No matter what unwanted beasties life gurgles up, no matter how messily bedraggled the coping mechanisms in this clogged system become, the age old scribe’s dream just won’t crawl under the carpet and be still. Somebody remarked that it was a wonderful skill to have a short time ago, this writing lark; I replied that sometimes it feels more like a curse. I’ve always said there are enough-too-many books in the libraries to not need another one. Lookit, all those cram-packed shelves! Why is your book important, aside from the fact that it’s yours? Does it even have to be in the library, when the local library has been replaced with a BetFred bookies?
Does it need formatting and editing and all that other 'professional' stuff, or are you comfortable enough to fashion it to a certain degree with your own capable hands before flinging it out to the stars like a candle in the wind on a chancing whim, as a tester?
There are times when it dies but it won’t stay flat-dead, like a Hollywood baddie (the dream, that is). Although it’s not exactly a dream, a dream is smacking the woodwork and rippling the side-netting in a world cup final —it’s more like a venture, small mediocre and humble but trimmed with promising glitter.
Listen to this. I met a dude at a literary event last year. He had a wealth of titles laid out before him on a table. I was quite taken back when he said he was a one-man publishing outfit and they were all under his label. In a small mediocre and humble way, he was my dream, him simply standing there with all his books, proud and ready for questions before all his titles. Jamie from Valley Press, if I remember rightly, in Scarborough.
Since that encounter, I’ve never been able to shake the idea of having a litter of my own titles splayed out all over a public surface, and smiling softly when an impressed individual asks who wrote them all.
“Why, me,” I’ll reply,
and all will be well in the world.
How about that.
How about that.