Diary of an Author: 28 Oct-2 Nov 2024

Joke | Star sign | Attention | Professions | Church | Agent Warm

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I hope you enjoy this edition of Diary of an Author. This week I have been in a state of writerly euphoria (wriphoria), writing my first exclusive fortnightly essay for paid subscribers littérateurs, which ‘drops’ next week. Paid littérateurs also receive a free download of my debut collection of poems and stories. If you are currently a free subscriber, I would be honoured if you would consider upgrading yourself to a more Serious Literary State.

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28 Oct 2024:

Today I suffered an allergic reaction to a joke. As a Serious Literary Author, I do not believe in humour or jokes, let alone laugh at them. In extreme cases, particularly ‘funny’ jokes have been known to provoke an adverse physical reaction in me. While walking past my local camping shop, I noticed a sign in the window that read, ‘Now is the winter of our discontent’. I was immediately intrigued as to why a camping shop had elected to place a literary reference in its window — and not just any reference, but one of my favourite quotes from Shakespeare’s Richard III. On closer inspection, however, I discovered that the sign actually read, ‘Now is the winter of our discount tents’. I knew the reaction was coming before it arrived. I felt my facial muscles and larynx contract, my tear ducts activate and my breathing start to shorten. I then doubled over and began to emit an involuntary ‘Ha’ sound. Shockingly and appallingly, instead of offering assistance, passersby walked straight past me, and in some cases even smiled at my suffering. In the end I had no choice but to walk myself, still gasping and spluttering, to the hospital, where I am now waiting to be seen. Once again I shall implore the nurse to provide me with some sort of inhaler or EpiPen to protect me from future attacks.

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29 Oct 2024:

Last week my lover left me. She told me our star signs were incompatible, and that she was supposed to be with somebody less serious and more free-spirited, like a Sagittarius. Desperate to win her back, I spent all week studying the character traits of the Sagittarius, and suggested we meet for coffee this morning. On arrival, she seemed impressed by my new, care-free demeanour, and when she asked about the leather jacket and nose ring, I explained that I was a Sagittarius now. She sighed, and said that thinking you could study to become a different star sign was just so Capricorn.

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30 Oct 2024:

As a Serious Literary Author, I am shocked and appalled by the quality of today’s young writers. They simply cannot focus. Their attention spans have been all but destroyed by the

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31 Oct 2024:

I did not finish yesterday’s diary entry as I was distracted by an online article listing the ‘10 Sexiest Professions’. I was shocked and appalled to note that whilst Doctor, Lawyer and Firefighter were included, Serious Literary Author was not. This glaring and egregious omission made it all too clear that the author (and I use that term lightly) of the article had never experienced walking into a café and spotting an author sitting alone, wearing a turtleneck sweater, nursing an oat flat white and holding a Kweco Sport brass fountain pen while hunching over a leather Moleskine notebook (words that, coincidentally, describe my exact situation right now). In my opinion, the Serious Literary Author is just as sexy as the Doctor or Fireman, albeit in a more subtle and sophisticated way. If, as the article suggested, it is the combination of skill, authority and passion that makes these professions arouse arousal, then my own vocation should be counted among them. Performing heart surgery might be difficult, but so is knowing how to deploy a semicolon correctly. Rescuing people from burning buildings might be brave, but so is speaking truth to power, such as when I wrote a sonnet condemning Sports Direct for failing to stock badminton shoes in half sizes, leaving me no choice but to choose a pair that was either slightly too large or slightly too small. I swoon just writing about it.

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1 Nov 2024:

Today I decided to visit a church for the first time. I am not a religious man, but I did recently read an article by a poet who claimed to have only discovered his true writerly potential after finding God. As a Serious Literary Author, I am open to all forms of writerly inspiration; even the divine. After a brief Google search, I elected to visit a local church named TGI Fridays. I was greeted on arrival by a clergyman who showed me to a table and handed me a food menu. I selected a holy meal, then asked him what time the service would begin. He seemed confused. I explained that it was Friday, so I had come to give thanks to God. He said I was in the wrong place, but I was welcome to use the toilet as a prayer room. To be quite honest, I found the whole experience rather disappointing, and I decided there and then that religion simply isn’t for me. And to think, I chose that particular church after reading online that the service was excellent.

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2 Nov 2024:

I have been working on my new spy novel featuring Secret Agent Luke Warm. I am particularly proud of the following highly literary passage in which Agent Warm receives a stern telling off from The Chief following a mission in Paris that ended in destruction.

Agent Warm entered The Chief’s office. The Chief was standing behind his desk, facing the back wall with his back to Warm to show his anger.

“Sir.”

The Chief turned around. His face was furious, with furrowed eyebrows and angry lips. He was holding a pile of newspapers. He tossed one onto the desk. It landed the right way up, with headline facing Warm: DESTRUCTION IN PARIS. He threw down another one, which also landed the right way up: PARIS BLAST WREAKS HAVOC. He threw a third one down, which also landed the right way up: FRENCH EXPLOSION KILLS HUNDREDS.

“I suppose I don’t need to tell you how angry I am,” The Chief said, his deep, angry voice conveying his anger. “I had the PM on the phone this morning. He wants to know why one of my agents blew up the Eiffel Tower yesterday. Well? What happened?”

Warm raised an eyebrow. “Let’s just say it was an explosive situation.”

The Chief banged a fist on the desk. “This is not the time for your quips,” he said furiously, “Although that was a good one. Tell me what happened.”

Warm raised his other eyebrow. “I had to make a French exit.”

The Chief banged his other fist on the desk. “No jokes!” He said. “Although that one was also very good.”

“I was tailing Dimitri Molotov.”

“The Russian bomb maker?” The Chief sat down, his anger giving way to interested interestedness. “Why?”

Warm leaned forward. “Eiffel. CN. Blackpool. Alton. Leaning of Pisa. What do they all have in common?”

“They’re all towers,” said The Chief.

“And?” Said Warm.

The Chief’s eyes widened. “They’ve all blown up in the last month.” He leaned forward. “Are you saying it isn’t a coincidence?”

“I don’t believe in coincidences,” replied Warm. “I began to suspect Molotov after I spotted him in the CCTV footage of each explosion, parachuting from the tower moments before the blast.”

“Good God!” exclaimed The Chief. “Do you think he’s involved?”

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