We are all broken, that's how the light gets in.
CHECKLIST FOR SUCCESS
You want to be a successful writer. You would like to have dollar signs coming out of your ears. Here are a few tips on how to achieve that:
Thank heavens for those who mangle the English language. The likes of the Reverend William Archibald Spooner and Richard Sheridan’s Mrs Malaprop bring to the language a sparkle and a sense of humour that, if it doesn’t drive you to distraction, invigorates and amuses.
Over the years, I have created a couple of characters whose personalities are molded by their, shall we say, unique approach to the English language.
In my book The Indigo Kid, Stella Goodstar runs the Sixty-Nine Club, a porn-slash-spiritual store (she didn’t know which end to cater for, so she combines the two). Stella has decided to dispense with posters in her store as someone has promised to ‘paint a nice Muriel on the wall’ for her. And discussing a charismatic evangelist: “That Peter Shepherd...A real fox in the penthouse, that one.”
In Rusty and Slasher and the Circus from Hell the priest, Father Shamus Appelbaum, follows in the splendid footsteps of Rev Spooner by urging his congregation to ‘hollow their fart’. Slasher is not averse to mangling the language either. “Maybe that’s because wriggle mortis had set in.” Slasher gave a theatrical shudder. “Now I know why they call them stiffs. He was like a cardboard box with legs.”
Creating such characters is fun. And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? This writing lark. Having fun. Creating characters you like, that are maybe a little spark of your own inner, hidden, self. Characters you wouldn’t mind having a cuppa with. (And, yes, I do like Nana Naills – she is naughty and not-so-nice and she needs adult diapers before going on a heist.)
Comparisons are odorous, I know. I will never write a spy novel, like John le Carré, about a Soviet agent who defecated to the West. I will never write a classic like Lame is Rob by Victor Hugo or Don Coyote by Servants. I may never win the Pullet Surprise with my novels but, boy, I’ve had fun.
(With apologies and humble acknowledgements to Des McHale who wrote A Decapitated Coffee, Please)
I don't do cockroaches very well. They scuttle. They glare. I may be a gazillion times bigger than them but they're not frightened. They just wave their antennae at me, lift their claws into a Mohammad Ali position and stand their ground. Is it because they know something?
Yes they do. They know that when we humans are no longer on this planet they'll be in charge. Except I have news for them. Don't they read science fiction? Don't they know that after we've nuked the planet and they are marching around military style, there will be a score of us coming out of the caves and ready to take them on. We won't have totalled ourselves and we'll still be squashing those little bastards underfoot.
Except, I'm not like that. I have a soft spot for anything uglier and smaller than me. When I see a cockroach, I find a tissue, clean of course, and wrap it up. You have to be quick about this or else they crab away faster than you can catch them.,
Wrapped up neatly in a tissue package I throw them out the window. They float away on my tissue parachute.
I hope they remember who saved them.