Author! Author?
by Alasdair McPherson
Genre: Humour
Swearwords: None.
Description: The perils of fame graphically portrayed!
_____________________________________________________________________
“You that author guy?” He was stocky and belligerent and his dog was squat, sitting panting at his feet.
“Er... Yes. I wrote... er... a book...” My dog, Clunie, had slipped out of sight behind my wellies.
“I’ve written a book. But, of course, mine doesn’t get published. Just ponces like you get your stuff in print.” The squat dog pulled his lips back in contempt so I could see the several shades of green staining his teeth.
“Have you tried many publishers?…” Clunie was definitely cowering now and, given half-a-chance, would have raced home leaving me to face things alone: I kept my fist clenched on his lead – even moral support from a craven dog is better than nothing.
“TRIED PUBLISHERS,” he yelled. “No soddin’ point in trying publishers. They just don’t print good books like mine. Just poncy rubbish like yours. Who wants another book about Ancient Greece?”
“My book’s about Ancient Egypt, actually,” I interjected as he paused for breath.
He looked down to make sure that the squat dog was following the argument.
“Greece, Egypt, what’s the difference. Mine’s a proper book about our boys in Afghanistan.”
“Andy McNab books are very popular.” I was shamelessly trying to ingratiate myself.
“Andy soddin’ McNab! What does he know about soldiering? Eh? They were still usin’ bows and arrows when he left the army. My book’s bang up to date.”
“Have you just come back from Afghanistan?” Since he was fifty pounds overweight and thirty years over age, I feared that he would detect a certain irony in my remark.
“What are you on about now? You don’t have to go to Afghanistan to know what’s going on. Don't you never watch telly or read the Sun?”
“Well... I watch a bit of telly.”
“Anyway.” He pulled himself together and gave me what I think was meant to be a friendly smile. “How did you get that rubbish of yours printed? You must have friends in the publishing game.”
“Well, I wrote to several publishers with a summary of the plot and a few chapters to show what I could do.”
“Catch me tellin’ them what my book’s about. They would just pinch my ideas and sell them to some poncy writer with no ideas of his own. I don’t suppose they would pinch your ideas,” he conceded graciously. “No one else is interested in Ancient Greece.”
“Egypt – Ancient Egypt.”
“Whatever. When you’re bang up to date like me you have to be a lot more careful. I’ve heard of guys – ordinary blokes you would meet down the pub – who had ideas like mine: had them pinched. One guy told me he chatted about his plot to a fellow in a suit who visited his local. Six months later it was a film with Tom Cruise in it! Don’t tell me you can trust a publisher.”
He checked that the squat dog was still paying attention. “If some publisher wants my book he’s going to have to guarantee that he won’t steal my ideas.”
“But how can he publish it if he doesn’t know what’s in it?”
“Easy. I have it all worked out. I give the book to you, you give it to your publisher and it’s all settled. Then if someone pinches my ideas I can come round and give you a good kicking.” His merry chuckle made the threat even more menacing.
The squat dog was visibly cheered by the prospect of savaging Clunie while I was getting a kicking.
Clapping me on the shoulder in a friendly fashion, he turned for home
“Meet me here the same time tomorrow and I’ll give you my book. You can read it if you like – it’s a lot better than that rubbish you write about Ancient Greece.”
“Ancient Egypt.” Very quietly!
Swearwords: None.
Description: The perils of fame graphically portrayed!
_____________________________________________________________________
“You that author guy?” He was stocky and belligerent and his dog was squat, sitting panting at his feet.
“Er... Yes. I wrote... er... a book...” My dog, Clunie, had slipped out of sight behind my wellies.
“I’ve written a book. But, of course, mine doesn’t get published. Just ponces like you get your stuff in print.” The squat dog pulled his lips back in contempt so I could see the several shades of green staining his teeth.
“Have you tried many publishers?…” Clunie was definitely cowering now and, given half-a-chance, would have raced home leaving me to face things alone: I kept my fist clenched on his lead – even moral support from a craven dog is better than nothing.
“TRIED PUBLISHERS,” he yelled. “No soddin’ point in trying publishers. They just don’t print good books like mine. Just poncy rubbish like yours. Who wants another book about Ancient Greece?”
“My book’s about Ancient Egypt, actually,” I interjected as he paused for breath.
He looked down to make sure that the squat dog was following the argument.
“Greece, Egypt, what’s the difference. Mine’s a proper book about our boys in Afghanistan.”
“Andy McNab books are very popular.” I was shamelessly trying to ingratiate myself.
“Andy soddin’ McNab! What does he know about soldiering? Eh? They were still usin’ bows and arrows when he left the army. My book’s bang up to date.”
“Have you just come back from Afghanistan?” Since he was fifty pounds overweight and thirty years over age, I feared that he would detect a certain irony in my remark.
“What are you on about now? You don’t have to go to Afghanistan to know what’s going on. Don't you never watch telly or read the Sun?”
“Well... I watch a bit of telly.”
“Anyway.” He pulled himself together and gave me what I think was meant to be a friendly smile. “How did you get that rubbish of yours printed? You must have friends in the publishing game.”
“Well, I wrote to several publishers with a summary of the plot and a few chapters to show what I could do.”
“Catch me tellin’ them what my book’s about. They would just pinch my ideas and sell them to some poncy writer with no ideas of his own. I don’t suppose they would pinch your ideas,” he conceded graciously. “No one else is interested in Ancient Greece.”
“Egypt – Ancient Egypt.”
“Whatever. When you’re bang up to date like me you have to be a lot more careful. I’ve heard of guys – ordinary blokes you would meet down the pub – who had ideas like mine: had them pinched. One guy told me he chatted about his plot to a fellow in a suit who visited his local. Six months later it was a film with Tom Cruise in it! Don’t tell me you can trust a publisher.”
He checked that the squat dog was still paying attention. “If some publisher wants my book he’s going to have to guarantee that he won’t steal my ideas.”
“But how can he publish it if he doesn’t know what’s in it?”
“Easy. I have it all worked out. I give the book to you, you give it to your publisher and it’s all settled. Then if someone pinches my ideas I can come round and give you a good kicking.” His merry chuckle made the threat even more menacing.
The squat dog was visibly cheered by the prospect of savaging Clunie while I was getting a kicking.
Clapping me on the shoulder in a friendly fashion, he turned for home
“Meet me here the same time tomorrow and I’ll give you my book. You can read it if you like – it’s a lot better than that rubbish you write about Ancient Greece.”
“Ancient Egypt.” Very quietly!
About the Author
Originally from Dalmuir, Alasdair McPherson is now retired and living in exile in Lincolnshire.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.
He says he has always wanted to write, but life got in the way until recently. He has already penned two novels and is now trying his hand at short stories.