by Tara Basi
“I thought you said there’d be no beatings.”
“Get a notebook, start taking notes, don’t come back till it’s full.”
At mid-morning break I headed round to the Post Office, Sweets and Chips Emporium.
“Mr Singh, I want the thinnest, smallest note book you’ve got.”
“Here boy, 25p.”
I studied the little blue spiral notebook carefully. It was about the size of a pack of playing cards and certainly small but perhaps a little on the thick side.
“It’s very nice Mr Singh, but I wanted something just like this but thinner.”
“It cost extra.”
“No problem, I’ll pay you out of my royalties.”
“What you king of?”
“No, I mean when my books sell in their millions, I’ll pay you.”
“No pay, no notebook.”
“I’ve got 50p, but it has to be half the number of pages.”
“Give me 50p, good.” Mr Singh then turned his back to me, bent over and there was a lot grunting followed by ripping noise.
“Here, extra special 50p deluxe executive super slim notebook.”
I left the shop and began writing straight-away. It was really quite easy, Bobby was absolutely right, as usual. By the afternoon it was full. I borrowed a pair of sunglasses from Tiny Tim. He’d started wearing them in the belief they would make him invisible to the Power 3. Their obvious failure to do anything of the sort meant he was quite happy for me to have them for a while. I fumbled my way across the dark playground in the pouring rain to find Bobby. He was flat-up against the church wall trying to shelter under the gutter from the downpour. I joined him.
“It’s full,” I said triumphantly handing the notebook over in its protective plastic bag for Bobby to study.
Bowing over the little book he carefully flicked through the pages, slowly at first and then going faster and faster. Finished, he pinched it between thumb and forefinger as though it was a little smelly, dropped my notebook into its bag and handed it to me. He sighed, shook his head and, without saying a word, pressed his whole body as flat as he could against the church wall.
“What?” I said rather plaintively.
“Read the first couple of sentences out loud,” was Bobby’s dull response.
“I walked back to the playground it was 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10,11,12…215 steps. I walked to the toilet, it was 1,2,3,4…”
“Stop, for the love of literature, just stop.”
“Look, I need help Bobby, I’m just not getting this writing thing.”
“Indeed you don’t and indeed you do. Let me think about it, we’ll talk tomorrow. Meanwhile burn your notebook and eat the ashes.”
“Ugh, is that what writers do?”
“It’s what they should do when they write rubbish. I think you’ll need to get used to the taste of ashes.’
Bobby could have warned me about the metal spiral bit, it burnt my tongue. It would all be worth it in the end as long as the end arrived soon, otherwise I might just stick with the F1 driver idea.
The next day I came to school with a pair of mum’s old sunglasses. They were a little on the big side and I’d had to use a couple of elastic bands to keep them on, but they’d do for my literary conversations.
“I’ve given your lack of any talent a great deal of thought,” said Bobby. “It seems obvious to me now that someone with your skill deficiencies and ambitions of becoming a great writer should join a writers group. There your ambition will flourish or die, but whichever at least it will be quick.”
“What do you mean, I’ve got talents? I bet this writers’ group is gonna love my stuff, when I write some,” I answered with some indignation. My agent wasn’t being very encouraging.
“Oh dear, exactly what I mean. If they like it then you know it’s rubbish. Unless they throw up, fall asleep or stare at you in complete incomprehension you’re never going to be a successful writer.”
“I can do that, that’s exactly the sort of stuff I’m going to write,” I grumbled, getting a little annoyed with my agent.
“Not straight away, just play along the first night so you get to know what utter mediocrity is like and then write the complete opposite,” Bobby explained.
“Right, so how do I get started?”
“Go and see Mr Dicklightly at the Klutzy Boffo Bookshop.”
No one normal went to the bookshop. Fortunately for Mr Dicklightly lots of not quite normal people lived on our island, so he was just as busy as Mr Singh who was right next door, which was handy for me.
“Looking for anything particular little boy? We have an excellent range of books on exploring adolescent male sexuality. I’d be happy to help you find something suitable,” Mr Dicklightly said with a slight lisp that made him sound as if he was trying to sing everything he said. He was the first adult I’d ever met who’d offered me any sort of help with sex. When the writing thing was sorted out I’d talk to him about that.
“Nice of you to offer Mr Dicklightly, but I’m here about your writing group. I’d like to come along, if I could. I’m qualified; I’ve eaten my first writer’s notebook.”
Mr Dicklightly turned his back on me and kind of shuddered all over for a moment, before turning back with big wet eyes and a huge smile.
“Of course. We meet at 8pm on Wednesdays, here in the shop,” he sang, but he must have noticed the disappointed look on my face. He added, “That’s probably way too late for you, right? No matter. Do us good to shake up the group. We’ve been meeting at 8pm for twenty years. From now on its 5:30pm. See you on Wednesday.”
Dot on 5:30pm on Wednesday I was standing outside the darkened bookshop, wondering if I’d got it all wrong, when I saw a flicker of light way in the back. Mr Dicklightly suddenly opened the door, grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. He stepped outside, looked right and left, closed the door and leaned back against it. He gave me a big wet-lips smile, which was a little strange, but I also felt quite proud to be joining what was obviously a very exclusive secret society.
Then I met the others.
My little group of fellow writers were huddled around the table that normally held the bookshop’s special offer of 13 books for the price of 12. Now cleared of books the table had a big bunch of candles in the centre, which was probably pretty dangerous in a shop full of books, but I suppose as writers we had to live on the edge. There were no other lights and in the gloom all the tall bookshelves seemed to be leaning over the table and wobbling about. Sitting around the table was Mr Singh, Mrs Bucket, the island’s only midwife, Mr Flash who owned the photo shop and a tall skinny guy I’d never seen before.
“Isn’t it great that everyone could make the new time, especially at such short notice?” Mr Dicklightly said in his song-song voice, without looking particularly happy everyone had turned up.
“He’s just a snooty kid, you said we’d be getting some new talent,” Mr Flash grumbled rather unkindly.
“I know him. He can hardly read, gets all the prices wrong, only interested in top shelf. Not proper writer, like us,” Mr Singh added, making me think I’d be boycotting the Post Office for a couple of hours tomorrow.
“Give the boy a chance. We’ll give him a couple of sessions and if he’s crap we’ll kick him out. Fair enough son?” Mrs Bucket suggested.
I thought, Wow, I’ll meet Bobby’s criteria for success in just two sessions.
“Sure Mrs Bucket, very fair,” I replied confidently, knowing I was only one session away from literary greatness.
“Are we going to get started, I’ve got a delivery on hold and it won’t wait forever,” Mrs Bucket added.
“He’s cute,” the pale lanky one said, leaving me wondering who he was talking about.
“Ignore them all Terry, I’m sure you’ll be just fine and you’ll be coming to these sessions for years and years to come. Remember what you all said about Mr Singh when he joined this year,” Mr Dicklightly retorted, “and now he’s our best avant-garde poet.�
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Mr Flash and Mrs Bucket responded with odd throaty noises and Mr Singh smiled broadly and sat up very straight.
“And this is my um, nephew, just visiting,” Mr Dicklightly added, nodding his head at the skinny man. “Right, let’s get this show on the road,”
Everyone began pulling out great bundles of paper, writing pads and an array of pens from under the table. Mr Dicklightly looked at me with big wide eyes and rubbed a hand over an empty seat right next to him.
That’s nice, I thought, he’s warming it up for me. I sat down, opened my satchel and took out my school notebook and two pencils. I jumped a bit when everyone took out torches as well. Suddenly our little space was crisscrossed with beams of light. It looked a bit like those old pictures of the Blitz.
“As usual we’ll start with a little exercise before the readings. Write down the one word which best describes your greatest fear,” Mr Dicklightly instructed then he stared at the ceiling as though in deepest thought, pen poised over paper.
“I need two, is that OK?” I asked gingerly.
“What, OK, sure, use two little boy,” Mr Dicklightly kindly agreed.
“If he’s getting two, then I’ll have some more,” Mrs Bucket insisted.
“For goodness sake, one sentence then, alright, now just get on with it.”
Everyone went quiet and seemed to be thinking really hard, wrote a bit, scratched it out, started again. After about ten minutes everyone seemed to be finished.
“Right, let’s start with the new boy,” Mr Dicklightly announced unexpectedly.
“Power 3.”
“How unusual, it’s something I might have expected from someone older, fear of electricity tariffs. Obviously prices have been going up and people are naturally concerned. That’s very wise of you, very deep. You could ask your parents about switching to gas? Who’s next, Mrs Bucket?”
“Alien birth.”
“God yes, absolutely, ugh,” I couldn’t help shouting out before anyone else could speak. “It could eat your whole face off or spray acid everywhere, you’re good.” I was starting to think the writing quality was great. It was confirmed when Mr Singh read his utterly brilliant new poem. I copied it down to show Bobby what I was up against:
My Sikh Cat
My cat name would be special
And get me noticed and show I had style.
Psst psst, over here Puddy Katty,
But that was very naughty in Punjabi.
The name of my cat became Tigger
And he lived long and got a lot bigger.
Psst psst, come over here Tigger,
But ignored me unless it got dinner.
© Mr Singh! (Film rights, musicals as well.)
Later, when I read him the poem, Bobby wasn’t as impressed as I thought he was going to be.
“What a waste of paper,” was all Bobby said, and let it drop from his hands as though Mr Singh had used something very unpleasant to write with. I managed to catch it before it landed in a puddle.
I looked at the paper, puzzled. Mr Singh had filled a whole blank page with his little poem. “Is that normal Bobby, only having one poem per page, even if it’s really short?”
“That is the literary convention. Why?”
“I’ve decided I’m going to be poet and write a brilliant collection of short, very short, poems. How many do I need for a collection?”
“You’re not wearing your author sunglasses, you’re cheating. Oh, never mind, but just this once. Ten poems should do it, but there should be a common theme, something like death, love or…”
“Aliens?”
“Aliens. Immigration, refugees, ‘Stranger in a Strange Land’, hmm. Yes, an interesting idea. Terry, I think you’re finally getting it. Do one, take it along to your next writers session and hopefully they’ll throw you out.”
Wednesday couldn’t come around soon enough. All I’d needed was a kick start, poems about aliens, and me and my pencil went into a scribbling frenzy. By the weekend I’d written over 372 poems. Admittedly most were utter rubbish, consisting mainly of rhythmic screaming but I was sure I’d find my ten gems amongst the dross. I tried out one of my better ones on Mum: she said it was the most horrible thing she’d ever heard, so I knew I’d hit writing gold.
Come Wednesday I was outside the bookshop at 5:15pm clutching three of my masterpieces, more than enough for them to see I was completely out of their league.
“My you are keen, and what a lovely sweater,” Mr Dicklightly said, running his hands lightly over my shoulder, which was a little bit creepy. “So soft. Is that an Isle of Mule seaweed green and butter yellow pattern?”
“I think that’s vomit. Don’t worry the sweater’s clean and everything, Mum just couldn’t get the stain completely out,” I added quickly as Mr Dicklightly jerked his hand away.
Mr Dicklightly’s skinny nephew had gone home, it seemed, and been replaced by a skinnier Chinese boy, who apparently was another of Mr Dicklightly’s nephews. The new nephew didn’t stay, he just gave me a funny look, spun on his heels really quickly and snapped his head like he was doing ballet or something and shot off somewhere upstairs. Everyone else turned up quite soon after and we all gathered around the gloomy candle lit table. My hands were getting all sweaty at the thought of reading. I kept rubbing them on my thighs, which Mr Dicklightly seemed to find very entertaining. We started the session as usual with the writing exercise.
“Now, I want you to right down one short sentence about your greatest yearning. Remember, less is more, show don’t tell and no swearing.”
I had to ask Mr Singh what ‘yearning’ meant. He said it was some kind of sewing which sounded right to me.
“A Hasselblad H4D-60 and Angelina Jolie dressed only in cling-film,” was Mr Flash’s breathless answer when Mr Dicklightly asked him to read out what he’d written.
That sounded like swearing to me. I guessed a Hasselblad was some kind of kinky sewing machine, but Mr Dicklightly didn’t throw him out. He only snorted and looked as if someone had let off a particularly smelly one, which they hadn’t. We finished the exercise with me and Mr Singh getting very strange looks from the others after we read out our interesting sewing sentences. Finally it was time to read my poems. I took a few deep breaths, gave my thighs one last rub and read out the first one.
“Alien Lunch by Terry
George’s fat guts everywhere
Under the stairs
Down the loo
Mixed with poo and alien acid too.
Tony’s liver and kidneys been minced up with his balls
For alien paté and space cocktails tall
Tony’s carcass is looking rancid, lonely and not so big now
That his innards are smeared all over the aliens’ ship’s prow.
I saved Madge, shot the alien in its little mouth,
Threw a grenade in its big mouth and it headed south.
The alien is gore wallpaper and not so tough now,
Me and Madge is doing it, kapow.”
I didn’t even have to read my other two gems, ‘Aliens Poo as Well’ and ‘Alien Breakfast’. After the general shouting and faint barfing noises from Mr Flash, Mr Dicklighty led me through the shop and gently shoved me out the door. Before closing it he said one last thing to me.
“You’ve really hurt my feelings you know, you never said you liked girls.”
Next morning, properly attired in my author’s sunglasses, I tracked down Bobby to talk about what had happened.
“I did it! They threw me out. And my poetry collection is ready. Let’s get publishing,” I squealed at Bobby, almost too excited to notice him running away as fast as he could.
Later, when I’d finally managed to corner him, I tried to get some sense out of my agent, but he refused to speak to me. Instead he just handed me a little black envelope and while I was distracted trying to get it open he ran off again. The little letter said.
I enjoyed reading your submission, but this is not the sort of t
hing we are looking for at the moment.
Bobby
Agent to the Stars
I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Fortunately it was a small playground and it didn’t take long for me to corner him again. Every time I tried to talk about publishing my poems, he just gave me another little black envelope and inside was exactly the same letter. We carried on like this till Friday morning and I was about to give up when Bobby unexpectedly handed me a white envelope and didn’t run away.
I enjoyed reading your submission and it is exactly the sort of thing we are looking for.
Bobby
Agent to the Stars
“What does this mean?” I asked of the stationary Bobby, while waving the letter about.
“Your perseverance has paid off. As your official agent we can look for a publisher,” Bobby replied, as though two days of pointless running around hadn’t happened.
“I don’t get it; you never even read my poems, why’d you run off like that?”
“I’m sure you’ve read them, and that’s what’s important. Diet and alien books are both very big markets at the moment. So, an alien diet book should be mega,” Bobby answered, as though he was making any sense. I was too tired to argue I just wanted to get on with the publishing. Writing stuff had taken way too long already and I was getting bored with it, except for making up sex scenes with Madge. I could write a lot more of those.
That very lunchtime Bobby decided he would approach the biggest and only publisher on the island. Mr McFont was the editor of the daily Small Island International Vanity Times, or the VT as we locals called it. Bobby said there was no need for me to come along. It would all be dirty commercial talk. Even though I told Bobby I was very interested in dirty talk, Bobby insisted he had to see Mr McFont alone.
“Great news Terry, McFont is going to publish your poems starting next Saturday. One a day for ten days, and we got a fantastic commercial deal, 1p a word,” Bobby announced when he got back to school, obviously very pleased with himself.