fire. What a book! More like an experience than a book, and a harrowing one at that. But funny, too — Hamsun’s hero trying to sell his blanket and his vest-buttons at the pawnshop, begging the butcher for a bone for his “dog,” checking into jail so he can get a decent night’s sleep, telling his jailers he’s a journalist out on a spree who lost his wallet.
If only I could write a book like that! All else would be forgiven, all my flaws, faults, and foibles would be looked upon as merely the eccentricities of a great writer.
The thing to do was get started right away. I leapt out of bed, pulled on my pants, came downstairs, grabbed my portable manual and went out onto the porch so I wouldn’t disturb anyone. Put a piece of paper in the platen. As usual, I was assailed with procastinatory thoughts: look at those nails! Shocking! Go get a clipper! And while you’re up, how about a cup of coffee? Aren’t you tired? Maybe you should take a shower first? Get dressed, have a little breakfast. But I did what I always do, made a deal with myself: self, I’ll do all those things later, just let me get started first, let me build up a head of steam. Works like a charm. I started typing, trying to tell myself the story of Ruth, how it all went wrong.
That’s how Max found me, typing away furiously, when he came down a couple of hours later in his bathrobe, with a newspaper under his arm. I heard the door slide open behind me.
Shhhhit!
But I had some momentum going, I was in the middle of a train of thought, I didn’t want to turn around. Max’s shadow fell across the page, he sipped his coffee noisily.
“What’s happening, Dave?” he asked me. “Never mind, it’s all too obvious. Writing the great Canadian novel, is that it?”
“Actually, I’m American.”
“Well, the great American Novel-in-Exile, then. Dave,Dave, Dave,” he says, in a downward arpeggio. “When are you ever going to learn? Hey, I just had an idea. You know what you should be doing? You know what you should do starting right now, this morning?”
“No.”
“Write a sitcom pilot. You’re a funny guy, you could do it standing on your head. You know how much those guys make? Three grand a week! You’d make more in a year than you would in a lifetime of writing novels, and that’s if you’re lucky enough to get published, if you’re one of the luckiest, luckiest bastards. Don’t forget what I do for a living.” Max worked for the vast Cosmodemonic Broadcast Corporation as a script development officer (funny job title, I always thought: WEE-DO, WEE-DO, alright, pull over buddy, let’s see your script development licence). He approved or rejected sitcom and drama pilots for a living. “But I wouldn’t be doing you a favour. You should see the type of stuff I get in the mail — it’s unbelievable. It’s not just that the writing’s bad. Half the time I don’t even know what they’re trying to say.”
I knew what he meant. I’d just spent a year and a half reading letters from average Americans, and they were sheer madness.
“Forget it, Max,” I said. “I’m not selling out to TV.”
“Oh, the thoughts of the Great Genius are too lofty, he has no need of mere cash, he doesn’t soil his hands with the handling of filthy lucre. Tell me something, Dave: do you like sex?”
“Naturally.”
“How would you like, for example, to have sex with Leslie Lawson?”
“Sure!”
“Well, you never will, do you realize that?”
“But you said…”
“I know what I said. But that was before she saw what afinancial basket case you are. Don’t you realize men have been showering her with presents, fancy dinners, invitations to spend the weekend on a yacht or private island ever since she turned 16? What do you have to offer her? Nada. You couldn’t even afford to take her out for a hot dog. You don’t have a pot to piss in, you’re on skid row, you’re shipwrecked, you’re a…”
“Alright, alright. Can we change
If only I could write a book like that! All else would be forgiven, all my flaws, faults, and foibles would be looked upon as merely the eccentricities of a great writer.
The thing to do was get started right away. I leapt out of bed, pulled on my pants, came downstairs, grabbed my portable manual and went out onto the porch so I wouldn’t disturb anyone. Put a piece of paper in the platen. As usual, I was assailed with procastinatory thoughts: look at those nails! Shocking! Go get a clipper! And while you’re up, how about a cup of coffee? Aren’t you tired? Maybe you should take a shower first? Get dressed, have a little breakfast. But I did what I always do, made a deal with myself: self, I’ll do all those things later, just let me get started first, let me build up a head of steam. Works like a charm. I started typing, trying to tell myself the story of Ruth, how it all went wrong.
That’s how Max found me, typing away furiously, when he came down a couple of hours later in his bathrobe, with a newspaper under his arm. I heard the door slide open behind me.
Shhhhit!
But I had some momentum going, I was in the middle of a train of thought, I didn’t want to turn around. Max’s shadow fell across the page, he sipped his coffee noisily.
“What’s happening, Dave?” he asked me. “Never mind, it’s all too obvious. Writing the great Canadian novel, is that it?”
“Actually, I’m American.”
“Well, the great American Novel-in-Exile, then. Dave,Dave, Dave,” he says, in a downward arpeggio. “When are you ever going to learn? Hey, I just had an idea. You know what you should be doing? You know what you should do starting right now, this morning?”
“No.”
“Write a sitcom pilot. You’re a funny guy, you could do it standing on your head. You know how much those guys make? Three grand a week! You’d make more in a year than you would in a lifetime of writing novels, and that’s if you’re lucky enough to get published, if you’re one of the luckiest, luckiest bastards. Don’t forget what I do for a living.” Max worked for the vast Cosmodemonic Broadcast Corporation as a script development officer (funny job title, I always thought: WEE-DO, WEE-DO, alright, pull over buddy, let’s see your script development licence). He approved or rejected sitcom and drama pilots for a living. “But I wouldn’t be doing you a favour. You should see the type of stuff I get in the mail — it’s unbelievable. It’s not just that the writing’s bad. Half the time I don’t even know what they’re trying to say.”
I knew what he meant. I’d just spent a year and a half reading letters from average Americans, and they were sheer madness.
“Forget it, Max,” I said. “I’m not selling out to TV.”
“Oh, the thoughts of the Great Genius are too lofty, he has no need of mere cash, he doesn’t soil his hands with the handling of filthy lucre. Tell me something, Dave: do you like sex?”
“Naturally.”
“How would you like, for example, to have sex with Leslie Lawson?”
“Sure!”
“Well, you never will, do you realize that?”
“But you said…”
“I know what I said. But that was before she saw what afinancial basket case you are. Don’t you realize men have been showering her with presents, fancy dinners, invitations to spend the weekend on a yacht or private island ever since she turned 16? What do you have to offer her? Nada. You couldn’t even afford to take her out for a hot dog. You don’t have a pot to piss in, you’re on skid row, you’re shipwrecked, you’re a…”
“Alright, alright. Can we change
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