Writing With a Porpoise
The insanity of working with editors, publishers, and publications is beginning to do my head in, in a writing way, of course.
Because I am a writer, as I tell everyone I meet. It is my new purpose in life, to spread my words as widely and as often as possible.
Be cautious, the person who is tempted to stop me in the street and ask for directions. “I am a writer,” I will tell them as I reach down from my lofty position to share words of wisdom with these lesser beings.
But that is not what I want to talk about. I fear, dear reader, I may have digressed somewhat from the point of this tale. And is that not what writers do?
Because I am a writer, as I tell everyone I meet. It is my new purpose in life, to spread my words as widely and as often as possible.
Be cautious, the person who is tempted to stop me in the street and ask for directions. “I am a writer,” I will tell them as I reach down from my lofty position to share words of wisdom with these lesser beings.
But that is not what I want to talk about. I fear, dear reader, I may have digressed somewhat from the point of this tale. And is that not what writers do?
You Gotta Have a Porpoise
My publisher remonstrated with me yesterday. Other people would have a go, shout, or otherwise abuse. Publishers re-mon-strate. Yep, I had to look it up too. The gist of his remonstration? My writing.
I am keen to learn from everyone I meet in the writing world now I am a writer. Happy to engage in the glittering back-and-forth badinage that we writing types enjoy. I am not keen on people telling me where I am going wrong.
My publisher, who we’ll call Theo — that’s his name — is not one to mince his words. Mincing my words is fine, by the way. This lesson, from the great one who sits behind the leather-topped writing desk with his fancy award from the Hackney Writing School on the wall behind him, was about my porpoise.
Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I appear to listen. I don’t have a large choice of publishers, and believe me, I have tried. It’s Theo or trying to get a proper job.
Appearing to listen is a skill I pride myself on. From schooldays to work, through multiple dalliances with persons of the opposite kind, I have appeared to take great interest. Theo drones on.
I leave Theo and go to the pub. I leave the pub and go home. Pull up a chair. Switch the computer on.
First task of the day. Draw a porpoise. Done. Art critics may have something to say; they would be unwise to say it. Open as I am to suggestions and criticism, I strongly advise against it. Hell hath no fury like a middle-aged man struggling to make a living while his world is falling apart.
Next task, try to remember what Theo was banging on about. “Writing With a Porpoise.” Sheesh. Of all the assignments he’s given me, this one tops the cake. Fortunately, I am a writer, as I am happy to tell anyone, etc.
Clearly, it’s an allegorical tale. A writer, even one as talented and empathetic as I, could not seriously engage with a porpoise. The best trainers can get them to jump through hoops — amusing shows, which of course, the politically correct are trying to spoil for us.
But jumping through writing hoops? That is surely beyond any porpoise, no matter how much you train it.
Having paused and thought for a moment, I am bereft — another word writers use — of a way to use allegory again. I’m going to go for literal. It will irritate Theo, who wants me to soar — I just want to eat. Two hundred and fifty words on writing with a porpoise coming right up.
I am keen to learn from everyone I meet in the writing world now I am a writer. Happy to engage in the glittering back-and-forth badinage that we writing types enjoy. I am not keen on people telling me where I am going wrong.
My publisher, who we’ll call Theo — that’s his name — is not one to mince his words. Mincing my words is fine, by the way. This lesson, from the great one who sits behind the leather-topped writing desk with his fancy award from the Hackney Writing School on the wall behind him, was about my porpoise.
Inwardly, I groan. Outwardly, I appear to listen. I don’t have a large choice of publishers, and believe me, I have tried. It’s Theo or trying to get a proper job.
Appearing to listen is a skill I pride myself on. From schooldays to work, through multiple dalliances with persons of the opposite kind, I have appeared to take great interest. Theo drones on.
I leave Theo and go to the pub. I leave the pub and go home. Pull up a chair. Switch the computer on.
First task of the day. Draw a porpoise. Done. Art critics may have something to say; they would be unwise to say it. Open as I am to suggestions and criticism, I strongly advise against it. Hell hath no fury like a middle-aged man struggling to make a living while his world is falling apart.
Next task, try to remember what Theo was banging on about. “Writing With a Porpoise.” Sheesh. Of all the assignments he’s given me, this one tops the cake. Fortunately, I am a writer, as I am happy to tell anyone, etc.
Clearly, it’s an allegorical tale. A writer, even one as talented and empathetic as I, could not seriously engage with a porpoise. The best trainers can get them to jump through hoops — amusing shows, which of course, the politically correct are trying to spoil for us.
But jumping through writing hoops? That is surely beyond any porpoise, no matter how much you train it.
Having paused and thought for a moment, I am bereft — another word writers use — of a way to use allegory again. I’m going to go for literal. It will irritate Theo, who wants me to soar — I just want to eat. Two hundred and fifty words on writing with a porpoise coming right up.
The Writer’s Porpoise by Mark Ewbie, a tale for children
Mark Ewbie was a famous writer. He lived in a big house with real carpets and nice furniture.
One day, Mark was visiting a zoo where he saw a sad porpoise. “What’s up with that?” said Mark to a kindly park-keeper. “He’s missing the sea,” said the keeper.
“How much do you want for him?” said Mark, the writer. “Ten bob,” said the keeper. (Note for American friends: ‘Ten bob’ is a sum of old money equating to about 60 cents.)
Mark took the porpoise home and put it in the bath. Over the next few hours, they became best friends. Mark taught it to talk in little clicks, like Morse code. Dot-dot-dot meant something, and so on. Whatever.
Mark, the famous writer, had writing to do. To keep the porpoise company, he moved his desk and computer near the bathroom door. But not in the bathroom, because electricity is dangerous, and children should never go near plugs and stuff.
Tap, tap, tap went Mark on the keyboard.
Dot, dot, dot went the porpoise. That was funny, wasn’t it, kids? A funny porpoise joining in the fun of writing.
The dot noise was a bit irritating to Mark, but he persisted. After a while, he closed the bathroom door. He could still hear the thing.
Mark decided to rehome the porpoise. You shouldn’t keep a sea creature in a bath, even a large gold one with proper taps and legs on the bottom, and real soap just laying there for anyone to use as much of it as they want.
He sold it to a local fish and chip shop, who specialized in freeing porpoises to the open seas.
Mark returned to writing and finished his story.
And that, children, is why you should never try to write with a porpoise.
The End.