prints, horse brasses, dodgy plates and strange fire implements, and stink of rancid viscera, it was now a place where you would happily bring children. It had decking, complete with large sun umbrellas and heaters. It was open plan. It had sky TV, which was at this point in my tale churning out some international friendly. It had a non-smoking dining area. It even had an aquarium. Actually, the latter wasn�t too bad; When the talk became tedious, I�d have something entertaining to stare at. And here I was, at two on a Friday afternoon in July, drinking beer and failing to do the Bastard Sodding Araucaria crossword in the Guardian (as ever), and wondering what the Hell I should be doing with life. It was a hot day, and it was one of those that seems to simmer with frustration and regret. I had no job, a damp room in a damp house with a couple of damp housemates who worked for a call centre, and I felt like I was going nowhere. Hell, I�d been debating with myself since 8 in the morning whether to go into town and check out the temporary job situation, or write off for some work abroad, or just go and do something different, but no, I ended up back in the good old White Horse again.
I knocked back my drink, then headed to the bar. The fucking weirdo was still there, nursing a pint of bitter and scrawling something in a notebook, and occasionally muttering a word or giggling to himself.
In a series of increasingly irritating interludes to the narrative, the author introduces himself and comments upon his incipient creation, along with observations of a trivial and foolish kind.
I believe it was Pasteur who said something along the lines of �Chance favours the well-prepared mind�. Well, in that case, I can expect no great opportunity to befall me, as I am utterly unprepared for the task ahead of me. Fifty thousand words in one month! What a stupid enterprise to enter without a notion in the head as to plot, characterisation, and whatnot. Yet, I am determined to give it a shot. I am, as you may guess, the author* of the following sad story, in which � what? The plot is, so far, nonexistent, the characters a series of mere wisps of the imagination, the scenes in which all shall be played out nothing but speculation. As such, there is clearly a need to, as it were, pad things out a bit, with a digressionary chapter here and an aside there, or the judicious (or not) use of quotes and summaries to head my chapters. Besides, I see no reason why I may not intrude upon the action as I see fit, as and when I want, just as Henry Fielding did in Tom Jones. This is my piece of fiction and I may do with it as I will, and hang the consequences. The consequence, of course, being that no-one is likely to read this (save my aged, future self, cackling over it), but, well, this is meant to be a bit of amusement. Of course, if you�re one of those readers who just wants to get on with the action, you can quite easily avoid these rambles altogether; I feel, however, that you may be missing out � after all, the rambling road is all the more interesting than the motorway.
So here, I present my tale. At the moment, it involves a man in a pub. I don�t know what�s going to happen next; At the moment, he is just sitting there, nursing a pint at around two in the afternoon, wondering what to do next. The location: My home village, in my hometown, namely Emmer Green, in Reading, Berkshire. After all, one of the exhortations to any new novelist is to write about what one knows, and why not start with the pub I know best in the world? And the character�s name? Let us call him Dan. And why write about Reading, of all places? Well, as I said, because I know it; But also, because no-one else ever has written much regarding the place, as far as I�m aware; Hardy calls it Aldbrickham, and is not particularly nice about it; Jerome K. Jerome denigrates it; Defoe praises its wealth; and that�s about it. Of course, the Reading I write about should not be confused with Reading, the real place, just as one should not confuse a fictional character with someone who ostensibly resembles him or her, even though they share the same name, family, clothes, opinions, lovers and so forth. No, the town is as much a character as Dan, even if it is a boring one. This is Reading as a metaphysical place, and yes, I am well aware I can here spluttered laughter erupting from the mouths of any reader who lives in it, or who has had the pleasure of getting lost on its ring road. It is metaphysical inasmuch as any real place can be made representative of other things. It must be said that Reading is about as solid and real a place as you could hope to visit; For that reason, let us try to render it as evanescent as cloud, and the characters that appear in it as solid as the bricks from which the physical place is built.
As the author* of this tale, I�m not sure what�s going to happen next; I am as swept along with all this as you are, so permit me to be not so much the Chorus to this story, as an interested bystander, drifting behind my own creation, recording his every move along the way, using different voices to catch him. That is, of course, if he deigns to move � I�m not sure how much he likes his pint, or lounging in this pub on a sunny afternoon in July, smoke furling in the light from languid cigarettes and an international football match on the TV in the corner. I feel, however, there is some frustration building within him, and that some other shall come along presently. Now, of course, the problem arises: How to present him?
Which narrative style to use? Externally? Let my voice alone guide, present, manipulate and swoop through each character as and when? Perhaps different perspectives: the character seen through the lens of a camera, a layer of smoky fug, a police report, a diary entry, someone�s email, a hastily scribbled note, a lover�s letter, a court summons, a news report. It will immediately be obvious that our hero, and all those others who may appear, will appear to be almost completely different people according to which perspective I, the author*, use. The only way of being certain of whom is being described is from a physical perspective, and that is itself unreliable: I don�t even know what my character looks like yet. So, how about internal monologues? We gain a perspective on the individual�s psyche, but it is a necessarily limited perspective, a view restricted by what the teller of the tale can know, see and feel � and again, it makes our story tenuous. Well then, and how else? Photography? Cartoons? This is an exercise in words, not pictures, so that counts those out. Dialogue solely? Perhaps. Descriptions of coughs, shuffles, movements of hands, gestures, looks? Maybe. Crosswords, acrostics, logic puzzles? Entertaining, possibly.
Merely by writing, as I write, possibilities start queuing up to be counted and used � the whys and wherefores of those phantoms, my characters, rising to feed on the blood of the pen and utter what they must; Different possibilities for writing styles and perspectives parade for my inspection; And the reader � the great Objective Reader, for whom I write � who are you? What would you like to read? How shall I entertain you? Your host I must be; Here is the scene, here the bill of fare; I hope you will be amused and fed, and then go on your way content. And so, let us swing into the scene, and find, for want of a better word, the hero of this book. There he is; His back is to us as we come in the door; In his mid-thirties, although he looks younger, except for the streaks of grey in his hair, which has just begun to thin; Handsome, but haunted, and his face is scowling into his pint; a lit cigarette is in his left hand, and his right holds a pen, and he is scrawling over a crossword. He is arranging some letters in a circle, and then reading them backwards and forwards, side to side, up and down. His circling pen stops, then rapidly he writes seven letters in one of the clues. It says:
* Of course, I may not be the author, but the Author, another layer of characterisation in this story. But then again, that�s for me to know and you to work out, isn�t it? Ha ha ha.*
*In which case, who just wrote this?
Two: At the sign of the White Horse
Turning and turning in the widening gyre, the falcon cannot hear the falconer.
W.B.Yeats
In which our hero, Dan Thompson, ponders his thunderingly tedious life, and seeks escape; Upon which he meets an unexpected friend from the past; They have a drink, then the friend suggests moving on to another bar.
�FUCK OFF�.
�I�m sorry?�
�That�s what I�ve just written. Fuck off. Begone. Go away, you fucking weirdo, and stop staring at me like that�
�Oh..sorry��
And off he fucked, the weirdo. Looked like a scarecrow, with wild hair, staring blue eyes, unshaven and overweight. And he was dressed like a right arse.
I was at the end of my tether. I felt knackered, lost and unwanted. Here I was, thirty-five, and hideously aware of time�s rapidly spinning thread. I was pondering what I�d managed to do up till then with my life, and I didn�t really like any of the answers coming back my way. Sure, I�d been abroad for most of the past decade and had had a blast, but it had been a voluntary exile in many ways: When I�d left, the country had been a total shithole, as was my life. Now, I was back, and here I still was, in my old boozer, with the same faces lining the bar as from before, living the same lives, and me back as though nothing had changed at all. I felt fucking bilious and weary. It seemed to me that my foreign sojourns had been nothing more than an escape, an adventure, a diversion from the dour realities of Reading. What I found even more galling is that they hadn�t had the good sense to leave of decorating the White Horse. Where it used to be liberally caked in crappy old prints, horse brasses, dodgy plates and strange fire implements, and stink of rancid viscera, it was now a place where you would happily bring children. It had decking, complete with large sun umbrellas and heaters. It was open plan. It had sky TV, which was at this point in my tale churning out some international friendly. It had a non-smoking dining area. It even had an aquarium. Actually, the latter wasn�t too bad; When the talk became tedious, I�d have something entertaining to stare at. And here I was, at two on a Friday afternoon in July, drinking beer and failing to do the Bastard Sodding Araucaria crossword in the Guardian (as ever), and wondering what the Hell I should be doing with life. It was a hot day, and it was one of those that seems to simmer with frustration and regret. I had no job, a damp room in a damp house with a couple of damp housemates who worked for a call centre, and I felt like I was going nowhere. Hell, I�d been debating with myself since 8 in the morning whether to go into town and check out the temporary job situation, or write off for some work abroad, or just go and do something different, but no, I ended up back in the good old White Horse again.
I knocked back my drink, then headed to the bar. The fucking weirdo was still there, nursing a pint of bitter and scrawling something in a notebook, and occasionally muttering a word or giggling to himself.
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