The Trial

Dear Mr Jenkins,
Thank you for your recent submission to Eagle Editors. I have read your manuscript and I am sorry to say that this is not the kind of subject matter that we normally publish and for this reason we will not be taking this further.

I wish you the best with your literary career in the future, and should you have any further work in the areas of crime fiction or historical insights we would be more than happy to look over these submissions.

Regards

Eileen Eagle (Ms)


Yeah, yeah, always the same these editors. Thank you for this, thank you for that, not quite what we're looking for at the moment. The same old usual bullshit that some work experience girl has diligently typed up. The company probably had a stock letter already held as a template on the office machine; only the names need to be changed. I expect that they send out hundreds of these per day. Bastards.

I took the large brown envelope that had my own address written upon it, in my own handwriting (they even get you to do most of the work for them; the next thing that will surely happen is that prospective authors like myself will need to include a refusal response with our submissions). The pages looked as pristine as they had when I had sent it out. Only the title page had been turned. I slowly removed the page and looked at the opening paragraph. Across the page, in large upper case letters scrawled in red ink, were the words: WHO THE FUCK STARTS A STORY WITH THE WORDS ‘ONCE UPON A TIME’?

I had failed at the first hurdle…

Miserably, it seemed.

Without thinking, I took the package in my hand and made my way out into the garden. To my left was an old barbecue, constructed from an oil drum I had found in a skip at the end of my road. Tossing in the manuscript and the envelope, I searched through my pockets for a box of matches or a lighter. Any self-respecting smoker – of which I was certainly one – would never allow themselves to be left high and dry without recourse to light a cigarette. I found a box of matches in my left pocket, removed them, struck one and let it drift down into the oil drum, igniting the paper that sat at the bottom in a big whoosh of flames and smoke. I watched it burn, the small pieces of paper still in flame caught by the soft wind that traversed the garden and carried away, looking like small fireflies as they dissipated in the early morning air.

Over a cup of steaming coffee, I resolved to sort out the problem of my manuscript not being up-to-scratch. I quickly realised that I did not have an original story and soon after it dawned on me: I would never come up with something that no one had ever written before. I knew what I had to do… I needed to live my novel, to experience it as I wrote. Without this, I would never get beyond the rejection letter. I resolved to do exactly that: live what I wrote, to be a novel myself. If I could experience the sensations that I was trying to describe, this would surely make a better work than the last one. Well, I hoped it would. If I’d had a wife, she would probably have nagged me by now that becoming a published author was likely to be the last thing that would ever happen to me, and if all the writers in the world suddenly died, I would still find myself unable to garner a publishing deal. Oh, along with the rejection letter there was a whole load of bills – electric, gas, and phone. They all come at once these bills, as if the postman has been hoarding them since the beginning of the year and has decided that now he feels like delivering them. It never rains, it only pours and I’m out there without a fucking umbrella, getting soaked to the skin.

I felt like writing all over each bill, the words (in upper case, red pen): WHO THE FUCK STARTS A FINAL DEMAND WITH THE WORDS ‘DEAR CUSTOMER’. I decided that they wouldn’t see the funny side. They had already gotten published, what more did they need to do?

However, my decision to ‘live’ my novel seemed, well it seemed like a novel idea, that’s what. Fucking ay, I was finally on to something. The only thing that I needed now was a plot. I ran upstairs, taking them two at a time – not a good thing for someone in my unfit condition. At the top of the stairs, I paused. My hands went to my knees and I dropped my head as far down as my spine would let me. Once the nausea had passed, I walked at a more sedate pace into the bedroom and began shuffling through drawers that had paper piled up so that it was overflowing. There was so much shit there I had scrawled the word “BOG” on the chest of drawers in one of my more melancholy moments. Now, this wasn’t so much a pile of shit anymore; it was now more like a seam of creativity I could mine for ideas to act out. Then, all I needed to do was write about my experience.

Three hours later, I soon realised that I would either have to be a murder victim or a killer. I had exhausted my supply of storylines and I didn’t have a single thread to follow, to act out in my own time. I did find a packet of cigarettes, which I began puffing my way through as I determined where I would go next in my search for a story to become a best-selling novel worldwide. I didn’t want to be one of those authors that only get used to stuff the shelves of airport shops and newsagents that haven’t seen a customer since rationing ended.

Okay, I’ll admit that either of those places would be a fine establishment to stock my book, if only someone would commission its publication once it was written. And, then it struck me. I would write about writing a novel and getting it published, but with a twist. I would just recount my life to date and soon I would be the name on everyone’s lips. I secretly hoped my knob would be on the lips of all the beautiful women, too, but I’ll save that story for the inevitable sequel.

I lit another cigarette, coughed for a second or twenty, and dug out the typewriter beneath the mound of paper.