SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY.
Theo professed to be a writer. That is, he had never published anything, but felt that he had a way with words, and that other folks, by dint of perseverance and habit, would come one day to appreciate the stories he wrote.
He had noticed how men developed different passions these days from their forefathers? Shakespeare’s seven ages appeared almost like a generalisation compared to today’s modern man. Some things, he observed, did not change in the process: an obsession in ones appearance as a young man, pursuing the opposite sex, later; ambition, wealth & the attainment of the toys that go with it. But then, when all that was behind you, he queried what does the modern man do “when withered shank” is the order of the day.
He noted that, in the bored West at least, if one did not paint, or play a musical instrument, there were some individuals who developed a passion for indulgences like cooking, spurred on by endless TV series’ emanating from overeager Oliver’s, Ramsey’s, Stein’s and their ilk. “Every man can create culinary masterpieces” was the almost evangelical cry, even if the average chef couch potato had run the full course and was reduced to exploring the mysteries of working with offal and halal cow leg.
No, the other option passion that Theo considered was writing. “All men have a least one good book in them.” Do they? He thought not. But then, there was a touch of the elitist about the man.
Then there came a day when Theo found himself in that twilight expanse with no horizons, which some refer to as “writer’s block.” He had written in the past, mainly for his kids, his friends and as a regular contributor to a literature forum on the internet. Everyone was very kind and polite. Invariably someone just happened to mention that the punctuation was not quite correct, followed by an apologetic, “But perhaps that was deliberate, for effect.”
Then all dried up. Theo’s creative juices had evaporated like a slice of lemon on a dish in the sun. Nothing came. The odd, intermittent chapter evolved with effort and then stopped. There was no new inspiration from that which he read and definitely none whatsoever from the routine life he was at that juncture, stuck in.
It was late in August while surfing the web in a directionless manner, that he came across an alternate forum, not with any literary bent as such, but the forum of a lost tribe of English speaking expatriates based in Thailand, whose main daily concerns and contributions, seemed to comprise of heartfelt reflections on: bars, visa runs to the Cambodian border, Bangkok lady boys & the price of the local beer.
It was like a breath of fresh air, a mother lode of gold. Theo quickly enrolled, obtained his password and endeavoured to mix. There was no “short story sharing” section as such, but something called “Funny stories and jokes.” “That would do”, he surmised and proceeded to submit Chapter One of what had previously received favourable reviews in the alternate forum.
The responses from the alpha males & odd alpha ***** were immediate and ferocious.
“Absolute c—p!”
“Fit for the s—t bin!”
“Who is this p---k?”
It was the sort of response that writers die for. Rich, original human material, expressed straight from the heart.
The next few weeks saw Theo ruthlessly submitting a chapter approx every three days and in between, he wallowed in the daily cut and thrust of argument/abuse with various characters of unrefined richness and undefined personal histories. It was almost as if territory was being marked out, and haunches being cocked at imaginary lamp posts encompassing Chaing Mai, Pattaya and the go go bars / watering holes of the capital. An example of such an exchange would run as such:
Critical Response: “You have not got a f-----g clue, so go stick your story, up -------- etc etc”
Reply: “My dear chap thank you for your kind comments. I’m glad to see that this week you have progressed to a complete sentence, including an indefinite article, a verb and even a full stop. Please keep trying to express yourself.”
They were a unit unto themselves, rather like the Anglo Indians at the time of the Raj. Accepted by neither one side nor the other; insular, vocal and worthy of study.
Unfortunately however, that period in Theo’s life dried up also. The forum moderator refused to put him in something called “The Moronic Kiddies Bin”, a kind of time out for transgressors who break the rules. Theo had in fact trod a fine line between his contributions and the subdued manner of his replies. The pack eventually chose, though sorely tempted, not to respond to further chapters, but the number of persons who read the stories continued to grow & grow.
It was, he perceived a case of sleeping with the enemy, a necessary expedient before returning to the fold!
