Interview with a starving writer
Last week I got away with it. But not this week dear reader. This week he saw me in the street and no amount of feigned deafness or quickening of my step could avoid it. And because I was subject to it, so too must I subject it to you dear reader. For this, this is my unavoidable interview with a starving writer.
It was Dirk, who immediately propositioned me to watch him strip for feedback. I declined - hard. He wants to become a male stripper. He hopes it will support his writing addiction. I’m normally more than happy to help out a fellow writer. So I told him he needs to eat better and maybe do some weights. I didn’t mean to tread on his dreams and smear them into the dirt. And he sighed over and over after that.
So I asked him about his writing. And that gave him something else to sigh about. It turns out women aren’t impressed by poverty anymore. Since word of mouth doesn’t gain much traction when it comes to uncommonly hansom penis appreciation, he hasn’t had much to write about lately and he was thinking of “re-skilling”.
“I’m not a weirdo. I’m just given to doing weird things. And I probably shouldn’t have asked if I could sniff her head. But sometimes the simple pleasures of life sit behind a social convention that no one thought to tell you about. I’ll leave the head sniffing for the second date from now on.”
He said, “I was thinking of writing about politics - I hate politics. I’m a card holder of the left right out party.” He insists there are people who do all the work and get none of the recognition, and they don’t grumble. All they want is to be left alone to get on with life and to get along with their neighbour. All their problems come when politics gets involved.
“Take me,” he said, “I turn up on voting day. I pay my taxes… you know, when I’m asked. I do my part. So when someone tells me I need to speak up, it stirs a deep churning fervour of resentment.”
Then he told me about seeing a politician on the street the other day. He didn’t know they could walk. And he became deeply suspicious. “I hope he’s not going to try and improve anything.” And he listed all the previous botched projects. “How about the self cleaning automated public loos. Now who can do their business and all their research in that 10min limit?” He said, “Go back to your fancy office that we paid for and we’ll let you know when we need you - which will be NEVER!”
Well, dear reader, Dirk has turned out to be one of the most vocal of the silent majority I have ever met.
“You know why no one want’s to buy a home anymore? Because no one wants to sell themselves into wage slavery. So it’s an exodus back to the working classes.”
Dirk says it’s not such a bad thing either. “We had a better time there. And sure, everyone was doing it tough, but at least they were doing it tough together. The blokes were more blokey and the girls were more ticklesome. And it was a time when you could take pride in your work and in where you were from. There’s nothing romantic about middle class unless you like the loneliness of being with your wealth or lack of it.”
And I tread on some dreams a bit earlier dear reader. So I shall tread carefully now. And I feel our Dirk became has been a little enthusiastic for a fence sitter. And perhaps he felt the same. For, suddenly he cried, “okay okay, I give up.” And he stopped in his tracks. ”What about a male escort service then?”
“Dirk,” I said to that head sniffer with the uncommonly hansom penis, “Dirk, if anyone can make it work it’s you.” And I just know he will be pestering me for advice again dear reader. But I couldn’t help it. Dreams are dreams.
Fondest Of Steves: This should not be confused with advice, or even with the implication of a suggestion of a possible idea that might somehow—if the planets are suitably aligned and the dogs on The Street somehow manage to bark out a passable rendition of “La Donna è Mobile”—be construed as a recommendation.
Rather, ‘tis but a musing, a devil-may-care whimsy of a curious query: What would happen if, the next time Dirk approaches you for career counseling, you were to advise him that you have been tested for and diagnosed with the presence of a disease so rare that the doctors are still arguing about what to call it, the only known treatment for which is excision of your larynx, and consequently, the next time he sees you on The Street, you will no longer be able to answer his requests for advice on the subject of…well, anything, really?
It’s a rhetorical question, you understand—one I pose purely as an academic exercise for the sheer curiosity of the matter. Would he equip himself with a portable whiteboard and erasable markers, and continue to assail you with persistent demands for your now marker-written advice on his choice of prospective profession—say, for example, road warmer, or pone reever, or (he seems to be headed in this direction already) male belly dancer?
Ah, well…if it comes to that, I’m rather fond of the idea of urging him to teach dogs to bark Italian opera.
That oughta keep him busy for a while.
If nothing else, it will give him something to write about. 😎