Be nice to me, I'm not known for my jokes. Thought I'd give it a go, don't heckle too hard. I'm only small.
I like to say I'm a writer. It's easier than saying I'm an unemployed adult living in my parent's attic. Makes me feel better.
It is a loft conversion, by the way. Not just an attic. I'm not forced into sleeping in the cardboard boxes filled with Christmas baubles. Sleeping in the boxes is entirely my choice.
Anyway. As a 'writer', I get asked a lot of questions. "What do you write about?" Flowers... Rocks... Interesting burn marks on toast.
And then it's "Are you published? How many books have you written?" Excuse me, I never said I was successful. I just pretend I am, so that my sobbing in the night isn't too loud. I don't want my parents to hear me.
They don't realise I'm in the attic. They think I'm half way up the country and able to pay off my crippling debts.
But I digress. Some people tell me that they'd love to be a writer, except they have had no inspiration. They seem to think that writing goes something like this;
You wake up, in the middle of the night, with a brilliant idea. You scribble it down in the notebook that you keep by your bed. In the morning, you look at the notebook, at the sheer genius idea that you had, and you are so inspired that you nearly explode.
You just have to get it out, a bit like off shellfish. So, you put on your tortoise-shell glasses, (because all writers wear tortoise-shell glasses) And sit in front of your type-writer, (because all writers use typewriters)
And then, its tap tap tap, zsshing! tap tap tap, zsshing! You don't stop, you can't stop. You're like a machine, running on coffee and micro-dosing LSD.
You can go all night. Which is good, because it's not like anyone is there for your sex life. And after a week, Maybe a month if you don't have a thesaurus to hand, You're done.
You haven't showered or changed your underpants, And your desk is a genuine bio hazard of half eaten food, But you have created a masterpiece. So you sigh and do that back-stretchy thing, And then you call someone.
It's never quite clear who you call, but you do, And then boom! You just won the Man Booker Prize and have enough bestseller money to buy your own attic. And your own Christmas baubles. That's what everyone thinks happens.
This is what really happens; You wake up, in the middle of the night, with a brilliant idea. You scribble it down in the notebook that you keep by your bed. In the morning, you look at the notebook, at the sheer genius idea that you had, and you wonder what in hell compelled you to write 'fishy codpiece' in big, black, all capital letters.
I have been Sy, Thank you and goodnight.