Irishman

Written 55-E07 [2023-11-16], Edited 55-E07 [2023-11-16]

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The children’s book author, who shall remain nameless, slammed his iPhone on his desk and asked, “Where do I go from here?”

“I’ve already written seven of these damn things,” the author said, picking up a copy of one of his books. On the cover was a silhouette of what seemed to be a young boy in a suit. Instead of a face, or detailed clothing, there was only a mysterious darkness for the viewer to fill in with their own mind.

“And now they want a finale!” the author shouted, staring at the non-face of his most famous creation.

There was a knock on the door of his study, an entire room in the entire house he could afford by writing about faeries to children.

“Can I come in?” asked his wife, who shall also remain nameless. Instead of waiting for permission she just walked in. “I heard you shouting, is everything all right?” she asked.

“Oh Disney are finally making the movie, although that’s the same old thing they’ve been saying the past five years,” the author said. “And they want to know how the final book is going, since the publisher didn’t say anything.”

“That’s wonderful!” his wife said. “If they actually make it, I mean.”

“They’re bringing in a bunch of Brits for half the roles. These Hollywood guys, they couldn’t tell Dublin from Oxford, they couldn’t tell an Irishman from an Englishman,” said the author.

“But I don’t know what to do about the last book!” he continued.

“Well, you’ll think of something. Unrelated but, I’m going to the SuperValu later, can I pick up anything?” said the wife.

“What about a whisky?” asked the children’s book author, who had grown tired of writing about colas, fruit juice, dwarf spittle, and magical elixirs brewed by elves in underground haunts.

“You sound like you had one too many, shouting at books and all. You can text me if you think of something else, good luck,” she said, and closed her door on the way out.

The author scowled at the book he was previously shouting at. Bringing delight to the lives of emotionally disturbed children around the world had been fun for the first couple of years. But it kept going and going and going…

He texted his wife to tell her he was going for a walk. Then he kept his word and headed to the door.

When the author got in the car he was wearing a pair of pungent pants, whose existence his wife was blissfully unaware of. He also wore sunglasses and a scarf, two accessories that were out of place on a day with hot air and grey skies. His face was obscured as he looked at a paper map, yes a paper map if you can believe it, in a story which started with a slammed iPhone. On the map were some X’s and O’s, but they were too numerous and disorderly to call naughts and crosses. The author wrote an X upon an O. Having inspected the map, it was time to inspect the territory.

Many kilometers later, the author was rummaging through a recyling bin in the middle of nowhere. He tossed out shredded papers which, unbeknownst to him, were previously a testimony in a class-action lawsuit. He also tossed out a store bought birthday card written in Gaelic, an envelope for an unwanted credit card, and a flyer. Then he found what he was looking for.

It was his latest book, written under a pseudonym, about a cat-and-mouse game devoid of mice, cats, or any other magical woodland creatures. It was the story of a detective hunting down a serial killer who targeted authors with a rating of between 4.0 and 4.5 on Amazon. It was an exploration of the human condition where the four main characters represented the four elements, the four bodily humors, the four major schools of Hellenistic philosophy, and the four cardinal directions. The text had violence, sex, romance, and deep examinations of the meaning of life. It was the work the author had wanted to write his entire life.

It was in the recycling bin. And not for the first time. Almost nobody had bothered to read it through: a discarded bookmark on page 38 betrayed that fact.

The author wept. Then he drove back home.

A couple hours later the author’s wife returned to her husband’s study, and found him typing like a man paid by the word.

“You seem busy,” she said.

The author tilted his head and said, “I have a whole book to write.”

“So what’s our daring hero up against this time? A demon army? A time travelling pixie?” she asked.

“The futility of his own life,” said the author. “Also, there will be a talking crocodile.”