Christopher Hitchens once said: ‘Everybody does have a book in them, but in most cases that’s where it should stay’.  Most people follow this principle and cling onto the refrain: ‘I could write a book about this or that’, knowing fully well they couldn’t and probably wouldn’t, if they could.

But the COVID-19 Pandemic has come along and invalidated this principle, thus inducing many of us to give birth to ‘that book’ we kept hidden inside us when life was normal and we were busy living.  It has to be said that during the pandemic, many of us occupied our unplanned time at home doing something harmless, or at least less damaging to others, like cooking, learning new skills such as drawing, knitting, model making, etc.

Anyhow, I tried the kitchen activity and derived a lot of pleasure out of that.  However, there is a lot of idle time to fill between preparing the sourdough and it being ready to throw in the oven.  Even making pickles offers a great deal of idle time that demands to be filled with another activity.

I filled the gaps by spewing out a great deal of blog posts on a variety of subjects from the frivolous to the worthy.  Blogging however, did not scratch that writing itch sufficiently well and my mind began to wander into the territory of fiction writing.  At first, they were short stories but I upped the stakes and decided to have a go at the 50,000+ words territory.  The genre I randomly chose was crime thriller, thinking any half-witted person can come up with a plot, throw in a few mis-directions, get to a point of a complex plot, before finally un-picking all the twists and turns to conclude the story.  How wrong I was!

After struggling for weeks on end, I came up with something resembling a complete story.  I decided to share it with no more than a dozen friends to read it and give me their honest feedback.  The remarks I got were flattering most of the time because, as friends and close relatives, they were being kind to an old boy like me who needs validation every now and again.  However, the most telling feedback I received was not expressed verbally.  It was action.  No matter how self-delusional I maybe, when someone takes longer to read my work than it took me to write it, that is perhaps as honest a feedback as I will ever get; especially when people have so much more time on their hands and would read the Microsoft terms and conditions with more enthusiasm than reading my first attempt at fiction writing.  Of the dozen or so selected friendly critics I chose, perhaps two read it reasonably quickly.  The others just lost the will to live before they got to the last page.  Sorry guys!

No matter, life is a harsh teacher; it is up to us to learn and get wiser or ignore the lesson at our risk.  I chose to ignore the lesson.

About two months ago, hot on the heels of my previous failure to hold the attention of the reader for long enough to finish my first attempt, I started a more ambitious and complex storyline where I convinced myself, this was my ‘Opus Magnum’; a pretentious ambition since I do not have a body of work where this new book can be described as the stand-out pinnacle of my entire writing accomplishments.

Anyway, I am still working on this so called ‘masterpiece’ and it is driving me absolutely insane!  The premise is simple enough based on the story of a family that live in the Levant Region taking place against a backdrop of recent history.  All of the ingredients I am very familiar with.  However, the plots and sub-plots have taken a life of their own and are running in all directions like frogs on strong stimulant.  I am facing difficulties remembering all the characters’ names and why they are there.  As a matter of necessity, I have to make references to historical facts to give context to certain situations.  It therefore makes sense to check the accuracy of the facts I am referencing, which takes a lot of time, discipline and patience.  As if this is not bad enough, I freely admit that I don’t have the necessary technique or discipline to bring various strands together to make the overall narrative read like a single entity rather than a collection of short anecdotes and historical references.

The strange thing is that I really want to finish this story.  What is stranger, I don’t particularly care if no one reads it cover to cover.  In other words, the whole adventure is a grand project of self-indulgence!  At least Claire is able to relax, knowing that I am at my desk doing something harmless to myself and others.

I am sure you have in the past watched TV talent shows such as ‘Pop Idol’ or ‘Bolivia Got Talent’, or the equivalent to the country you live in, and saw misguided hopefuls walk on stage and give a terrible rendition of ‘My Way’ or ‘Someone Like You’, thinking they delivered a better version of the song than the original artists, only to be told by the panel of judges that they sounded like a distressed donkey with an acute case of laryngitis.  Clearly, those hopefuls were ill-advised by their family and friends who assured them they had lovely voices.

Christopher Hitchens was spot on; I should have kept my book inside me because it reads much better than the mess I am swimming in at the moment, which is going to take a long time and great deal of effort to clean up.

As I struggle to write what I think is a world classic, I am determined not to head to the same place as those dreadful singers on talent shows, only to be told I am better off keeping my day job.  When the story is finished, the only people who will be forced to read it are my poor long-suffering nuclear family.  Sometimes, love comes at a heavy price.

Excuse me while I take out the sourdough loaf out of the oven.  Let’s hope it is edible this time.