Writing Wrongly

Chapter 3 - It's Doctor Actually

Thomas walked into the office. It was expensive. Apparent in the diamonds hanging from the ceiling, and the gold leaf paper Braden Clencher of Ingress Finance was rolling his tobacco in.

"Sit down, Mister Corfield," Braden said, not looking up from rolling.

"It's doctor, actually."

"Sit down, Mister Corfield."

Thomas did so.

The manager looked up. "I meant on a chair."

Thomas got up, and then did so.

"And what can we do for you this morning?"

"Well," said Thomas, "as you know, I'm a writer, and—"

There was a chuckle as the cigarette was popped into his mouth. "A writer? Surely not. I think the general populous is aware you are hardly anything of the sort."

"I said I was a writer," Thomas said. "I didn't say I was a good one."

"You don't have to: a legal battle, several injunctions and a restraining order are all evidence of the fact."

"Why don't you light that thing and let me speak?"

There was shrug and a gold lighter was flicked to do so.

"I have come to the conclusion that the reason I'm not a good writer is that I have overlooked certain basic principles of the craft."

"Such as?"

"Well, spelling, predominantly. And punctuation. And plot development, for that matter. And, well, pretty much all of it. Even some of the page numbers are dodgy."

"I am a very busy man, Mister Corfield, so please get to the point."

"It's doctor, actually, and my point is that considering the considerable exposure these proceedings have granted, it appears I have gained no readers as a consequence—"

"That's because they're dreadful."

"The readers?"

"No, your books."

"Have you read them?"

"Fortunately not."

"So how can you be sure?"

Branden sighed and puffed at smoke. He looked at the cigarette. It seemed to agree with him. Which was odd considering he'd just set fire to the thing. "Because, Mister Corfield, the legal circus you have surrounded yourself with, leaves me no choice but to be reminded of said quagmire everytime I read the morning paper. And as I am an avid reader of the Guardian, which publishes some of the more ghastly examples of your work, I'm left not having to. Which is fortunate, considering they're so ghastly."

Thomas sighed. "This is the problem—"

"Your writing's the problem."

"—such reporting has deterred potential readers from curiosity to see what all the fuss is about. In fact, sales of my books have plummeted rather than soared—which is remarkable considering there were no sales to being with."

"And you find this surprising, why, exactly?"

Thomas shrugged. "I just don't think it's very fair, that's all. Controversy should generates interest in a subject, but the only thing the publishing industry is generating for me is loathing. So much so, that the public can't be bothered making up their own mind about my books. Including you."

"Your books cause serious health issues, Mister Corfield. It's been established you suffer a peculiar sort of mental psychoenteristis. Which may well be contagious."