Solitude

Here's the latest chapter from Booker's World cut before the final draft.

Monday, January 18, 2010

It was one of those days when every attempt to sit down and do a little work was met with an annoyance. There are times I wish I could delve further into my withdrawal. Purchase a wood cabin deep in the mountains of no-where. One with a comfy writing chair. A place free from unnatural noise and most of all, people. I'll call it Solitude someday.
I was once again woken up with an intrusive visit into my space. Before 10 am too, which is never a good thing. I pass my days by starting them as late as possible. It was Mitch...again! I really must get a lock for my trap door. I can't be having this. He asked me how he would look with hair. I mean ‘what the fuck?’
“I'd say you'd look fine,” I said.
“Why?” I continued, reaching for the coke bottle outside my bed. My mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to it's roof. I’ve got to give up smoking.
Mitch went on to explain that his audition had been unsuccessful but the producer had him in mind for a character in his next project. The role required Mitch to grow back his hair. I've never understood that about Mitch. He seems to have all the growth properties he needs to wear his hair anyway he chooses yet he prefers to go bald. My own chooses to grow at different paces in different areas of my head. In some areas it refuses to grow at all. It's either shave off the lot or resemble a scarecrow. I look bad enough as it is without giving Worzel Gummage a run for his money.
Mitch went on to say he had to grow the hair to shoulder length and tie it up in a pony-tail. The producer was sending over a script as soon as the writer had it finished.
“It's an apocalyptic look at the world seven hundred years from now,” Mitch said proudly. “No dialogue”.
I wished him well and sent him on his way. I attempted to go back to sleep but as usual once awake that was it. So i got up.
After lunch I set about editing more pages from the book. It's exhausting work I find. Hard on the eye and hard on the mind. In an effort to save a tree somewhere I’m working off the screen. It’s important to do your bit. As I sat to do a little more my phone went off. Chester. I answered.
I was met with a barrage of abuse. Well, it wasn't exactly 'abuse' but Chester as much as told me i was about as useful as a leper in a leper colony. Wanted to know why I wasn't doing any work on his Facebook page? Helping with promotion and all that! I told him in no uncertain terms I had my own stuff going on and I didn't have time on my hands.
“What things?” he asked.
“I'm writing a book.”
He laughed loudly and hung up.
I've let wankers like that put me off before, but not this time. I shook the incident out of my head when it went off again. Text message.
Chester.
You're a waste of space.
I wanted to reply but held back because I wouldn't lower myself. I’d leave it with him. I decided to go for walk. I'll edit tomorrow.
I would have enjoyed the walk had it not been for my thoughts which were as usual conflicting among themselves in my head. Perhaps Chester is right. Maybe I am the laughing stock. Is a will to prove these people wrong enough reward for all the hours spent doing it? Am i missing out on some important things? Who the fuck wants to read about a recluse as he slides down towards forty when they can read people like Stephen Fry or J.K Rowling?
I hate the way I allow people get into my head. That's my own failing and I'm aware of it, but diagnosis is nothing if left untreated. Least that's what Mum used to say.
“There's a pill for everything,” she’d say, almost in triumph. None that's going to give Mum her memory back anytime soon.
On the walk home I took the positives from the day and decided to get stuck in the minute I got back. I turned off my phone there and then. Mitch would be gone, Mum already so. There was nothing to stop me, except for that person who came into my sight as I went in my front gate. I knew who it was even from a distant. As it approached it was confirmed. Mattie was back.
The cold snap had put pay to his travels. With no work and the land frozen solid in Holland he had no choice but to abandon and come home. It was a ten day trip back.
“I could have flown home in an hour,” he started. “If I had the money.”
He fell asleep shortly after I got him fed. So i guess I'm stuck with him now for a while. Months ago there was no one about the place. Now there seems to be someone here all the time. I'm actually glad he's back and safe. I didn't smell any drink off him. Which is a good thing.
It's after nine now and I felt the day was a complete waste of time for me. All my plans for the day never materialised. If I was normal I'd take it with a pinch of salt and just stick it down to ‘taken it on the chin’.
So it bothers me why I feel I now must work deep into the night to compensate, when a few early nights would do me the world of good. But beds are cold this time of year and anyway, what's a bed without a lover?
As I listened to a soloist play piano in my head I wondered if Tina’s was on Facebook, somewhere?

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