I Hate Martin Amis et al. by Peter Barry Page B

day.
    Martin Luther King had a dream, but these kids had dreams that would dwarf anything he ever had. His dreams would never have got a look in at my playground. When I was at school I had my dream too, but it was a realistic one, or so I thought – and that’s what made me different to today’s kids. I wanted to be a writer. Not a writer of best sellers or literary masterpieces, just a published writer. My mother was the one who did my dreaming for me most of my life, certainly early on when she had the same dreams as I did, before she got suckered in by my father.
    â€˜How’s that book of yours coming along?’ she asked when I visited home last summer. She’s always been good like that, remembering things about people, looking as if she was taking an interest in their lives. Maybe she’s genuine, I don’t know. There’s certainly a part of her that still hopes I’m going to make something of my life, although I suspect it’s in a field other than writing.
    I told her I’d finished it.
    â€˜Will someone publish it, do you think?’
    â€˜I expect so. That’s the only reason I’ve written it.’
    â€˜That’s wonderful.’
    The way she carefully put down the dish she was holding and turned to look at me, surprise on her face, made me elaborate a little. I didn’t want to disappoint. ‘There are one or two publishers interested.’ It seemed a reasonable embellishment.
    â€˜That’s wonderful news, Milan.’ She was such a book lover, she probably had a soft spot for authors too, or that’s what I told myself.
    â€˜There could be a bidding war, you know.’ Sometimes I can’t help myself. She looked puzzled, so I elaborated. ‘It’s like an auction. Publishers bid against each other to obtain the rights to your book.’
    â€˜I always knew you’d be a success.’ And she picked up another dish to dry.
    No, you didn’t, I thought.
    Of course my father couldn’t stay out of it. I should have known he’d be listening. He butted in from behind his newspaper. ‘He hasn’t done it yet. Don’t count your chickens.’
    â€˜But if there are several publishers interested … ‘
    â€˜Two. He said two.’
    â€˜But two publishers, don’t you think that’s a good sign?’
    I wouldn’t have bothered. I’m used to him and his buckets of cold water. He’s been doing that to me all my life.
    â€˜From what I’ve heard, they’re bastards, the lot of them.’ My father continued to demolish my mother’s dreams, her dreams for me. ‘Anyway, how can someone write about life when they’ve never experienced it? What’s he ever done with his life? You tell me what he’s going to write about – cleaning out the school toilets? Polishing the school corridors? Locking the school gates at night? What’s he done that will interest anyone?’
    â€˜It’s a good book, it deserves to be published.’
    â€˜Maybe it does, but I’d have thought you’d be a sight better off with a real job. You’re not going to keep a girl like Bridgette being a janitor.’
    He was spot on there. I was certainly right not to tell them about Bridgette and I splitting up when it happened a few months later. I often wondered why he didn’t make a pass at her himself, he fancied her so much. (And, yes, I’m sure she’d be only too keen to go out with a village newsagent.)
    But I believed what I’d been saying to my parents then, and I believe it now. I invested everything in that book, including three years of my life. It deserved to be published, of that there was no doubt in my mind.
    â€˜One of the publishers is even talking about film rights.’ I don’t know why, but I always lay it on thick when I’m with my parents: they bring it out in me. I suppose it makes me feel good encouraging them