Why Am I Not A Famous Novelist?

“Words are stupid” Tom Tom Club once said. We only find this to be the case when they’re in the hands of a particular columnist. Which is unfortunate. Read on at you own risk… 

With words so good like what this sentence done, why am I not a famous novelist? I could easily be a fiction superstar like Jane Austin out of Rod, Jane and Freddy, or Linford Christie who did Miss Marple. Here’s my bestest story idea. A bloke gets a mixing desk stuck up his nose. He undergoes a series of dramatic events, like forgetting to buy pet food or not updating his antivirus software. Then in a startling denouement, the mixing desk falls out of his nose and he says, “Oh well, that’s sorted that then”. Clear the shelves, Mrs Bookseller, I’ve got a blockbuster coming out of my brain. I’m going to use powerful words like “nostril” and “nostrils” and “nostril” again.

I’d want there to be a music element to my best-selling novel. Such as that bit in ‘James And The Giant Peach’ where it turns out the massive fruit was Mick Hucknall’s head. Or that bit in ‘Brokeback Mountain’ when they pop to Heaven nightclub with some bewildered sheep. My novel would be like a pop song. It would take three and a half minutes to read, and you’d not be able to understand a bloody word.

There’s never any electronic music in literary fiction. It’s always opera or that music with the big violins that you have to straddle. I’ve read ‘Moby Dick’ 15 times and there isn’t a single chapter on Ulrich Schnauss. It’s a shame because electronic music oozes with narrative. 

Take these opening lines as an example: “You were working as waitress in a cocktail bar / When I met you.” Drama! “Looking from a window above / It’s like a story of love.” Emotions! “Hiya, Barbie. Hi, Ken. You want to go for a ride?” Plastic! Lyricists are brilliant writers, apart from Morrissey who’s one novel ‘List Of The Lost’ was an erratic string of congealed excrement that occasionally formed words, but only if the reader was unlucky.

Steven Spielberg is bound to option the film rights to my book, shoving in some dinosaurs or Tom Hanks for good measure. This is good news, because then I could have a totally techno soundtrack. ‘Trainspotting’ had Underworld and Leftfield. ‘The Beach’ had Underworld and Leftfield. ‘Romeo + Juliet’ didn’t have Underworld and Leftfield, but it might as well have done.

I quite fancy the best-seller lifestyle too. Dressing in pink like Barbara Cartland? Axing my family to bits like Stephen King? It sounds fun. I could sit on my shed roof for a bit and pretend I’m on a writing retreat. I could pop to Staples and buy three Bic pens instead of one. This literary lark is a wild ride.

My only problem with novels is the length. They don’t half dribble on. Many contain more than seven pages (I stopped counting), and for some people this is too long because they have the attention span of a… Hey look! I can make a bum if I squeeze my moobs together! What were we talking about?

Oh yes. Me and my future as a novelist. I’m definitely going to be a, er…what’s the word? They used it in that TV show with the coughing guy and the man from ‘Tiswas’. It’s a kind of shortbread. Millionaire! That’s the word.

Let’s try again. I’m definitely going to be a millionaire, um, wait… what’s that posh word for writers? Arthur? No, that’s not right. Author! That’s the one. Phew. I’m definitely going to be a millionaire author. This writing shizzle is proper hard: good job I don’t write for a magazine or anything. Insert final sentence words here.

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