Writing Wrongly

Chapter 11 - Infected Soup

"Bugger," said Janice, peering at her computer screen. "A week later, and nothing but a big, fat zero of contributed funds."

"I told you."

"Well," she sighed. "Never mind. The party's bound to spark interest. It just goes to show Ian was right: unless there's an existing audience, no one's going to commit to a project, regardless of how well produced its proposal might be."

"I don't know why you're surprised," said Thomas. "I told you know one would care. Frankly, I would have been surprised if anyone had contributed anything to a project associated with my books other than a large vat of infected soup."

Janice looked up at him. "Infected what?"

"Soup."

"What does that even mean?"

"You know: soup that had been infected. It's not complicated, Janice."

She shook her head. "Why would anyone contribute infected soup to a crowd funding project?"

"Because I like soup, but people don't like me. And a year or so ago, I was offered some soup, only to find it had been intentionally infected."

"Intentionally inf—I still don't know what that means, Thomas!"

"I've told you, it's not complicated. I was given some soup and it was infected."

"With what?"

"Pooh, I think. At least that what the forensic report said. It was more scientific of course, and didn't say pooh, specifically. I'm certain they were longer words with dangly bits on the ends. There might have been a hyphen."

"I do not understand what you're talking about."

"Don't worry. I don't understand hyphens either. In fact, I don't understand punctuation at all. All those dots and squiggles. It just makes letters look messy. And I'm sure the word itself is Latin for unnecessary complication."

"No, I mean about the soup."

"Oh," said Thomas. "Well, as you know, lots of people don't like me and would like to see me get ill. Apparently, if I'm confined to the toilet, then I'm less of a threat because I'm less inclined to write. Which is ironic, because I often get my best ideas when I'm on the toilet."

"Intentionally?"

"No, not really. Ideas just seems to arrive between pushes."

"No—I mean was the soup infected intentionally?"

"Oh, yes."

"But that's dreadful! How do you know?"

"Again, the forensic report. That bit was quite clear."

She blinked at him. "But that's absurd! The publishing industry may well want to stop you writing, but they're doing it legally through the courts. They wouldn't do anything dangerous like that."

"Oh really? Then tell that to my toilet. Because I spent a week being so intimate with the thing that it bordered on a relationship."

"No one's trying to kill you, Thomas."

"Yes, I know that. They wouldn't want the paperwork. They'd prefer instead the distraction of my bowels opening like the flood gates on an industrial sewerage plant."

"That's a revolting analogy."

"You should have seen my toilet."

Janice looked at the screen again. "Well, all I can say is, that I'm sorry. I honestly thought it would work. I thought with intrigue and the sympathy angle, we could pull off something clever." She sighed. "I don't think it's the project's proposal, though. I think it's you."