Writing
The Author - James Wright
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Ribbons on James Wright
I met James at a spoken word open mic. Although I was slightly underwhelmed by his performance, his work reminded me of the comedian Dylan Dodds - particularly its self-deprecating style and aura of a man slightly lost in a mundane world. They also both share an unhealthy obsession with McDonalds™ After aborted attempts to write a parody of a holy book and a play taking on mental illness James decided to focus on what he knows best and write a sci-fi novel. He hoped to have the first draft completed in the next four years. |
Selected Poems and Writings:
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SOME SHORT WRITINGS:
Happiness: 18.95
I was at the shops the other day; outraged at the cost of something or other. Whatever it was, I didn’t really need it, but bought it anyway with a grumble. As I paid I brushed away my financial despondency with a “well, you can’t put a price on happiness”.
“18.95” the shop-keeper said.
I was a little taken aback, as I’d already paid for whatever it was I was after. I think it was soap or something. No, that’s not right because you definitely need soap. It must have been something else, maybe a birthday card or something. Anyway, I said “excuse me?” to the guy and he said again “18.95”. A little confused (as usual) I stammered “b-b-but I’ve just paid”. The man gave me what can only be described as a sublime look of patient understanding. It was really quite impressive, as he managed to do it without any hint of condescension. Most people would have fallen at that hurdle. He said again “18.95”.
A moment of silence passed between us, the soap (or whatever it was) in my bag rustling gently as the bag swung by my side. “18.95” he said again, “the price of happiness”.
I paused for a second as my brain processed this new information.
“Is that including VAT?”
He suppressed a chuckle “Obviously, you don’t think the government would let something like that go without tax do you?”
“No, of course not” I thought, feeling foolish... before I saw a way to deflect the attention back to him: “What do you mean the price of happiness is 18.95? How does that work?”
He gave me a knowing smile that could only have been exuded by someone living a life of blissful contentment. “It just does” he replied with a wink “18.95 and you’ll live in a constant state of happiness, for the rest of your life. Something bad happens? No matter. Feeling a bit lost? Not anymore. And imagine the savings you’ll make on wrinkle cream! No more droopy jowls.”
I thought it over for a moment. I mean, it seemed too good to be true. Just 18.95 for eternal happiness? And the wrinkle cream... he was right, aside from the obvious emotional benefits it practically paid for itself. And that’s before you even start to consider how much more popular I’d be if I was always happy. Always at my best.
I asked him one final time to be sure: “Are you seriously saying I can live in constant happiness for the rest of my life? Devoid of worry and anxiety? Never wanting for anything that I don’t have or need? Always smiling, laughing... joking. Just living and existing in a state of utter blissful contentment until I die – surrounded by loved ones, with a smile on my face, safe in the knowledge I’ve lived a full life which I enjoyed every minute of? All for just one payment of 18.95!?”
And he said “Well no, it’s a monthly payment... But everything else is true.”
I thought it over for a moment.
“I think I’ll pass.”
“18.95” the shop-keeper said.
I was a little taken aback, as I’d already paid for whatever it was I was after. I think it was soap or something. No, that’s not right because you definitely need soap. It must have been something else, maybe a birthday card or something. Anyway, I said “excuse me?” to the guy and he said again “18.95”. A little confused (as usual) I stammered “b-b-but I’ve just paid”. The man gave me what can only be described as a sublime look of patient understanding. It was really quite impressive, as he managed to do it without any hint of condescension. Most people would have fallen at that hurdle. He said again “18.95”.
A moment of silence passed between us, the soap (or whatever it was) in my bag rustling gently as the bag swung by my side. “18.95” he said again, “the price of happiness”.
I paused for a second as my brain processed this new information.
“Is that including VAT?”
He suppressed a chuckle “Obviously, you don’t think the government would let something like that go without tax do you?”
“No, of course not” I thought, feeling foolish... before I saw a way to deflect the attention back to him: “What do you mean the price of happiness is 18.95? How does that work?”
He gave me a knowing smile that could only have been exuded by someone living a life of blissful contentment. “It just does” he replied with a wink “18.95 and you’ll live in a constant state of happiness, for the rest of your life. Something bad happens? No matter. Feeling a bit lost? Not anymore. And imagine the savings you’ll make on wrinkle cream! No more droopy jowls.”
I thought it over for a moment. I mean, it seemed too good to be true. Just 18.95 for eternal happiness? And the wrinkle cream... he was right, aside from the obvious emotional benefits it practically paid for itself. And that’s before you even start to consider how much more popular I’d be if I was always happy. Always at my best.
I asked him one final time to be sure: “Are you seriously saying I can live in constant happiness for the rest of my life? Devoid of worry and anxiety? Never wanting for anything that I don’t have or need? Always smiling, laughing... joking. Just living and existing in a state of utter blissful contentment until I die – surrounded by loved ones, with a smile on my face, safe in the knowledge I’ve lived a full life which I enjoyed every minute of? All for just one payment of 18.95!?”
And he said “Well no, it’s a monthly payment... But everything else is true.”
I thought it over for a moment.
“I think I’ll pass.”
The Price of Happiness
The shopkeeper was at work again. He didn’t mind. In fact: he loved it. There was nothing he loved more than serving his customers with a smile. Even on days when bad things happened. He smiled as another happy customer left, but then he noticed that some of the chocolate raisins from the counter were missing.
“He wouldn’t have?” thought the shopkeeper “I was right here... watching. How could anyone be so brazen?” He shook his head with a smile. He must have imagined it. And even if he had, fair play to the guy for getting away with it! It was only one packet after all. And mighty impressive the guy managed it right under his nose! “Better get some more” he thought with a smile. It would be good to stretch his legs, to get out from behind the counter.
He laughed on his way to the back of the shop. He’d just remembered his daughter coming home from school the other day. It’d been a lovely evening. How they’d laughed... before they settled down on the sofa as one big happy family. He’d been pretty hungry but it hadn’t bothered him and they’d watched a film. He tried to remember what it was, but couldn’t recall. It hadn’t made much of an impression.
He was half way to the back when he realised he’d forgotten his keys! He wouldn’t be getting far without those. He smiled as he walked back to the front, past the rice and dried pulses. “Oh Boy!” he thought as he reached the counter and saw, “another customer!” He’d served seventy today and it was getting late. It was a long shift, but he didn’t mind, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. I mean sure he hadn’t made quite enough today to make the rent, but surely tomorrow more would come. Or he could up the prices. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. He smiled as he served the new customer, still thinking about the ridiculousness of the metaphor. “There’s only one proper way really” he said to the man. The man looked back confused. “To skin a cat I mean. It doesn’t make sense when you think about it.”
The man left in a hurry. In fact he left so quickly the shopkeeper didn’t have time to make his usual offer. “Oh well” he thought with a smile “this man might not want to buy happiness, but I’ve already got mine”. And what a happiness it was. Ever since he bought it, life had been unfailingly wonderful!
He laughed again at the memory of his daughter. I mean, sure she was upset, but you should have seen her face! She looked like a clown with all her mascara streaming down her face.
To think it was possible... eternal happiness for just 18.95. Ever since he’d found out he’d been bouncing with glee. Even before he’d bought it. That’s what the man who’d sold it to him in the first place had said “you can tell who’s gona go in for it. They always seem happy from the moment they hear about it.”
And he had been. Unfailingly happy. Even when his father died. Even when his sister had asked him to leave the funeral. He’d just smiled and gone back to his shop.
He unlocked the door to the basement and turned on the light. And just as his foot hit the second step he slipped. Crashing down onto the boxes of Doritos, beef jerky and light-bulbs he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head. He noticed his vision was fading as the blood began to seep.
He smiled as he realised...
“Titanic!” that was it!
“He wouldn’t have?” thought the shopkeeper “I was right here... watching. How could anyone be so brazen?” He shook his head with a smile. He must have imagined it. And even if he had, fair play to the guy for getting away with it! It was only one packet after all. And mighty impressive the guy managed it right under his nose! “Better get some more” he thought with a smile. It would be good to stretch his legs, to get out from behind the counter.
He laughed on his way to the back of the shop. He’d just remembered his daughter coming home from school the other day. It’d been a lovely evening. How they’d laughed... before they settled down on the sofa as one big happy family. He’d been pretty hungry but it hadn’t bothered him and they’d watched a film. He tried to remember what it was, but couldn’t recall. It hadn’t made much of an impression.
He was half way to the back when he realised he’d forgotten his keys! He wouldn’t be getting far without those. He smiled as he walked back to the front, past the rice and dried pulses. “Oh Boy!” he thought as he reached the counter and saw, “another customer!” He’d served seventy today and it was getting late. It was a long shift, but he didn’t mind, he couldn’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be. I mean sure he hadn’t made quite enough today to make the rent, but surely tomorrow more would come. Or he could up the prices. There’s more than one way to skin a cat. He smiled as he served the new customer, still thinking about the ridiculousness of the metaphor. “There’s only one proper way really” he said to the man. The man looked back confused. “To skin a cat I mean. It doesn’t make sense when you think about it.”
The man left in a hurry. In fact he left so quickly the shopkeeper didn’t have time to make his usual offer. “Oh well” he thought with a smile “this man might not want to buy happiness, but I’ve already got mine”. And what a happiness it was. Ever since he bought it, life had been unfailingly wonderful!
He laughed again at the memory of his daughter. I mean, sure she was upset, but you should have seen her face! She looked like a clown with all her mascara streaming down her face.
To think it was possible... eternal happiness for just 18.95. Ever since he’d found out he’d been bouncing with glee. Even before he’d bought it. That’s what the man who’d sold it to him in the first place had said “you can tell who’s gona go in for it. They always seem happy from the moment they hear about it.”
And he had been. Unfailingly happy. Even when his father died. Even when his sister had asked him to leave the funeral. He’d just smiled and gone back to his shop.
He unlocked the door to the basement and turned on the light. And just as his foot hit the second step he slipped. Crashing down onto the boxes of Doritos, beef jerky and light-bulbs he felt a sharp pain on the back of his head. He noticed his vision was fading as the blood began to seep.
He smiled as he realised...
“Titanic!” that was it!
Dave Ja Vu
Dave blinked.
Dave looked in his rear view mirror.
Dave was on the way to work again.
“Huh, déjà vu” he thought, as his new neighbour put their cat out for the hundredth time. He was so busy thinking this he didn’t notice the lights had changed. He always seemed to get stuck at them. No matter when he left the house they always seemed to be red. Just his luck to live in a flat so close to a red light!
It did come in handy when he needed to cross the road... but that usually was only late at night when there were less cars anyway. He didn’t go out late for anything seedy; just to get a drink from the offy. Usually when the screeching from the cat next door became too much.
He finally noticed the lights had changed and put his handbrake down. Suddenly a car going the other way swerved right in front of him and crashed into one of the traffic lights. They must have been avoiding the cat. His heart pounding, Dave sat in shock for a minute as onlookers rushed to help the driver.
He was about to get out the car when he saw that one of the rubber-neckers had already got out their phone and started calling the authorities. “Well there’s nothing I can really add here... I’d probably just make things more complicated if I tried to help” he reasoned with himself. Plus he was already late for work. He began to pull away when he noticed the lights had turned red again. “Bugger” he thought.
Twenty minutes later Dave reached the train-station. He was locking his car when he had the sense again. “Deja Vu” he thought as he saw the way the tree leaves were reflecting in his car window mirror. After a moment he hurried over to the car park ticket machine only for John to pip him to the post. John was always getting one over on him, ever since school.
John put his money in the machine and pressed the button. He was taking ages. Dave just watched helplessly as John stood there with his finger on the button. “Come on mate” said Dave, “you know I’ve got to get the train.” John didn’t answer. “Typical John...” thought Dave as he glanced at his watch and stormed off to the station. He’d have to chance a ticket.
Sitting on the platform Dave cursed under his breath as he waited for the next train. Now he’d be even later! When the train finally pulled in he shuffled on and stood with the other sardines. As he struggled to reach for his phone in his pocket (without elbowing people too much) he had the sense again. Deja Vu. Only this time he had that sort of double Deja Vu. Where him thinking “Deja Vu” also felt like a déjà vu. He grabbed hold of the handrail to steady himself and suddenly the carriage came screeching to a halt, bodies tumbling around him. The sudden weight lurched him forward too, but he managed to keep his grip and the back of his head stopped inches from the pane of glass separating the standing and seating section.
The lights flickered back on and a voice came over the tannoy: “Errm, OK, wow, ladies and err gentleman, sorry for the abrupt stop. It appears the train ahead of us has derailed. I have been instructed to pull us back to the last station where you will be able to seek medical attention or continue your journey by another means. Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience caused. Hopefully this will be dealt with swiftly and not too many people are hurt.”
Dave and all the other people helped each other off the train. There didn’t seem to be anyone too badly hurt – at least not as badly hurt as those on the train in front must have been. Dave finally liberated his phone from his pocket “what a strange day” he thought.
He absentmindedly scrolled through the news as he headed back across the platform to find a replacement bus service. His pace quickened and his heart pounded once more as he read the headlines:
Hundreds Hurt and Many Feared Dead as Train Derails
Man and Cat Dead in Road Accident
Man Electrocuted to Death in Freak Ticket Machine Incident
“It could have been me” he thought, as the horror of his realisation sank in, “any of these could have been me. But for the Deja Vu...”
Just then he tripped on his shoelace and fell on his back on the tracks. He felt the tracks rumbling. “No” thought Dave “not like this...” A train whistle blew. “I wish I could go back and start over” Dave thought as he closed his eyes.
Dave blinked.
Dave looked in his rear view mirror.
Dave was on the way to work again.
Dave looked in his rear view mirror.
Dave was on the way to work again.
“Huh, déjà vu” he thought, as his new neighbour put their cat out for the hundredth time. He was so busy thinking this he didn’t notice the lights had changed. He always seemed to get stuck at them. No matter when he left the house they always seemed to be red. Just his luck to live in a flat so close to a red light!
It did come in handy when he needed to cross the road... but that usually was only late at night when there were less cars anyway. He didn’t go out late for anything seedy; just to get a drink from the offy. Usually when the screeching from the cat next door became too much.
He finally noticed the lights had changed and put his handbrake down. Suddenly a car going the other way swerved right in front of him and crashed into one of the traffic lights. They must have been avoiding the cat. His heart pounding, Dave sat in shock for a minute as onlookers rushed to help the driver.
He was about to get out the car when he saw that one of the rubber-neckers had already got out their phone and started calling the authorities. “Well there’s nothing I can really add here... I’d probably just make things more complicated if I tried to help” he reasoned with himself. Plus he was already late for work. He began to pull away when he noticed the lights had turned red again. “Bugger” he thought.
Twenty minutes later Dave reached the train-station. He was locking his car when he had the sense again. “Deja Vu” he thought as he saw the way the tree leaves were reflecting in his car window mirror. After a moment he hurried over to the car park ticket machine only for John to pip him to the post. John was always getting one over on him, ever since school.
John put his money in the machine and pressed the button. He was taking ages. Dave just watched helplessly as John stood there with his finger on the button. “Come on mate” said Dave, “you know I’ve got to get the train.” John didn’t answer. “Typical John...” thought Dave as he glanced at his watch and stormed off to the station. He’d have to chance a ticket.
Sitting on the platform Dave cursed under his breath as he waited for the next train. Now he’d be even later! When the train finally pulled in he shuffled on and stood with the other sardines. As he struggled to reach for his phone in his pocket (without elbowing people too much) he had the sense again. Deja Vu. Only this time he had that sort of double Deja Vu. Where him thinking “Deja Vu” also felt like a déjà vu. He grabbed hold of the handrail to steady himself and suddenly the carriage came screeching to a halt, bodies tumbling around him. The sudden weight lurched him forward too, but he managed to keep his grip and the back of his head stopped inches from the pane of glass separating the standing and seating section.
The lights flickered back on and a voice came over the tannoy: “Errm, OK, wow, ladies and err gentleman, sorry for the abrupt stop. It appears the train ahead of us has derailed. I have been instructed to pull us back to the last station where you will be able to seek medical attention or continue your journey by another means. Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience caused. Hopefully this will be dealt with swiftly and not too many people are hurt.”
Dave and all the other people helped each other off the train. There didn’t seem to be anyone too badly hurt – at least not as badly hurt as those on the train in front must have been. Dave finally liberated his phone from his pocket “what a strange day” he thought.
He absentmindedly scrolled through the news as he headed back across the platform to find a replacement bus service. His pace quickened and his heart pounded once more as he read the headlines:
Hundreds Hurt and Many Feared Dead as Train Derails
Man and Cat Dead in Road Accident
Man Electrocuted to Death in Freak Ticket Machine Incident
“It could have been me” he thought, as the horror of his realisation sank in, “any of these could have been me. But for the Deja Vu...”
Just then he tripped on his shoelace and fell on his back on the tracks. He felt the tracks rumbling. “No” thought Dave “not like this...” A train whistle blew. “I wish I could go back and start over” Dave thought as he closed his eyes.
Dave blinked.
Dave looked in his rear view mirror.
Dave was on the way to work again.
My entry to the P. G. Wodehouse New Comic Writer Award 2015
P. G. Wodehouse sat at his typewriter.
“I’ve got to write something” he thought. He glanced askance at the clock. Two fifteen... too early for a tea break, and in any case he’d had nine today already. Even for a man as gargantuan as him that was enough to set off the shakes. He sipped some brandy to steady himself. He stared at the blank page, his thoughts mulling in his brain like a thick broth dripped over cotton wool. “Maybe I could replace the ribbon again?” he stared forlornly at the discarded ribbons on the floor...
“Come on P.G. Wodehouse, think!” he said to himself “what are words made of?” - he thought in response. Excitement gripped him as he felt the answer within his grasp. He looked down at the typewriter and saw his hands. Then he saw what was beneath his hands. “Of course... letters!”
But which letters? He had so many to choose from. He took another sip of brandy. “Blast it I’m running out of time...” he would never win the prize now, it was slipping away, but he had to win! There was only one man who could. The name of the award made it clear: P. G. Wodehouse. He jumped up and emitted a sharp whining cry, reminiscent of the noise a cat makes after having its tail trodden on. (He would know, he’d stood on enough cat tails in his time). “Ulrika!” he shouted “WORDS AND LETTERS”. Knocking over his collection of pencils, 2B, HB, even the 5H, he scrabbled to type his thoughts down before they disappeared into the ether - like pencils falling off a table.
“P. G. Wodehouse” he typed. Nailed it. What an opener. Starting with a name was a great idea whether writing a story or a letter. It’s an easy way to introduce a character for the former and the perfect way to introduce yourself for a letter. But then was he pandering to his audience? He didn’t like to do that. P. G. Wodehouse chuckled to himself. “Yes” he thought as he typed, “they’d like that, it is after all a comedy writing award”. He looked at what he had written “P. G. Wodehouse doesn’t pander to his audience, in fact he hardly ever eats bamboo in front of them.”
P. G. Wodehouse sat back and contemplated what he’d written. Suddenly he tore off the sheet in a rage and stormed around the room, pausing only briefly to high five the stuffed bear he kept next to the waste paper basket. “Pure shit!” he cursed through his chipped teeth and chapped lips. His exclamation brought forth a vision of his mother. “Don’t swear P.G.” she said “we named you parental guidance for a reason”. But that wasn’t his name any more, and his parents were dead! But boy could he do with some guidance right now...
He thought of a better time as he bent to pick up his pencils. He thought of his mother, her heaving milk jugs swaying as she carried them back from the cow shed. He briefly broke from his imaginings to wonder why he had so many pencils when he used a typewriter, but was soon away again. An image of himself as a child came rushing back to him, shooting at coconuts at the local fete, playing with the local girls, fish in bags, candy floss in mouths, the time he fell off the dodgems. And his mother was there again, bandaging his knee and kissing it better with sticky candy floss lips. “Write what you know P.G.” she whispered. And he knew he’d finally cracked it. He cracked his knuckles and typed:
“P.G. Wodehouse sat at his typewriter.”
“I’ve got to write something” he thought. He glanced askance at the clock. Two fifteen... too early for a tea break, and in any case he’d had nine today already. Even for a man as gargantuan as him that was enough to set off the shakes. He sipped some brandy to steady himself. He stared at the blank page, his thoughts mulling in his brain like a thick broth dripped over cotton wool. “Maybe I could replace the ribbon again?” he stared forlornly at the discarded ribbons on the floor...
“Come on P.G. Wodehouse, think!” he said to himself “what are words made of?” - he thought in response. Excitement gripped him as he felt the answer within his grasp. He looked down at the typewriter and saw his hands. Then he saw what was beneath his hands. “Of course... letters!”
But which letters? He had so many to choose from. He took another sip of brandy. “Blast it I’m running out of time...” he would never win the prize now, it was slipping away, but he had to win! There was only one man who could. The name of the award made it clear: P. G. Wodehouse. He jumped up and emitted a sharp whining cry, reminiscent of the noise a cat makes after having its tail trodden on. (He would know, he’d stood on enough cat tails in his time). “Ulrika!” he shouted “WORDS AND LETTERS”. Knocking over his collection of pencils, 2B, HB, even the 5H, he scrabbled to type his thoughts down before they disappeared into the ether - like pencils falling off a table.
“P. G. Wodehouse” he typed. Nailed it. What an opener. Starting with a name was a great idea whether writing a story or a letter. It’s an easy way to introduce a character for the former and the perfect way to introduce yourself for a letter. But then was he pandering to his audience? He didn’t like to do that. P. G. Wodehouse chuckled to himself. “Yes” he thought as he typed, “they’d like that, it is after all a comedy writing award”. He looked at what he had written “P. G. Wodehouse doesn’t pander to his audience, in fact he hardly ever eats bamboo in front of them.”
P. G. Wodehouse sat back and contemplated what he’d written. Suddenly he tore off the sheet in a rage and stormed around the room, pausing only briefly to high five the stuffed bear he kept next to the waste paper basket. “Pure shit!” he cursed through his chipped teeth and chapped lips. His exclamation brought forth a vision of his mother. “Don’t swear P.G.” she said “we named you parental guidance for a reason”. But that wasn’t his name any more, and his parents were dead! But boy could he do with some guidance right now...
He thought of a better time as he bent to pick up his pencils. He thought of his mother, her heaving milk jugs swaying as she carried them back from the cow shed. He briefly broke from his imaginings to wonder why he had so many pencils when he used a typewriter, but was soon away again. An image of himself as a child came rushing back to him, shooting at coconuts at the local fete, playing with the local girls, fish in bags, candy floss in mouths, the time he fell off the dodgems. And his mother was there again, bandaging his knee and kissing it better with sticky candy floss lips. “Write what you know P.G.” she whispered. And he knew he’d finally cracked it. He cracked his knuckles and typed:
“P.G. Wodehouse sat at his typewriter.”