This week’s task: Weave a tale about a writer (real or fictional).
Carstairs awoke in a cold sweat. In his mind, the word epiphany bounced from side to side.
“I know what I’m to do with my life,” he heard himself say.
He lay there a moment allowing the thoughts to congeal in his brain.
“I’m going to be a writer,” he said, a smile wide on his face.
He thought to himself it couldn’t be all that hard. The newsagent had shelves stacked with books. Obviously, people wrote them, and it had to be something anyone could do.
He’d read a book once, one his teacher said he had to read in order to pass his exam. He found it boring, hard work and poorly written. He tried to remember the title, something about Pride and something else by an English woman who lived as a single woman her whole life. If that was literature, he was in with a real show.
The only piece of advice he remembered about writing was to write about what you knew.
Carstairs knew a lot.
The story of his life would be interesting and engaging he knew. After all, he’d lived a full life.
He thought of the people in his life. Miss Hudders, his primary school teacher with the heaving bosom which frightened more boys than excited them.
Mr Archers his high school Maths teacher who had an unfortunate stammer and took an eternity to explain most complex Maths problems.
Tom Hall the University lecturer who spent far too much time on the sordid details of each novel they were supposed to read.
And his working life, after failing at most things Carstairs had found success in the kitchen of the local meals on wheels as the chief bottle washer.
He could see it all before him, the pages of his life, the fame and fortune this would bring him.
That morning he set off on his writing journey. He wrote non-stop for a week. He detailed his life in minute detail from the day of his birth.
Within ten days he had written fifty thousand words and believing it was close to a masterpiece he decided to seek the opinion of a publisher.
Now Carstairs knew very little about writing, and so much of what he wrote was from his heart, written in all sincerity, the true tale of his life.
What Carstairs didn’t count on was the cruelty of publishers. He received feedback, thanking him for sending in his manuscript but the publisher was blunt and said it was poorly written and maybe Carstairs could spend his time more wisely attending writing classes.
“One bad review,” thought Carstairs, “what does this guy know anyway?”
So, he forged ahead, writing about his marriages, all three of them, each ending acrimoniously and in his opinion never his fault. He was misunderstood he argued.
A week later he tried again this time to another publisher. Same response. He tried again and again. By the fifth publisher words like, infantile, immature, ignorant and lacking in an understanding of modern grammar began to cast doubts in his mind.
Then he read an article on self- publishing!