The Writer
By Andy Marlow
Copyright 2011 Andy Marlow
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The Writer
“Jim? Jim, where are you?”
Trudy had come home from work early, expecting to find her husband waiting for her as usual with a gift of tea and biscuits. Instead she had found the house deserted; no, more than that: it looked ransacked, as if someone had broken in and burgled them.
Nobody had, though. She knew that because she had found the house like this before and she knew what had happened.
“Jim, come out, please. I’m not angry.”
She walked into the dining room to see papers strewn all over the floor and a chair lying on its side. Patiently she picked it up and put it back in its place.
“Jim, I know you’re in here. Just stop hiding and we can talk. I know something’s up.”
Her husband did not reply; yet his presence was betrayed by the steady rocking to and fro of the armchair in the corner. As she moved closer, she could see the tip of his toes poking out from the side.
She sighed. He was meant to be a grown man, not a child, and here she was having to play hide and seek with him and threaten him with childish punishments.
“Jim!” she called, suddenly stern. “I know you’re there. I’ll give you until the count of three to come out. One. Two. Thr-”
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” he flustered, and swiftly poked his head up from behind the chair. “What is it, woman?”
“The house. That’s what it is. Have you seen the state of it?” she lamented. “Well of course you have, because I’m guessing you’re the one who made it like that.”
Jim stayed behind the chair, almost sulking. He was a grown man of thirty with the red-raw skin of one who spent his life outdoors (which was strange, because he didn’t) and the stubble of someone who either hasn’t the time or money to shave. His wild eyes stared out at his wife manically with a gaze that would have suited a mad scientist.
Except he wasn’t a mad scientist. He was a struggling, failing writer.
“So tell me,” his wife said, sitting on the armchair so that his chin rested on her scalp, “what happened this time? Another book flopped?”
He looked down at her ashamedly. “Yes,” he admitted. “Nobody’s bought it. Absolutely nobody, and it’s been two weeks.”
Finally he came out from behind the chair and sat on his wife’s lap. “I’ve had it, Trudy. I’ve had it up to here with rejections and failure and hope. Hope is the worst. You spend all night looking forward to checking the stats in the morning to see how many books have sold- one? Two? Three? And then, every time, you look and it’s- zero. Absolute zero. Nil. Non. Zero.”
“There, there,” comforted Trudy. “It’s not like you’re a complete failure.”
The words struck Jim like a barb. He wasn’t a complete failure. He was a failure, sure, but not a complete failure.
“Two sales, yes,” he wailed. “I’ve been writing for ten months now and- two sales! I’ve earned a measly two dollars from my whole career!”
“You’ve just got to give it time,” she cooed softly. “You’ll get there.”
And she believed it. Part of her was annoyed that she had become the sole breadwinner for the house after Jim had given up his job in construction to become a full-time independent author, but the greater part of her had complete faith in her husband. After all, she had been the reason he had given it a go in the first place.
It had all begun ten months ago when on a bored afternoon, Jim had penned a short tale about Jumbo the Rhinoceros. It had been nothing serious but when Trudy saw it, she had thought it was amazing. Sure, the plot was simple, but the prose, the descriptions, the choice of words- it was almost poetic. She thought so, anyway.
Ten months down the line, he was the proud author of ten different titles. And they were popular enough. The free ones had enjoyed hundreds of downloads. Yet as soon as he attached a price to them- nothing. The market would dry up and go elsewhere to look for more free stories, while he was left wondering whether his books were any good at all.
“It’s, it’s like I’m still waiting for my train,” he mused in frustration. “I’ve been given this ticket and told this train will come, but it isn’t here. It isn’t coming. And I’m not even sure it will but the mere chance that it might, and the fact that everyone around me tells me the ticket is genuine, well, it keeps me waiting here. And this platform is a Hell of doubt and confusion but I can’t walk away, I just can’t. It’s like I’m addicted, like gambling.”
Trudy didn’t know what to say. Sometimes words are unnecessary, though, and make communication too cumbersome; this was such a time. So she simply began stroking her husband’s ear and that was enough. He began to calm down.
“Thanks, dear,” he said. “And sorry about the mess. I’ll, er, clean up soon. Now, in fact.”
“Good. You know you don’t need to take out your rage on the house.”
“I know. I’ll try next time.”
With that, she exited into the kitchen and he began to pick up the papers lying on the carpet.
“Maybe I should go back into construction,” he mused.
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