Crank it

The Soundtrack to the Dreams of a Best-Selling Novelist

A futile chase scene in 4/4 fury

I dream about becoming a best-selling novelist.

Honestly, I’d like to tone it down a little. It doesn’t even have to be best-selling. I don’t have to come first. In fact, it’s probably better if I don’t. My wife says so all the time.

In my dream, I sell the rights of my second-best-selling novel to a European director. No — a Korean director. Bong Joon-ho could do it. But I’d have to tell him to microorganisms in a more positive light.

I would call it The Symbiotic Creature.

Symbiotic means mutually beneficial. You would benefit by witnessing the greatness of my work, and I would benefit from your ticket price. A true story.

It would inspire a generation.

In my dream, the exact details of my novel are unclear. There’s a bunch of characters, a half-arsed plot and a theme park without the park. Could be missing the theme too.

The details probably are clear, but I’m not great at paying attention. That’s what Mrs. Robinson said in my Grade 3 school report. Little did she know my Tamagotchi was a motherfucking-well-cared-for beast.

Going off the film title, it could be science fiction.

It could be an autobiography.

It could be a prequel to The Lord of the Rings. The protagonist, Dildo Daggins, is in search of a ring, but cocks it all up in the critical passage.

Head to the light, Dildo, head to the light.

Nah.

I changed my mind. Hopefully my mind can change my dream. I like sci-fi movies but not so much the books. It’s more of a visual genre for me. Like porn, or badminton.

And it wouldn’t be fantasy either. This might be an unpopular opinion, but The Lord of the Rings and Game of Thrones bored me to tears.

It’s a pretty extreme statement, when you think about it. You are so bored you start crying for entertainment. I hope that doesn’t happen when you read my book.

In my book, people cry all the time. That prevents boredom. I’ve read a lot about the benefits of rising tension and escalating steaks. So my main character goes on a progressive red meat diet and doesn’t poo for 31 days.

That makes him cry.

People die, too.

All good books kill their darlings, right? Name me a good book where no-one died. Look at the Bible. Goddamn slaughter show. Pretty good seller I’ve heard.

I’ll skip the violence though.

Death has so much more meaning when it strikes silently. Then we can blame luck, or fate, or the fault in our stars. It becomes romantic. Well, more romantic than too-tough Terry in the basement with his frozen-meth candlestick.

This isn’t to say the book is all darkness and depression. Sometimes good shit happens.

Just like in dreams, every now and then you wake up and find out you’re not dead yet.

Ever had a dream where you feel more alive than you ever have with your eyes open? And you instinctively know this is how you are meant to live?

Then you wake up.

You feel your wrinkled skin and hear your arthritic joints and stare at the faded photo on your bedside table of the person you should have loved harder.

That’s called regret.

You don’t have to be old for that. But I’ve heard it helps.

Everyone wants a happy ending. It’s hard to say if my book has one, especially since I still have no idea what it’s about.

I blame Disney for this obsession with happy endings. Disney, and a broken society built on inequality, loneliness and never-ending toil.

Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a happy ending either.

Even my dreams don't have happy endings.

Least not since I was 14. God, those were the hey days of badminton.

Back then regrets were made up things you read about in books written by people old enough to have roamed the earth with dinosaurs. I couldn’t even dream of an ending. I was at the beginning of a never-ending story.

The funny thing is, I’ve actually written a book. It’s sitting on an editor’s desk right now. Perhaps I should have sent this accompanying soundtrack.

I’m a bit worried though, cos I never dream about my book. If I haven’t written the book of my dreams, am I really a writer or just another hack?

Will I ever become a second-best selling novelist?

Did I waste four years of my life?

I better close my eyes again. This time I swear I’ll pay attention.

This was a response to Ann James’s deluded custodians challenge.

I’d like to thank Ann for her unique prompts, her wit and her genorosity. When I grow up, I want to write a book as good as hers: