“You’re writing a book?”
“Yup.”
“What’s the point?”
“There isn’t one.”
After
outlining his toaster theory, which Dail felt was vital to understand in order
to see why exactly he was writing a
book, the conversation turned to what the book was about.
“What’s the book about?” inquired
Yosh, Dail’s friend of many years, inquisitively.
“No idea.”
“Ok, who is it about?”
“No-one, at the moment.”
“So it’s going well then?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Many
conversations between Yosh and Dail were similar to this, so much so that they
had it down to a science of sorts. But not the good
“lets-find-out-stuff-about-the-universe-we-live-in” kind of science. This was
more along the lines of the mad “lets-grow-an-ear-on-the-back-of-a-mouse”
science.
“I’ve got
it!” announced Yosh, accompanying himself with a very unprofessional sounding
drum roll on the table they were sat at. “Write it about your experience of
writing a book, but make it read like a novel.”
“You think
I should write a book about a person trying to write a book?”
“Yes! Why
not? It’s brilliant.”
“No, no it
isn’t Yosh. It’s one of the least appealing sounding ideas these think sessions
have produced since we decided it would be a good idea to go into your room at
night, turn on a strobe light and throw dead batteries at each other. No-one
would pay to read a book about a guy writing a book. Even then I would still
need something for the character in the book to write about! What you’ve
managed to achieve here, quite skilfully, yet completely and utterly
accidently, is the literary equivalent of those Russian dolls.”
“Kind of a
Catch 22?”
“Sure, why
not.”
Catch 22,
Dail then realised, sounded like it could be a playground game that kids might
play. It would most likely involve the number twenty-two being written on a
piece of paper, probably A4 (a good size for the sake of visibility from a
distance) and then attached somehow to the weakest member of the group, whilst
the rest of the children then proceeded to chase and, if they were doing it
right, catch the “22” and then win the game by kicking, punching, flicking or
sneezing on (or whatever it was that kids did these days) them.
“Kids can
be such bastards…” murmured Dail, more to himself than as any form of
conversation starter.
“What?”
chimed Yosh. “I couldn’t hear you. You were murmuring to yourself again.”
“Never
mind. I’m off. Going to head home and try find some sort of inspiration.”
“May the
force be with you.”, which was escorted towards Dail with some sort of hand
gesture that mildly resembled a half-hearted wave but which, in some cultures,
was probably regarded as an insult.
