Writing Wrongly

Chapter 1 - Accosted Development

"Mister Corfield, may I have a word, please?"

Thomas stopped and turned. The woman was young, pretty and had a microphone in her hand that she held out in a manner suggesting he ingest it.

"Have you read any of my books?' he asked. "Because if you had, I doubt you'd be asking the question."

"I'm a reporter, and I—"

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

They stood on a pavement of a side street in a large city. The pavement was not terribly busy, and Thomas had chosen it for this reason, hoping there'd be less reporters upon it to pester him, which they had a habit of doing. He didn't want to be perused by reporters. He'd had enough of them. They kept asking him nasty questions and shoving bits of electronic recording equipment in his face.

"Are you certain you're a reporter?" he asked. "Because I thought journalists preferred chasing earth-shattering news about exploding dolphins and celebrity bosoms—or is it celebrity dolphins and exploding bosoms? Regardless, you ought not to be interested in the pathetic rambling of a hopeless writer."

"I'm not interested in celebrities or dolphins—"

"What about bosoms?"

"—I'm interested in your court-case."

"Yes, that's clear. But why? Even I fail to see what all the fuss is about. I mean, really: what have I done to deserve all this attention? All I've done is write some dreadful books. That's all. I haven't set fire to an old-age pensioner, or bankrupted the state of New York. I haven't found a cure for stupidity and then accidently trodden on the vial it was contained in while doing a dance of joy at the fact!"

"No," she agreed, "that's true. But no other writer has ever gotten the entire publishing industry to hate them, either. So it's a fascinating story."

Thomas sighed. "Is it? Is it really?"

"Yes, it is. Even if you, yourself, are not."

"Look," Thomas sighed. "I've just spent three hours being harangued in court by them. Fortunately, I managed to escape out of a toilet window to avoid the throng of media wanting to humiliate me further, so I am not inclined to discuss the matter with you. Frankly, I think you should re-evaluate what you, as a reporter, are reporting on. Because I am just a sad wanker who's having a really bad life at the moment."

"But you can't deny the public's fascination with the case?"

"No, I don't deny their fascination with the case. Nor do I deny the swathes of loathing the public seem intent on swamping me with, either."

"So you don't agree with the public's perception of the case?"

"I don't even agree with my barrister's perceptions of the case! This whole charade is mad! I wrote some books, alright? They're dreadful—and I'm the first to admit it! So bad that the publishing industry wants to crucify me. That's the only perception I'm aware of—and it's mad!"

"You think the publishing industry's reaction is an over-reaction?"

"No. Their parading my skinned corpse down main street in a deep-fat fryer would be an over-reaction. Although no doubt you lot would find some far better photo-opportunities."

"You don't agree with it?"

"With what—skinning my corpse?"

"No, the industry's reaction to your books."