I Spelt 'Embodiment' Wrong

If I plan to make something of myself as a writer I should perhaps start getting into the habit of re-reading things before I unleash them upon the big wide world. I apologise to anybody who spotted that glaring error and I endeavour to ensure that such a travesty shall never occur henceforth.

You may notice that I'm being hyperbolic. This is, fortunately, a conscious effort and, even more fortunately, in jest and merely to bring me to the main point of this post. Unfortunately (oh it was going so well with two 'fortunately's'), I have found my prosaic style often veers toward mannerisms best suited to the the early Eighteen-Forties, by which I mean that I have developed (or perhaps always possessed) a tendency to over-describe and over-emote the somewhat mundane, in ways befitting (but, you must understand, not reaching the calibre of) George Elliot or Wilkie Collins. I have suspected it is an inclination stemming from a possible sub-conscious aspiration to Charles Dickens, which, if so, can be forgiven. However it may also be due to my having recently watched Withnail and I for the ninetieth time, and being infected by Richard Griffiths' character Monty's insistence on striving to verbalise to the highest possible degree the English language will allow ('as a youth I used to weep in butcher's shops'). Given the nature of his character (an overbearing, over-reacting sexual harrasser, for those who don't know), this can not be forgiven.

The optimist in me insists on telling me that said inclination is simply the manifestation of me finding my preferred writing style, that of a somewhat ironic harking back to a now virtually alien society. I can only think of the positives in attributing such profundity of language to a story largely set in the grey, WKD-fuelled environments of Uxbridge and Harrow. If nothing else the linguistic tone will prevent the story from being taken more seriously than it intends to be. What on Earth could be wrong with a story that includes the following paragraph

Jet Tea awoke with an erection. It wasn't a problem, for he often

awoke in such a state of arousal, particularly of late, and particularly

on days Jet Tea knew he would be receiving a visit from Vicky.

I'm fairly certain that a key element of successful comedy is the pairing of levels of culture that shouldn't be paired. Remember the episode of The Office (the proper one, not the American one) in which David Brent and another colleague spend a large portion of the working day discussing Fyodor Dostoyevsky? Had that exchange taken place at 9pm in a dimly lit BBC4 studio between two academics, it wouldn't have been the least bit humourous. As it is, it occurs in a Slough paper office, between an idiot boss and a postgraduate temp, and as a result is hilarious, because the setting doesn't match the content.

So, if I may slightly tweak the elements of setting and content into scenario and tone, therein lies what I hope may be the greatest strength of my novel, alongside the characterisation of which I discussed in my previous blog. I could perhaps further my attempts to emulate Dickens and spend an entire chapter detailing the sublime, archaic architecture of NatWest bank or wax lyrical upon the plight of the heretics in that park down Windsor Street, to add an environment to the comedy. Or it could be completely shambolic, misinterpreted (I must remember that Jet Tea pronounces that word 'misinterpretated') and see me come off as a pompous purveyor of sub-Victorian dross, the kind that has no place on our Twenty-First Century highstreet bookshelves.

Speaking of highstreet bookshelves, I feel it is of some interest (if only to my future, memory-numbed-by-alcoholism self) to report that I experienced my first contact with the world of professional literature yesterday, in the form of an email from a publishing company (that I shan't name) telling me that I am on their contact list. This may be, I am fully aware, the literary equivalent of adding Rough Trade Records on MySpace, but it is still exciting to me. For, being predominantly concerned with making it as a musician for the last seven years, and understandably having gathered a modest supply of knowledge of how that would work, beginning a career as a writer is the first completely brand new, uncharted territory, terra-incognita experience I have gone through in some time. I should print that email and have it framed. In terms of relevence to my success it predates even a rejection letter, but its still the first email I have received that is remotely of that kind. Perhaps in twenty years time I can remove it from the loft (or my sleeping bag, fortunes pending) and show it to people as a letter from when I tried to be an author. Or perhaps, if I may allow myself a little optimism, it will be the first of many. Watch this space.

P.S. You'll be pleased to know I spell checked at least seven words this time round.