I call myself a writer. It’s
easier that way.
Some call themselves poets, but
that is for those whose talents with rhyme and meter far exceed my meagre stabs
at verse. Roses are red; violets are blue; flowers are a metaphor; for the unlikelihood
of finding beauty on a garage forecourt at 1am. “Happy Valentine’s babe!”
*Thrusts wilting bouquet in direction of soon to be ex-girlfriend.*
I told you I wasn’t a poet.
There are those that call
themselves lyricists, but here I encounter a similar problem. I can’t construct
a rhyme any deeper than love, dove, glove, splove, nor can I hold a tune. Sure,
neither can Bernie Taupin, but that didn’t stop him from releasing an album. I’m
somewhat heartened by the fact that the best rendition of Rocket Man is the one by William Shatner; it makes you wonder what
magic ingredient Elton John ever imparted.
So I dabble, but I’m not a
lyricist.
Being a playwright seems to
involve equal parts red wine and coffee – I can’t drink either, but in this
case that doesn’t matter. The playwright buys
them, hoping to lubricate the affections of the director, producer and slash or
prima-donna actor, and later keeps his concerns to himself as rehearsals cover
lines he never wrote in scenes he never imagined. The process occurs by
osmosis, the writer is the membrane through which the play flows, but he can
neither claim credit for the result any more than the filter can claim to have
created the tall skinny mocca-whatsit-cino with extra sprinkly bits. It and he
remain essential, perhaps more for what they keep out of the final product than in.
I daresay being a scriptwriter
out in Hollywood is much the same, albeit on a scale that manages to be both
loftier and meaner at the same time. You don’t get CG explosions at the theatre,
and I’ll let you decide which side of the coin that falls on. There’s a thing
called the elevator pitch, when you have no more than thirty seconds to secure
your future career prospects by selling your vision to a bored and listless
executive as he perambulates from one floor to another. A story between the
storeys.
Screenwright or playwright, it’s
the same process writ extra-extra-large. Replace the cabernet and lattes with
cocaine and blowjobs… Once again, do not think the writer will ever be the lucky
recipient.
Perhaps I should avoid LA.
Now, writing novels is far too
much like hard work, which is a shame because novels are all I’m writing these
days. Word counts form the metric by which you live your life. It’s like counting
calories, but in reverse. If I reach another thousand by lunchtime, I can have
an extra hobnob. Extra? I haven’t opened the packet yet. It’s an ongoing battle
against the forces of prevarication and procrastination. You start with high
hopes and grand numbers, and then when you calculate your progress you begin to
revise your estimates. Novels become novellas. Novellas become novelettes, novelettes
possibly become novelillos. Or novelinos. If they sound like the strange
particles they’re investigating at CERN, it’s because they’re a similar size.
If you give up before reaching
five figures, it’s a short story. No-one wants a short story… Well, no, that’s
not quite fair. No-one pays for a
short story.
Sometimes I’ll call myself a
wordsmith. The derivation is quite simple; I open Microsoft Word and stare at various sentences trying to pinpoint places
I can hammer in a recalcitrant adjective without breaking the cadence. Slowly,
words are forged into sentences, sentences welded together into paragraphs,
paragraphs bolted into chapters, and then chapters form the grand and somewhat
mythical components of… something beginning with nov-… should I ever get that
far.
Sometimes I describe myself as a
cunning linguist, but while that may be an expression of a predilection for
wrapping my tongue around complex and somewhat sexual lexical expositions… it’s
more frequently because I can’t resist a filthy innuendo. Writing is sexy,
there’s no denying it. But don’t forget that while sheer volume can be
satisfying, knowing what to do with it is also quite important. I have it on
good authority that both is best. While
my novels might not be as long as some, women have still found much to admire
in my massive (significant pause) vocabulary.
It helps with the Guardian
crossword, at least.
Becoming a writer changes you. I
credit it with the development of an unfortunate nervous tic whenever someone
on the internet tells me “my welcome”, an irrational hatred of greengrocers for
their refusal to emancipate the humble apostrophe, and what I feel is actually
a quite well-founded reticence to engage
with people who use multiple exclamation marks on occasions that do not warrant
it.
Here’s a helpful hint: there are no
occasions that warrant the use of multiple exclamation marks.
I can now hear the actors reading from the script during radio plays. Nothing
so mundane as the rustling of pages, I can sense the queues of words bunching
up as they arrive behind their eyes and form on their tongues. This is
infectious. I’ve ruined The Archers
for you… you can thank me later.
I’m no fun to watch movies with
either, as my running commentary on the tropes and tics of the language of
screen tends to take away much of the suspense and intrigue. I don’t watch
movies for the story anyway; everyone knows there are only seven of the damn
things.
I watch movies for the
slow-motion fist fights and patently ridiculous explosions. Anyone who claims
otherwise is a liar.
Finally, I should write a few
words about procrastination... I should,
but I went and played Minecraft
instead.
Sorry.
