Preface
This is a work of fiction. The characters and events depicted herein are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person, alive or dead. No part of this book may be reproduced anywhere, in any form, at any time, without the written permission of the author. If you like what you read, please consider leaving a short review on Amazon or Goodreads and supporting other indie authors. Thank you for reading.
“Writing is the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.”
Franz Kafka
Chapter 1
There is nothing more intimidating than a blank page. Not to a writer, anyway.
Joe Dawson wasn't exactly a household name. Very few writers are. But he made more money than he would stacking shelves at the local supermarket (most weeks) and the work was a lot more interesting. As long as he could think of things to write about. That was the hard part. The research and endless hours of writing, re-writing, editing, and sub-editing that followed were painless in comparison.
Sometimes, nothing flowed. The ideas just didn't come. People called it writer's block. He called it a fucking pain in the ass. If he could take a pill to cure it, he would. Writer's block was a luxury he couldn't afford. It reeked of disillusionment and apathy, and would take a hold and spread through him like a debilitating disease. Cancer of the imagination, akin to the worst case of mental constipation imaginable. He knew everything he needed was inside him somewhere. Amongst all the useless debris cluttering up his mind were the most fantastic stories ever told. He just lacked the tools required to extract them.
There were times when he would spend hours, days, weeks, sitting at his desk in his gloomy den procrastinating. During that time, he often wondered why, of all the avenues open to him as a young man, he had chosen this particular career path. He had come to the realization long ago that it was because he wanted to make his mark, to make a difference in the world. He had never married, never fathered children, and doubted now that he ever would. That void in his life was filled with his writing, as pathetic as it sounded. His stories were his offspring, his legacy.
Joe was forty-one, but luckily age discrimination wasn't a factor in his business. It wasn't like being a professional sportsman, where your career was effectively over by your early-thirties. It could even be said that with writing the opposite was true; it took years of practice to hone your skills, endless hours in seclusion banging away at a keyboard. It didn't come overnight. Good writing was insightful, and insight only came with age and experience. If it came at all.
He was currently engaged in a long-term Special Project, something he hoped would catapult him onto the World Stage. He had put a lot of planning into it, and even put those plans in motion. But it would be a long time before his Special Project started reaping dividends. Especially financial ones.
His biggest successes so far had been the Joshua Wyrdd books; a series of YA adventure stories. YA was industry-speak for Young Adults, a euphemism for teenagers. Apparently, it wasn't PC to call them teenagers any more. Too many negative connotations.
What’s next? Joe wondered. Referring to toddlers as VYA? Very Young Adults? Or babies as WBAE? Will Be Adults Eventually?
The Joshua Wyrdd books were about a troubled youth who comes into possession of an ancient Celtic time-travelling device. He uses said device to blaze trails through space and time, solving ancient mysteries, encountering mythical beasts, helping people and righting wrongs. Pretty standard fair, really. It wasn't exactly Shakespeare.
The books enjoyed only modest success in the UK and across the pond in the States, the two biggest potential markets. But for some bizarre reason, they had really taken off in Sweden, Finland and Norway. After they had been translated, obviously. The latest figures showed almost half-a-million total sales.
Amazing.
There had been two Joshua Wyrdd books thus far, and he was under contract to deliver two more 60,000-word efforts in the next sixteen months. No pressure, then. As successful as the Joshua Wyrdd books were in the Nordic outposts, they didn't generate enough income to actually live off. It was a common fallacy that all published writers were rich. Most toed the breadline just as much as, if not more than, people in any other given profession. There was little in the way of job security, and you largely lived by the seat of your pants. His talents were deemed worthy of only a modest advance from the publisher, and although 'advance' always sounds good, all it is in practice is a business loan. You pay every penny back through sales. The paperbacks sold for five Euros a piece, the ebook versions three Euros, and Joe received a lowly ten per cent of each sale.
He lived in hope of selling the film rights. That was where the real money was. But until that happened, he had to pick up as much freelance work as he could get to make up the economic shortfall.
To this end, he wrote about everything from bicycles to chilli peppers, dead rock stars to airplane fuel. He was a literary prostitute, a media whore, and he knew no shame. He was happy to sell his pen for money. Figuratively speaking, of course. Though he most definitely would sell his pen, if he still used one.
How the hell did people manage before computers? Back in the late-eighties, when he first started writing, it had been much more difficult. One mistake on a clumpy old typewriter and you were screwed. You could use correction fluid, of course. But then you had to apply it, wait for it to dry, and then attempt to type over it, making sure that the page was set exactly the way it had been before the incident. It was all so amateurish. And then there was the maintenance; replacing keys that worked their way loose from all the hitting, changing ink ribbons. Things were much easier nowadays. You just turn on your machine, open a program, and off you go.
Mercifully, the Internet had negated the need to send manuscripts and other bits and pieces via conventional post, which was expensive, troublesome and notoriously unreliable. Also, nine times out of ten, the unwilling recipients of your work never sent it back. Even if you provided return postage. So then you had to laboriously type the whole manuscript again.
Now, most submissions were made as attachments to emails, and sent at the touch of a button. The Internet even made finding new markets easier, you simply searched by name or subject, then skimmed the contact information from the website.
On the downside, because it was so easy now, everyone was doing it. Everyone fancied themselves as latter-day scribes, deluded into thinking that anyone gave a fuck about what they had to say. Therefore, the competition was more fierce.
The bigger picture was even more depressing. The rise of the Internet meant less people were forking out their hard-earned cash to read information they could access for free online. Consequently, print media was nosediving at an alarming rate. It would never die completely. Too many people found books, magazines and newspapers, more comforting and aesthetically appealing. But the market was becoming ever-more streamlined, meaning less and less opportunities for everyone in the trade.
It had become easier to be published than ever before. But paradoxically, it was now harder to make money than ever before. Add to this the impact of the global financial crisis, which hit after the turn of the Millennium and just kept on hitting, and the prognosis was not good.
On occasion, even the freelance work dried up. Joe would have a barren spell and not sell a single piece for months. But he still had the same expenses, overheads, and bills to pay.
So during those lean spells he was reduced to writing book reviews he usually made up (who had time to read books these days?) and recycling recipes he found in old books for cookery magazines. He would throw a sprinkle of basil, or a pinch of thyme into most dishes to jazz them up a little.
He had even tried his hand at writing verses for greeting cards.
Roses are red,
/> violets are blue,
This industry is fucked,
and so are you.
Some writers have the gift of the gab. Blessed with over-fertile imaginations and a name that sells, they seem to have limitless supplies of fresh, inspired ideas, which they spew all over the feet of eager editors. There were rumours some big name authors even had workshops churning out ideas and penning their manuscripts.
Good for them.
Joe wasn't so lucky.
He had to work at his creativity.
Strange as it might seem, most of his best ideas came to him in dreams when he wasn't thinking at all. Sometimes, though not nearly often enough, he would wake up in the morning with the germ of a story idea nestling inside his head. The fact that his subconscious mind was more productive than his conscious state was a source of anxiety in itself.
More out of hope than expectation, he had taken to keeping a notepad and pen on his bedside table, ready to jot down any partially-formed nocturnal ideas he may have. He had also taken steps to stimulate his subconscious. Somebody once told him that cheese induces dreams, so one night before bed he ate over half-a-pound of Dutch Edam. All it did was give him a headache and a mildly upset stomach, followed by a delightful bout of early-morning diarrhoea.
Writing is a lonely job. You don't get out much, and rarely get to meet new people. The only people you do meet have something they want you to write about. They talk to you because it's in their own best interests, or the best interests of their sponsors or employers, not because they actually derive any pleasure from your company. Isolation itself becomes your friend, and you find yourself embracing solitude and the comfort it brings. You don't have to shave every day, take a bath, or even get dressed if you don't want to. You could sit at your desk naked and wallowing in your own filth for weeks on end nobody would even know, let alone give a shit.
It goes with the territory. It's even expected in some circles. The antisocial, slightly eccentric writer with personal hygiene issues and a history of substance abuse.
If the glove fits...
One thing Joe couldn't help but wonder was whether he was antisocial because he was a writer, or whether he was a writer because he was antisocial. That was a question for his therapist to answer, if he could ever afford one.
Something that often helped get the creative juices flowing was a change of scenery. Things could get a bit stale when you stare at the same four walls day after day, even for a recluse. You run the same half-arsed ideas through your head over and over again, searching for new angles and waiting for inspiration to strike.
It rarely does.
The pressure starts to build, white bills turn to red, and then you reach desperation point. Desperation is dangerously close to panic, and when you panic you die. Panic is nature's last throw of the dice.
Time and finances allowing, Joe went on excursions a few times a year. If 'excursion' was the right word. They were more like unofficial writer's retreats.
He usually tended to shy away from the crowds, shun the tourist haunts, and go for more rustic option; a few days in a run-down bed & breakfast in Whitley Bay, a week in a rented farmhouse in the Lake District, a Premier Inn just off the motorway somewhere near Brighton.
Once, he had gone as far as Granada, Spain, but much preferred to stay in Britain. He liked the weather and the generally depressive atmosphere. Domestic travel was also much more convenient than international journeys; there were no arduous waits in airport lounges, no airport security, no tedious shuttle bus transfers, and no language barrier to contend with. Unless you happened to go to Liverpool for some god-awful reason, where the people spoke some unintelligible derivative of English incomprehensible to untrained ears.
He decided that his destination this time was to be a small hotel by the sea in Rhyl, north Wales. He had never been there before, but recently it had been in his thoughts a lot. Rhyl was a place he had heard his mother often talk about, before stomach cancer took her six years ago. She used to go there when she was young and carefree.
Although small in stature his mother was big in personality. He could still hear her voice, echoing around the cavernous chambers of his mind.
“I used to go for walks on the beach on my own. I went out in all weathers, rain or shine. Didn't worry me. I would stand staring at the sea for hours. There's just something about the place. Such a lovely part of the world! I kept meaning to go back there, but you know... Life gets in the way.”
Except in her case, death got in the way.
Coincidentally, Rhyl wasn't that far from Liverpool. Not far enough, anyway. He hoped he would have more luck picking up the lingo. He booked a room for three nights at the Sea Breeze hotel online, and got a fourth night free. It was April, and April was still the 'off season,' apparently.
Result.
His plan was to take some nice long walks along the seafront, eat a few healthy helpings of fish n' chips, and somehow get his head together enough to make a start on the third Joshua Wyrdd book.
This had to be the best book he had ever written. He sensed things were at crisis point with his publisher. They were downsizing, dropping writers like hot coals, and he didn't want to be next. The sales in Scandinavia barely covered distribution, translation costs, and failed marketing campaigns elsewhere. If this effort didn’t hit the spot, there was a chance his publisher might write him off. Excuse the pun.
Maybe after his impoverished death, the general public would posthumously acknowledge his contribution to contemporary literature and give him the credit he deserved.
But until that happened, he would be just another struggling cult author.
As reclusive as he was, Joe loved to travel. He was a walking contradiction. There was something liberating and gloriously romantic about the simple process of getting from one place to another. Being in perpetual motion. And he revelled in the sense of freedom and opportunity it brought.
It made him feel more alive just knowing that away from the safe confines of his den, literally anything could happen. And quite often did. Outside his door there were robberies and murders, wars and terrorist strikes, air disasters and famine. He might get mugged or become the victim of a freak fatal accident.
On the other hand, he might find a suitcase full of money in the street, fall in love, or be struck by that flash of inspiration he so desperately sought.
That was the thing.
You just never know what's around the corner!
Yes, mum.
Forrest Gump was wrong, though. Life is definitely NOT like a box of chocolates because you never knew what you were going to get. With a box of chocolates you did know what you were going to get. It said right there on the side of the fucking box. Life, in all its chaotic beauty, wasn't nearly as helpful. There was no map, no helpful set of instructions. You were just supposed to make it up as you went along.
He didn't drive a car. He didn't leave his house often enough to warrant owning one, and living in the middle of a city negated the need. Everything he wanted was within five or ten minutes walk. He could appreciate the convenience of having one, but detested the sense of disconnection that accompanied driving. Wrapped up in a steel shell, watching the world zoom by through a protective glass shield.
It wasn’t what travel should be like. Travel should be a shared experience, an interactive adventure.
Joe’s chosen mode of transport was the railway. At the risk of sounding like an anorak, he had always had a soft spot for trains. He would never go so far as to stand on deserted platforms in the rain filling notebooks with engine serial numbers and suchlike, but he appreciated the history of the British rail network. There was something warm, welcoming and romantic about it.
Train ticket to Rhyl then, please.
Chapter 2
The journey down to Wales was uneventful enough. As the train snaked its leisurely way through the lush countryside, stopping periodically at ever-more remote locations, people got off and other people got on
. They sat in the same seats, still warm, never even seeing the person who had occupied the very same space just seconds earlier.
Life was a game of fractions.
To pass the time, Joe indulged in some discreet people watching; wondering where his fellow passengers were going or where they had been, and relaxed with some of the magazines he picked up at the newsagents outside the station. Ever the optimist, he called it market research.
Maybe he dozed off for a while, because the near three-hour journey seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. The next thing he knew, the train was grinding to a halt at Rhyl central train station.
Rhyl central was a grand, over-sized Victorian structure. A mirror image of the main train station in every other British city that erupted into existence during the Industrial Revolution that made Great Britain so great.
As Joe stepped off the train and followed the exit signs, he couldn't help but surrender to the waves of misplaced nostalgia washing over him. He had never been to this place before, but he supposed most British seaside resorts shared a certain similarity. During the off-season, they served as windswept reminders of the days when a family holiday meant a week in a muddy caravan park, rather than some insipid Mediterranean timeshare apartment. Sadly, places like this had been in terminal decline since the first budget airlines began offering affordable tickets to paradise.
Outside the station were the obligatory souvenir shops and pubs. They looked like real pubs, with character and an individual identity, rather than more examples of the turgid, soulless chain pubs that had infiltrated every city centre in the country.
Joe resisted the urge to sample a local brew, deciding instead that the only sensible thing to do would be to find his hotel, check in, and drop off his bag. These pubs looked as if they had been standing in the same place for three hundred years or more. One even had a thatched roof. They weren't going anywhere. At least, not today.
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