The Writer
She watched them from a window, the wind fluttering in her hair, enjoying this moment for as long as it could possibly last. She knew she’d be evicted anytime soon, she was merely waiting for the notice to come in through her letterbox. All her money had gone to survive, but her job never sustained her long enough, it merely postponed the inevitable. Always living on borrowed time, that was the problem, never had a moment’s break. Not since she grew up in a council flat and was told at 16 to earn for the family. Not since she was sacked from her job at a fast food joint for a claim she’d threatened a customer, and no one was willing to hear her side. Jumping between other shops and restaurants, typically working as a cleaner. That gave her enough respite, at least, she wouldn’t need to worry about others overhearing her mumbling her grievances to herself. No one came round to the back anyway, she’d get all that alone time she desperately craved every so often. She watched them from a window and admired their lives, how pointless yet beautiful they seemed. They never needed to bother whether they’d pay on time or not, they looked like they could afford proper fluffy coats and bobble hats. They were wealthy enough to stay out in the cold at night, after all. They were the lucky ones, they were too lucky to know that.
She peered at her page, got up from her desk. Did this seem interesting enough? Sure, the story of a girl needing to make her ends meet seemed publishable, whether Faber and Faber would take her on was another story altogether. This was to be her third book, she’d already exceeded any critical doubt. They said a woman in her thirties with limited experience writing novels could at best churn out one vaguely readable effort, maybe become a number one bestseller like all books, then she’d be thrown on the funeral pyre, left to burn a dim light in an ever-shining room. But no, she’d made it this far. Not bad for a history graduate who’d only previously written in her English GCSEs. Even then, she never really cared about writing, it was that thing strange geeks did to convince themselves they were profound poets. It was a form of social currency, and a rather inflated one at that. She only started writing once it became clear she hadn’t gone on enough internships at uni. She didn’t think that would matter - UCL masters, decent looks and a far sharper tongue, her knowledge on medieval French history speaking for itself. Clearly, though, everyone wanted her to have laid off the alcohol, and the odd coke binge, during freshers week, instead using that time to network and market herself. God, those words made her shiver. It felt like getting a sudden embarrassing memory from childhood, the kind that would keep her awake at night. At 25, staring down a life of delinquency, her best prospects were working at Starbucks on minimum wage, with the odd social with friends she’d long started to detest but only kept around because the alternative was far more frightening. One day, she read an article in the Observer discussing a TV writer. She’d seen his face before, he was also a game show host, but she’d never thought him worthy of anything. His game shows felt so common denominator, it was almost insulting to her intellect, and as she kept reading the article, she felt her heart thrash against her chest; eventually, she had to put the article down and reassure herself before carrying on. This writer, someone who looked like they couldn’t tell their head from a cabbage, was now a millionaire, living his best life out somewhere in Bermuda. All off the back of a series of crime thrillers, where the main character sounded as flat as a pancake and could solve any mystery with the snap of their fingers. If life could be this easy for numb slobs with no true interest in the arts, why shouldn’t I give this a go, she thought. She started that same day typing away on Microsoft Word, with the aim of making something profound, something that would endure the death of humanity, that would withstand any wind or sea erosion. Her first book was, admittedly, a flat out copy of Dostoevsky, like a juvenile imitation of White Nights mixed with Crime and Punishment. A man who’d committed the ultimate crime fell in love, but was unable to commit because of his treacherous past - that was the plot. Basic, yet intellectual. Set in medieval Lyon, she intertwined her own master's research into the novel, but made sure to not make it too overbearing. She made the protagonist male, because she knew even if most readers were women, publishers still acted like feminism was just some pipe dream. She submitted a draft to Penguin Random House, not expecting anything, only really sending it to overcome her introversion. Surprisingly, they accepted it with minimal edits, and in just a matter of weeks, she received the first copy. The smooth covers nearly slipped out of her hands, and she allowed herself to take in the new book smell for as long as she’d wanted. It wasn’t much, sure, in fact she still suspected all of this was a bit of a practical joke she was too naive to understand. She decided if this was a joke, she’d just rewrite the whole book in yet another caffeine-fuelled frenzy. In fact, maybe all this would work out better for her in the end. She could even spin this into a furious satire of the publishing industry and how they tried to knock her, a humble barista, down several pegs whilst laughing at her with pound signs in their eyes. And yet…that never happened. Penguin Random House soon grew to adore her, with her editor Evelyn even requesting a sequel as soon as she finished the book. Yet she couldn’t comply. No, The Tale of Jacques Bataille couldn’t be tainted with endless reinventions of the same core theme, eventually becoming a pathetic parody of itself. In fact, her own mind couldn’t let her - she was too drawn to novelty, to building a legacy, and she knew all the great artists never grew entrenched in their first work. Dostoevsky himself never cared that much for Poor Folk, after all. One year later, she came into Evelyn’s office, carrying a stack of papers completely scribbled over. She’d written a new manuscript, completely original, that would take her out of the shade of Jacques Bataille. Now set in modern France, it was to be a riveting tale about the fictional People’s Party, and all the backstabbing that went on as people tried climbing to the top out of their own hubris. She grinned as Evelyn read through the first chapter, her eyes widening in a mix of horror and ecstacy. It was a must-read, she said, but only with major changes. She agreed to this, though not before reminding her she could always walk away if she so wished. They rewrote vast chunks of the novel, making substantial edits in parts, replacing whole narratives and removing the odd character who didn’t make much sense. In time, though, The Power of the People was complete, and critics ate it up. Very rare for an inexperienced, unaccomplished writer to get one successful book, let alone two, one wrote. Another quipped how dense the novel was, yet how readable it remained, saying it was like she must have had a past life as an author. Soon, her social media feed was filled with people praising the novel, though not understanding it was, at its heart, a satire. Even her friends took notice - now, with her subtle publishing advances, she was getting asked to nights out with the same people she longed to run away from just a few years ago. Not a millionaire yet, but wise enough to know she’d make it one day - it was just a matter of probability.
She got back to her desk, prepared herself to write some more. She’d taken a well-deserved break just now, musing about her life while watching a movie. Classic western, just the distraction she needed. Her third book was bound to be a success, surely. Going back over her past life, admittedly an exaggerated version, but parts of it were autobiographical. Set in Brussels this time, with the odd chapter in Bruges and Lille. Complex and meta, the kind to set herself apart from the rest of the writing community, not just herself. She noticed herself staring out the window next to the desk, wondering what to write next. It all seemed so worthwhile, yet ultimately volatile. She’d just written 1500 words, sent them to an old friend, and she said she didn’t truly understand what she was getting at. She worried Faber and Faber would be the same; if so, she’d have to go back to Penguin Random House, back to Evelyn. She couldn’t bear seeing her, not after the pub incident.
She stared out the window, and nodded to herself. She’d get out of this hole, if her life depended on it. She’d done it before, after all. She had experience.