The House of Writers (6 page)

Often I would bring up Google images of people I hoped one day might respect and admire me. I would drift into fantasies of the novels I would never write and the success I would never have and this fantasising was more appealing than the business of placing words on the page for an unseen audience that might never top more than a handful of people. So the words took longer to emerge from brain to hand to screen due to this trance-like immersion in fantasies of being the most talented and hilarious writer and comedian and musician and actor in the world (with a tormented romantic life and brilliant eccentricities), and the novels became collages of dreams, resentments, hopes, failed ambitions, digressions, fantasies, and comedic vignettes, which seemed an acceptable form as far as representing life and individual consciousness went (being as good a purpose of the novel as any).

Despite these barriers, the novels appeared in quick succession—
Then
(2015),
Now
(2016),
When
(2017), and
Earlier
(2018) — until this technique was exhausted and passé among my small cabal of readers. I progressed to writing “technogeddon” potboilers composed of emails and instant messages, eschewing narrators and obscuring characters/speakers to create a sense of informational overload (presaging the meltdown two decades later). These works were in vogue and I found a wider audience with
(No Subject)
(2020) and
Anonymous Would Like to Chat
(2022), the latter composed from anonymous messages on a chatroom and ending with a series of murders and suicides. I became complaisant turning a profit as a doom-monger and tried to write a more positive novel about two lovers who find each other after fending off various stalkers encountered on dating sites.
The Blacklist
(2024) appeared to lukewarm reviews so I returned to writing bleak visions of tomorrow.
Bleak Visions of Tomorrow
(2027) was well-received as one of the ur-texts of the post-meltdown gen.

After the meltdown and the ScotCall rebranding of the country, I worked in their publicity department until The House opened. I fled immediately, and spent an unsuccessful few months in the experimentalists’ basement trapping rodents and using their tails as a makeshift pen (and their blood as makeshift ink) and set to work hacking out novels on various floors. All I had to do was knock together semi-readable plots and find unambitious readers to purchase a few copies to survive, although the dispiriting workload wore me down. I decided it was a miracle to be working at something I love, despite The House having long since killed the pleasure I take in putting words on the page (this novel an exception—it feels so nice to be writing this sort of thing and not a pornographic western set in a Turkish rodeo). I hope if civilisation rises from its illiterate bog and my oeuvre is reappraised, this novel will be included among my early, visionary works as a late masterpiece.

T
HE
doctor took three short paces to the second of the trauma rooms, located with convenience across from the first, and cautioned Erin about its contents.

“As in the first trauma room to which I took you—”

“Ten seconds ago,” Erin said.

“—yes, ten or thereabouts seconds ago, as you correctly evinced, this patient is suffering a mania as a result of critical hyperbole. In this case, he was a ghost-blurber, that is to say, professional writers paid him to write their blurbs and critical comments in praise of various authors. One day, for amusement, he read one of the books he was blurbing and suffered a violent physical and mental breakdown. He is fairly calm these days, so I can let him tell you the remainder of the story. Terence, this is Erin.”

“Hello Terence.”

A man with the expression of lugubrious schnauzer kicked once too often by its sadistic master offered a limp hand. “

Terry,” he said.

“Care to tell Erin what happened when you read that book one evening?”

“I suppose,” he said with the voice of a teenager told by his parents that all colleges and businesses had closed forever and there was no money left to support him. “I had been making mega-bucks writing blurbs and critical comments on the back pages of novels. The publishers sent me outlines of the plots, and I salt-and-peppered their words, adding superlatives to increase market value and reader frenzy. Established writers paid to read the books and provide praise contracted their duties to me, and I wrote their lines for a cut of their fees. In those days, for a writer to be published, certain initiation rights were required—the CEO of Penguin liked to sodomise first novelists with a bronze replica of Julius Caesar’s penis, while other established writers took turns to urinate in their nostrils—and once in the ‘established’ club, writers provided a collective backslapping service on their respective books, contracting their duties to people like me: I doubt one of these writers read a book by their contemporaries. I never had any artistic ambitions myself, in fact, I rarely read books published after 1900, I was mad into the Victorians. I had written newspaper copy for several years, but the rise of vicious youths fresh from their BAs and diplomas shunted me from the profession. Anywho, to circumambulate back to the point. Yes, I made a nice living. I could afford to take a lover at last, after years struggling to scrape enough pfennigs together for a pint of milk, and I had the damp in my flat treated. One night, having written the 500
^th
blurb, I opened a can of fizz and settled down to read one of the books—the latest novel by John Green, entitled
Fractured Lovelines.
I need a moment to compose myself before I describe what happened next. Please excuse me.”

“That’s fine. Take your time,” the doctor said. Erin stared on, rapt. In the ten-second pause, she scanned the area for her stapler. Aside from a plastic cup on a side table, there were no possessions in the room.

“So I suppose I had come to believe in my own hyperbole. I never questioned that these books were anything other than works of stupefying wizardry ... I opened the John Green and read the first five pages. At first, I mistook my stomach pain for the aftermath of a chilli garlic chicken curry I had eaten that night, and powered on past page one, wincing at the knots, until I arrived at page five and vomited blood over the e-reader in the shape of a fractured heart. I doubled over, howling in pain. I could not believe a book could be that appalling. I screamed out: ‘I called this book a daring take on a controversial topic! I said this was a brave and beautiful novel to be cherished for decades to come!’ I clutched my stomach and screamed. I ran out onto the street, shouting nonsense, assaulting people who tried to help, eventually passing out in a motorway layby, covered in slime and scum, having leapt into a polluted pond to cleanse myself of the foulness that had overtaken me. Then I entered the most horrific dreams, the content of which I am not prepared to speak about and that I will take to the grave.”

“We are still working through those,” the doctor said.

“All because I read five pages of that John Green novel. If I ever meet John Green, I will hack off his cock and—”

“All right, Terence, remember our lessons on controlling violence.”

“Yes, of course.”

“He can’t be released, you see,” the doctor whispered to Erin, “because he still vows murderous revenge on each of the authors he blurbed. This John Green novel has caused him ineradicable trauma.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Yes, his books are the most inexcusable waffle. Thank you, Terence, we will be moving along.”

“Nice to meet you,” Erin said. He nodded with the thankful expression of Kaspar Hauser handed a lump of wax wrapped in cat hair for his dinner.

“Shall we proceed to the third room?” he asked Erin, as if addressing a bemused child, and placed a guiding arm on her shoulder once more. She accepted his overfamiliar touch in the hope of locating her stapler.

“Fingers crossed,” she said.

“Yes! That’s right. Very good. Onward.”

“Yes . . .”

To: James L. Horton

From: Derek Haffmann

Dear James,

I am the MSP for a town in West Region called Linlinger. We are a small locale with a proud foot in the manufacture of swan ornaments and raisin crackers. I half-read of one of your books
(Pandora’s Bucks?)
and I would like you to write a novel with me as the protagonist. I am not a vain man so I do not expect your depiction of me to be wholly flattering, although as a Member of ScotCall Parliament I expect you to exercise discretion when it comes to describing my role in the power structure and the facts of my personal life (however fictional). I will pay you a standard rate for this task.

Regards,

Derek Haffmann

MSP for Linlinger

To: Derek Haffmann

From: James L. Horton

Dear Derek

Oh God! I canNOT believe you have chosen me for this task ... this duty ... this HONOUR, sir!! I am flabbergasted and proud to accept this invitation and I hope I can do your no doubt fascinating life justice! I CANnot quite believe that you have chosen ME, (ME!!!) the humble writer of the book you mentioned (actually called
Pandora’s Locks,
but what does that matter??) to perform this honour, this ... this privilege! You email at a perfect time as my ten-book series
Fishes Make Wishes
has not been successful with my reader and he has refused to pay me for my services ... I will spare you the sob story, sir, but I have had to drink water from the bathroom taps and steal leftover rinds from the canteen to survive the last few weeks. I also have a rash for which I am unable to source the medication ... however, that is not your concern! I am delighted delighted delighted to accept! Please write back to me outlining your vision for this novel and I can begin work on this project immediately.

Yours,

James

P.S. THANK YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

To: James L. Horton

From: Derek Haffmann

Dear James,

I am pleased to hear you have accepted my proposition. I have no ideas for what this novel should contain. Please write an opening paragraph and send it to me and I will have my advisors look at it. Payment per chapter.

Yours,

Derek

To: Derek Haffmann

From: James L. Horton

Dear Derek,

I have spent the week deep in research for the composition of your opening paragraph. I studied Linlinger—what a marvellous hamlet! I had no idea Noel Edmunds committed suicide in the Novotel there! I had no idea the demand for swan ornaments was so strong as to fund a special rocket to Neptune! I had no idea the council had declared Linlinger the most innumerate hamlet in all ScotCall! I had no idea tramp-burning was a popular pastime there! I had no idea Paul Simon had dropped his plectrum in the local pond in 1978 causing the asphyxiation of a prize black swan for which he never paid a cent in recompense! I had no idea Linlinger was twined with Simferopol! I had no idea Linlinger was a Nazi base during WWII and the residents meet up to commemorate their role in crushing the Allied pigs! I also had a look at your personal website, Derek. I hope you don’t mind me saying this: you have the
most
adorable shoulders! The charming crinkles in your cheeks when you are smiling! The moonlight reflecting off your brylcreemed quiff! The immense manly gravitas in your stance! I have no interest in sexual matters—however, if requested, I would happily engage in intercourse with you! Anyway, let us proceed to the business! I have included the opening paragraph for your inspection. (OH GOD! I CANNOT BELIEVE THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING! I have told everyone including my mum who said not to raise hopes but she is a cynical cow at the best of times, Derek! Or is it Mr. Haffman? I’d better close this bracket!). Please please please let me know if this isn’t what you were looking for and I will take a hatchet to it right away! I will chop it into a million little pieces like the sow during the annual Linlinger sacrifice to Cthulhu!