I Am Writer

“Me?” I say, leaning back and raising my chin to make myself appear more impressive. “Well, I’m a writer.”

I’ve told this story before, to varying results. Sometimes it falls short of the mark. ‘A writer’ -The term is ambiguous. Any fool can pick up a pen and scrawl some words, but it takes real genius to turn those words into art.

Thankfully, I’ve had plenty of practice. The delivery was perfect, and their interest is piqued. Good. Their innocuous probing has unearthed a gem of potential fascination. One leans forward, his eyes bright with wonder.

“Oh wow,” he says, “have you published?”

Oh. That.

“Well, uh, I kinda... I’ve been...” I clear my throat and start again. “Only recently have I felt that my work is ready for the public eye... or rather, that the public eye is ready for my work. In fact, I have publishers looking at something as we speak.”

“Really? So it’s a sure thing, then?”

“Well, I like to think so. I haven’t heard anything yet, but any day now, I’m sure.”

“Far out,” someone says. Then there’s a silence; no one can think of anything to say. After a few seconds, someone changes the subject.

“So Michael, are you still with Jen?”

I sit through the rest of it with one eye on the clock. Their lack of interest is disturbing, and they’ll regret it when I’m famous. They’ll look back on this day and think, ‘wow, I had lunch with that guy once, but I blew him off’.

The conversation eventually moves to the weather, and we all go our separate ways. To be honest, I’m glad. I had gotten the call at ten and thought ‘why not’. Catch up with old friends? Eat some good food? Sounds good to me.

Unfortunately, it wasted my time. And time is money, so they wasted that too. My time is precious, and it could have been better spent doing what I do best: writing. Without further ado, I head home.

My home is where the magic happens. Once I’m in the zone, I’m a writing machine. Sometimes I amaze even myself, and ask, ‘how do I do it’? Everyone has their own way of weaving their wonders. Some people prefer the flow of pen on parchment, and some the rustic charm of the typewriter. I, however, rather the cold, hard speed and utter freedom that a computer brings. Only the computer can keep up with my imagination – anything else just slows me down.

When I get home I go straight to the computer. After about an hour, I sit back and examine my masterpiece. Every single word is bursting with meaning and wonder, and skimming over them makes me smile. I check the word count. It’s only one hundred and twenty words, but they’re good words. I save it to my ‘fertilisation folder’. I’ll leave it there, where the seed will sprout, and the roots will spread. By the time I come back to it, it’ll be ready to flower.

Satisfied, I look for something else to amuse me. I settle for leaving online reviews on popular books. The world needs my input.

You’d think that with all the reviewing I do in my day job, I’d avoid doing it in my free time. Hardly. The at-home reviewing is the only kind I like, because when I’m at home, I take off the mask. At work, I have to make up fanciful little lies to stick on shelves to push a struggling novel, and all the while there’s a voice at the back of my mind screaming ‘I can do better’.

After a bit of browsing, I leave a scathing seven word review on Twilight.

‘Nothing happens in this book. Especially editing.’

And I call it a day. I go to bed with a smile on my face. That’ll teach her.



The next day, it’s back to the slave-drive. Books don’t shelve themselves, no matter how much I wish they would. Unfortunately, it’s unavoidable. I have to keep it up until I make my big break.

The store I work in is two stories tall, and is filled to the walls with stories. Romance, Fantasy, tales of little boys who want some more. Everything. None of these are mine, though. Not yet.

Due to the size of the place, it’s easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around. I seem to spend half the day pointing people in the right direction. The other half always seems to be spent answering questions like ‘Do you have any books by Sherlock Holmes?’, or ‘I’m looking for The Complete Works Of Edgar Allen Poe, but I don’t know who it’s by. Can you help me?’. It’s a wonder I get anything done at all.

Every day has its distractions, and today’s has come in the form of a pair of off-the-street girls. The kind who walk past and think, ‘oh look, a book shop! Let’s browse and not buy!’

They’re a few aisles over from me, but their nasal whines are too piercing to be ignored. Their conversation is chaotic at best, going from complaints about the weather to accusations of cheating boyfriends in a heartbeat. It’s hard to follow, but it’s not like I have anything better to do (well, apart from my stacking, but I can multitask). As one concludes that she’s going to get that bitch Stacey back for what she’s done, she flings the book back onto the shelf. It’s in the wrong place, I can tell. Probably damaged, too. Like I don’t have enough work to do.

I started working at a bookstore so that I could surround myself with literary giants - my soon-to-be peers - not so that I could clean up after angsty teens.

No, instead of clinking intellectual glasses with Chaucer, Shakespeare, and Dickens, I’m stuck here listening to vapid vixens vexing; venerating vague vendettas and vehement verdicts. Verily, vexatious vixens’ vile, vulgar vignettes v-

Whoa.

I pause. Did I just think that? That was brilliant! It might just be my ticket to the big time! I drop the books I was shelving, and fumble in my pocket for a pen. Okay, check. Now for some paper...

I look around. I feel as though I’m stranded on a desert island of my brilliance. My mind thirsts for paper, and I’m surrounded by it – but I can’t write on any of it. Thousands and thousands of books, but their pages are filled with other people’s words. All those useless, useless words, taking up space that could be better filled with my newest creation. I’d be doing them a favour by gracing their tired pages with my own brand of genius, but I doubt my boss would see it that way.

On the shelf next to me is a small slip of paper that reads “Max’s pick”. It’s one of my reviews. I reach for it, but I soon think better of it. People need my input, even if it’s forced. Instead, I rush to the bathroom, pen in hand. I attract a few strange looks from the girls, but I don’t care. I won’t look so silly when I’m on the cover of magazines for my V alliteration. Bursting through the door, I open a cubicle and unroll a length of toilet paper. Hardly the most elegant of media, but beggars can’t be choosers..

Leaning against the lid of the toilet, I start to scrawl out my masterpiece. Halfway through I realise I’m struggling to remember the words. Crap. Was it vehement? Maybe. What came after that then?

I sigh, and slide down onto the seat. Once again, I’ve fallen victim to ‘literary premature ejaculation’. It’s a shame - it was good too.

And, now that I think about it, vaguely familiar.

Oh, that’s right. Last month, I had to do a store-review of something from the graphic novel section. I chose Alan Moore’s V For Vendetta. Damn. He beat me to it.

Defeated, I flush the ink stained paper, and head back out to finish the stacking. The girls have left, so I work in silence. After a few minutes of monotonous and particularly soulless stacking, I find that my heart just isn’t in it. I tell my boss that I’ve fallen ill, and after a few minutes of cursing, he sends me home.

On the way out, I pass a mother and a daughter who have stopped briefly outside the store. The girl picks up an Austen and shows it to her mother. The mother sighs, and wrestles it out of her daughter’s grip and puts it back on the pile.

“Ugh,” she says, “why would you want that? It’s too old. Here, we’ll get you this instead.”

She plucks a copy of Twilight from its display and hands it to her daughter.

“I hear it’s pretty good.”

I say something along the lines of ‘GWUAH’ and storm off.



When I get home, I check the mail. There’s three bills, a letter from my mother, and a large, yellow envelope from Harper-Collins. I rush inside, and throw the first four on the floor as I tear open the latter. It’s been months since I submitted my manuscript, and it looks like they’ve finally decided to take it on.

I hold my breath with anticipation as I pull out the manuscript that I’ve poured years of my life into. How strange. Shouldn’t they keep it for publishing purposes? I flick through it; there are no corrections whatsoever. I’m hardly surprised. The manuscript is flawless.

Double checking the envelope, I find a slip of paper with a very formal looking header. Excellent. I’ll bet they’re just asking for an electronic copy so they can print it right away.

The paper reads:

‘Dear Mr Brown.
Thank you for submitting your manuscript to Harper-Collins. Unfortunately, it does not meet our needs at this time.
Sincerely,
Morgan Roth.’

God damn it, what do they want? I’ve  poured my heart and soul into the thing, re-written the thing dozens of times, and I can’t pick a fault. I sigh, open a drawer in my cabinet, and drop the manuscript inside. I’ll send it out tomorrow, but not to those guys. Not again. They don’t know what they’re missing.

I palm away a rogue tear. Shit. I can’t let it get to me – it’s their fault, not mine. I realise that I’m mumbling obscenities to myself, and stop. I need a distraction.

I sit down at my computer and go to a random book-review site. On the front page, predictably, is Twilight. Ah, why not. I write four possible reviews, each more scathing than the last, before I realise that I have nothing to say.

I can decry her writing as much as I like, but a simple fact remains at the back of my mind.

She is popular, and I am not.

She is published, and I am not.

She is a writer, and I am not.

I bury my head in my hands. It all feels so hopeless. Can I make it? Writing is my life, it always has been. I don’t have anything else.

I see all these books that are rip-roarious success, books that are instant classics, books that are instant favourites. Behind my sneer, I wonder.

Can I really do any better?