2039. A newsworthy photograph

What a conundrum for Haydn Rex Pratt. He had just published his fourteenth novel and the local newspaper needed a photograph. What photograph should be used? He had a substantial collection of self-portraits but it was a question of selecting one that verged on the academic.

For example should he supply a photograph of himself sitting engrossed at a desk with a pen poised between his thumb and forefinger and the other end of the pen just touching his lips? It was reflective and almost professorial. No, it would not do. What writer these days would be seen dead holding a pen? Hadn’t they heard of computers?

His snapshots sitting at a computer were humdrum. Many of them had the camera flash reflected on the screen. It was so amateurish. Besides, most of these photographs were several years old and the style of keyboard and mouse (not to mention the clothes he was wearing) had quickly become dated and unfashionable.

Then there were several to choose from that were taken outdoors. One of these in particular was his favourite (people said it didn’t look like him but he absolutely adored it). He was standing in front of a date palm. Everything in the picture was so natural. He was smiling. He knew exactly why he was smiling. His time in North Africa had been one of the most enjoyable vacations he had taken. That gladness was clearly reflected in the photo. But what did smiling in front of a date palm in North Africa have to do with his novel? And he couldn’t remember the name of the woman who was standing next to him.

There were several photographs that were unmentionable. He kept them hidden at the bottom of the pile. They were inappropriate of course, but he looked at them for some time as if they could serve some use to the local newspaper.

In the end, Haydn Rex Pratt selected a photograph of himself that didn’t seem to place him in any context or setting. It was a full-length photograph, but it made him look particularly handsome. Not that he wasn’t naturally handsome, but this photograph captured him perfectly. Perhaps it was the quality of light or the precise angle that encapsulated his fetching masculinity. Who knows? It was this photograph that he always thought should be used as a basis once the town decided to erect a statue of him; the resident famous novelist!

Haydn Rex Prat tucked the photo into his inside jacket pocket and set off for work. It was a busy life being the editor of the local newspaper.

2017. The murderer was blond

It is possible that the day Freda was murdered was probably not the best day of her life. Her day had started so well. Being a famous novelist had its perks; one could work from home at an unflustered pace; one could (especially with money from best-sellers) spend a little on luxuries here and there.

Freda had looked forward to this day for a while. It was the day she was intending to introduce the murderer into her murder mystery. There’s no hurry to do these things; a murderer should be saved and savoured. The murderer was to be a male with flaxen hair; fairly young and athletic; pleasant to the nth degree. It was a ridiculous assumption that inexperienced writers held, to turn their evil characters into wizened, ugly people with a hunched back, and drooling or dribbling at the mouth. How more dramatic it is to have the handsome hero turn out to be the wicked one!

The first thing Freda did (after sleeping in a little late) was to go out for brunch. The guy in the bakery where she purchased her Danish pastry was called Blondie. He was such a pleasant fellow.

“Have a nice day, Blondie,” Freda said.
“You too, Freda,” said Blondie cheerfully.

Freda devoured her purchase as she ambled along the street to the coffee shop. The guy in the coffee shop where she ordered her takeaway coffee was called Snow. He was such a pleasant fellow.

“Have a nice day, Snow,” Freda said.
“You too, Freda,” said Snow cheerfully.

On such a delightful sunny late morning Freda thought she would walk home the long way. There was no hurry. Perhaps she would call her murderer Blondie or Snow. And how best to do the murder? Perhaps the two of them were in league! Now, that was a good idea! And what would be the motive?

Freda arrived home and sat down to write; for the last time, I might add.

1770. That’s how you do it

Neville was destined to become a famous novelist. Thus far he hadn’t had anything published. In fact he hadn’t quite finished his first novel. It needed tweaking. There was a reason for his not having finished.

Neville became so attached to his characters that he refused to kill any of them off. Thus the pages of his masterpiece gathered more and more characters. They overcrowded the pages. If they had existed outside the novel, and lived in the same house, there would be one hell of a queue outside the bathroom.

Honestly, by the time he got down to the fourth generation he should have killed great grandpa off. But no! Great grandpa was arthritic and senile and very much alive.

Eventually he submitted his tome to an editor.

“There are too many characters,” the editor said. “Kill some of them off. It’s easy; just cross a few out. That’s how you do it.”

“I know, I know,” said Neville. He left the editor’s office with a heavy heart. He began the long walk home. Who to kill off? And how?

He was so engrossed and desolate that he failed to notice where he was going and got run over by a truck.

That’s how you do it.

1675. Almost published!

For some reason Charlie had always imagined he’d be a successful novelist. Such a dream was surely about to come true. His first novel had been accepted by a major publishing company. For over a year the manuscript had been edited, honed, changed, amended, corrected, revised, rewritten, modified, improved, refined, sharpened, perfected, enhanced, polished, altered, transformed, adjusted, brushed up, gone over, read aloud, examined microscopically, and had removed from its pages all possible accusations of racism, sexism, and xenophobia. In fact, Charles reckoned he could hardly recognize the original.

He didn’t like the finished product much. It had had the stuffing knocked out of it.

On his final visit to the publisher Charlie was told that the novel lacked panache and it was no longer going to be published. It simply wouldn’t sell. Charlie told them to shove it. He went home and wrote a poem.

1501. The novelist next door

(Note: Even though I thought the stories should stop (1500 being enough) there will be the occasional one sneak through the steel girders. Besides, there are some “stories” scattered throughout the 1500 that are simply not stories (being Award Acceptances and so on). So the extra occasional story will help build up the numbers to strictly 1500).

There was a time when I would’ve been thrilled to have lived next door to a famous novelist. It would be exciting enough to live on the same street, or even in the same town. But next door! My word!

But let me tell you… my next door neighbour, the famous novelist, is the rudest, scummiest, sleaze ball that nature ever contrived to crawl on the surface of the earth. I despise her beyond belief.

She’s just finished yet another novel apparently, and the nose-in-the-air-carrot-up-her-jacksie has turned into a giant pumpkin. She is arrogant, pretentious, facile. Let me give an example. Just yesterday I saw her over the rather low hedge that separates my property from where she lives. I said, “Congratulations on your novel being published.” She said, “What is it to you? Keep your nose out of it. It’s none of your business, you moron.” So you see, she might be a famous novelist but I don’t enjoy the prestige of her proximity one bit.

God, how I hate living next to my ex.