The Writing Blues.....te dum, te dum, te dum....

I had a horrible thought today. What if my writing talents aren't recognised until after I'm dead? It happens, you know, to us artistic people. How many writers, poets and painters didn't make their money from their craft until after they were too dead to enjoy it? I know that's not the right way to be looking at it (unless you are looking at a giant gas bill at the same time in which case I believe it is a justified approach) and that artists should develop and hone their talents because they enjoy what they are doing. Financial gain should not come into the equation really. But I can tell you now, I shall be well hacked off if that turns out to be the case with me and I shall also have quite a lot to say to God when my time comes.

I share my fear with Tybalt as he pauses for a builder's break whilst supervising the renovations to his pad under the stairs. He's throwing himself into the project with great gusto and has even taken to wearing his trousers half way down his bottom in order to display a builder's bum cleavage. 'Oh, I know,' he says, biting into a bacon sarnie. A dribble of ketchup finds its way down his chin and he wipes it away on the sleeve of his checked shirt. 'I felt exactly the same when I started my writing career.'
'What do you mean?' I ask.
'Well, when I completed my first novel I had to send it away at least four times before it got into a bidding war between two major publishing houses. Might have been five times, thinking about it.'
I stare at my cat in amazement. It's taken me a day or two to recover from the knowledge he is conducting major renovation work in the cupboard under the stairs. And now, it seems, he is a published author.
'You've had a book published?' I ask.
'Of course,' says Tybalt. He sounds truly surprised at my question, as if I'd just asked him if he'd always been covered in fur and walked on four legs.
'When?' I ask. 'And how come I haven't seen it?'
'Them,' corrects Tybalt. 'And you have read a couple, actually, although I've had to bite my tongue when you've given your opinion on my work. Some of your comments have been quite hurtful, I'll have you know.'
I give a hollow laugh which sounds a bit like this 'AHAHAHAHAHahahahahahha...ha..ha...a.aa...a'
'I think,' I say, 'that I would know if I'd read a book by Tybalt the Cat.
'Not when I use a nom de plume,' says Tybalt, going all French on me.
'And what's your nom de plume?' I ask.
'Charles Dickens,' says Tybalt, without missing a beat.
'Don't be ridiculous,' I snort. 'Charles Dickens has been dead for nearly 140 years.'
'Look, I know I can smell a bit funny sometimes,' says Tybalt, looking offended, 'but I think I would know if I was dead.'
'So you're telling me that you are responsible for writing some of the most classic works of fiction in the English speaking world?'
'Yes,' says Tybalt. 'Although I think some of them are better than others. Looking back on my early work, I can see some of the prose is rather repetitive. But that's because I used to serialise them.'
'I'm sorry,' I say, 'but I don't believe a word you're saying. You are not Charles Dickens. You aren't old enough for a start.'
Tybalt shrugs. 'Urban myth,' he says. 'My publisher suggested it. It's my unique selling point. Pretend you're a beardy Victorian with a train phobia, they said. The public'll love it. Traditional values coupled with the enigma of facial hair and a fatal character flaw and Bob's your Cratchit.'

I decide this is all too much. 'Look,' I say. 'I don't know what planet you're on at the moment but I think you ought to get some help.'
'My thoughts exactly,' says Tybalt, finishing off his sandwich and draining the last of his mug of tea with six sugars. 'My pad is never going to get finished at this rate. Where's the Yellow Pages?'
'In the living room,' I sigh. 'On the bookshelf. Between 'M' for moron and 'F' for fool.'
'Ah, now you see, that's where you could be going wrong with your writing,' says Tybalt. 'You're never going to get published until you get your alphabet in the right order.
'Thanks Charlie,' I sigh.
'You're welcome, Miss Havisham,' says Tybalt.