Writer

“There is so much corruption in this city of ours,” you whisper to Hot Sue whilst clearing your desk. “I plan to expose it for all it’s worth.” “Good luck!” says Sue. “I don’t need luck,” you reply. “Righteousness is on my side!”

The next day you are sat at home in your office. After an hour the only thing you’ve written is Jane and Bob have a secret garden.’ Your phone rings. “Finished yet?” It’s Trader Alan. “Give us a chance!” you reply. “Fancy an early lunch?” “Shouldn’t really. I’ve only written six words.” “See you at twelve,” he says and hangs up.

“We all have a book inside us,” says Alan, his lips covered in linguini sauce. “I shat my out only the other days.” You sip your wine. “I shouldn’t really be drinking at lunch. It’ll spoil my concentration.” “Nonsense!” blurts Alan. “All the great writers drank at lunch. Hemmingway, Proust, Keith Chegwin. What’s the book about anyway?” “Corruption and murder in the city”. “Well,” says Alan. “As long as it’s got a beginning, two middles and an end you can’t go wrong. Top up?”

That afternoon you doze off in your chair only to get woken by your returning wife. “Where’s my supper?” she asks. “You’re a house husband now.” “I’m a WRITER!” you reply, wiping dribble from your chin. “How many words you written then?” “Six,” you say. “But they fit perfectly together.”

Six months later, after locking yourself away from the world and writing furiously for twelve hours a day, you’re done. You make an appointment with a top publisher and meet at his office.

“We are a little surprised by your work,” he says. “Why is that?” you reply. “Because on every page it simply says, All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy’.” “Oh,” you reply. “Does it? Maybe the isolation took a greater toll than I realised.” “Maybe,” replies the publisher. “But we do think there is a market for this. We want you to come back tomorrow. For now go home, have a shower and a shave, and get some rest. Oh, and Jack?” “Yes,” you reply. “In the meantime, please don’t kill anyone.”