regular morninghangovers. There was among certain people, nondrinkers, Kelly suspected, a theory that alcoholics didn’t have hangovers. From extensive personal experience, Kelly did not agree with that. In fact, looking back, his drinking days had been more or less one long hangover, punctuated only by moments of total oblivion.
He put pot, milk bottle and sugar bowl, along with the mug of tea he had already poured and a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits, onto a tray and carried the lot upstairs to his third and smallest bedroom, which he used as an office. Sitting down on his swivel-action black leather chair, he tried to make his body and mind relax as he switched on his computer. Perhaps this would be the morning, the morning when he would finally get it all together, when he would start to write at once and the words would continue to flow effortlessly and smoothly throughout the day.
Kelly took another long drink of the sweet, dark brown tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Writing, of course, was never like that. Not for John Kelly, anyway. It was instead a long drawn-out torture of inactivity. Kelly continued to find that his biggest problem in attempting to write a book was that he found the task ahead of him so overwhelmingly daunting that he barely saw the point in beginning it.
The screen before him shimmered into life and Kelly reached for his mouse, darting the cursor between the various icons before him. The documents containing the little of his book he had so far managed to compile were each called ‘Untitled’. Kelly had never been very good at titles.
He moved the cursor until it settled neatly pointing at ‘Untitled Chapter Three’, and allowed it to rest there for a while. Kelly had written ‘Untitled Chapter One’ in one big glorious rush, within days of quitting his job on the
Argus
four months previously. Filled with enthusiasm for his chosen new career, he’d found that the words had really flowed.
But that seemed like a lifetime ago. His flow had quickly slowed to a dribble. He had struggled through a rough draft of chapter two and then stopped altogether, although only he knew that was as far as he had got. ‘Untitled Chapter Three’ had remained a totally blank new document in his computer for almost three months now. And this was seriously bad news, not least because his bank balance was beginning to look extremely thin.
Kelly had been able to take advantage of a voluntary redundancy scheme operated by the
Argus
, when he had decided he had had enough of journalism. And he had calculated that the money, quite a generous amount for a local paper to offer, could, if he was careful, last him the best part of a year, and that that would, of course, be plenty of time in which to complete his first novel. Which would be an instant best seller. Well, Kelly was too realistic about writing to have ever thought that, but he had been confident enough of his own ability as a professional scribe to believe that he would eventually acquire a publisher for almost any sort of writing that he put his hand to.
Kelly was, however, not naturally careful with money. And although he did not consider himself in any way extravagant, and he probably wasn’t, he seemed to be getting through his pay-off at analarming rate. Certainly, much faster than he had anticipated. Unfortunately, the speed of his writing achievement was not keeping pace at all with his spending. Indeed, not only did it look as if his money was not going to last a year, neither did it look as if a year was going to be nearly long enough for him to complete even the first draft of his novel.
‘Fuck it,’ muttered Kelly.
He flicked the cursor from ‘Untitled Chapter Three’ onto games, selected backgammon, his favourite, and began to play. Situation normal. He dreaded to think how many days of his life he’d totally wasted during these last four months playing computer games.
In the first game, Kelly achieved a
He put pot, milk bottle and sugar bowl, along with the mug of tea he had already poured and a packet of chocolate digestive biscuits, onto a tray and carried the lot upstairs to his third and smallest bedroom, which he used as an office. Sitting down on his swivel-action black leather chair, he tried to make his body and mind relax as he switched on his computer. Perhaps this would be the morning, the morning when he would finally get it all together, when he would start to write at once and the words would continue to flow effortlessly and smoothly throughout the day.
Kelly took another long drink of the sweet, dark brown tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Writing, of course, was never like that. Not for John Kelly, anyway. It was instead a long drawn-out torture of inactivity. Kelly continued to find that his biggest problem in attempting to write a book was that he found the task ahead of him so overwhelmingly daunting that he barely saw the point in beginning it.
The screen before him shimmered into life and Kelly reached for his mouse, darting the cursor between the various icons before him. The documents containing the little of his book he had so far managed to compile were each called ‘Untitled’. Kelly had never been very good at titles.
He moved the cursor until it settled neatly pointing at ‘Untitled Chapter Three’, and allowed it to rest there for a while. Kelly had written ‘Untitled Chapter One’ in one big glorious rush, within days of quitting his job on the
Argus
four months previously. Filled with enthusiasm for his chosen new career, he’d found that the words had really flowed.
But that seemed like a lifetime ago. His flow had quickly slowed to a dribble. He had struggled through a rough draft of chapter two and then stopped altogether, although only he knew that was as far as he had got. ‘Untitled Chapter Three’ had remained a totally blank new document in his computer for almost three months now. And this was seriously bad news, not least because his bank balance was beginning to look extremely thin.
Kelly had been able to take advantage of a voluntary redundancy scheme operated by the
Argus
, when he had decided he had had enough of journalism. And he had calculated that the money, quite a generous amount for a local paper to offer, could, if he was careful, last him the best part of a year, and that that would, of course, be plenty of time in which to complete his first novel. Which would be an instant best seller. Well, Kelly was too realistic about writing to have ever thought that, but he had been confident enough of his own ability as a professional scribe to believe that he would eventually acquire a publisher for almost any sort of writing that he put his hand to.
Kelly was, however, not naturally careful with money. And although he did not consider himself in any way extravagant, and he probably wasn’t, he seemed to be getting through his pay-off at analarming rate. Certainly, much faster than he had anticipated. Unfortunately, the speed of his writing achievement was not keeping pace at all with his spending. Indeed, not only did it look as if his money was not going to last a year, neither did it look as if a year was going to be nearly long enough for him to complete even the first draft of his novel.
‘Fuck it,’ muttered Kelly.
He flicked the cursor from ‘Untitled Chapter Three’ onto games, selected backgammon, his favourite, and began to play. Situation normal. He dreaded to think how many days of his life he’d totally wasted during these last four months playing computer games.
In the first game, Kelly achieved a
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