Thursday, 11 June 2009

Four short things

Every writer's fantasy: You write something, put it out there, the world reads, is stunned and pounces. 'I want this' says the world and you shrug, because what else can you do, except give it up easy. That, or something similar, happened to me today. Then there was an electrical storm.

The more I read, the more I get hot wired. Snatches of other people's ideas and sentences leap into me like sparks from super-heated paper. I note them all down in my book of ideas. There's a queue, now, winding around the block. One of the first ideas in the queue is 'watchmen at the junkyard' - a snippet of a sentence, slightly modified into a possible title.

A writer friend of mine just published his second book of short stories. An extract on his publisher's site shows me that he's really come on. The extract concerned a story about his girlfriend who could have pretended to be a prostitute, but in the end made him rabbit, stewed in wine. I remember that rabbit. I ate it with him in his apartment a long time ago. He was very proud of it and it tasted delicious.

A Romanian from New York came to look at our apartment today. We didn't think she'd buy it. She was a nice lady. On her way out of the door, she pointed at the row of cameras that I have pinned on my wall. 'I have a camera just like one of those.' she said. 'A Hassleblad.', I thought. 'A Hassleblad', she said. 'That' s a nice camera.' I said, glad to have had the conversation for free.

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