Southend U3A

Writing for Fun

In this day and age we’re so used to political correctness that we expect any contemporary work or newspaper articles to adhere to it and accept pieces of yesteryear just because they’re of their time and some of them are classics. I wondered what it would be like if the author of one such book encountered the potential publishers of a work that’s known to us all – the publishers reflecting the times in which we live in and the author bewildered by them, being a product of the Victorian Age.

At their beckoning, he sat down and faced them both. Sprawled out in their chairs, their body language indicated who was in control, although they tried to conceal it under the guise of ‘mateyness.’

‘Do you mind if we call you Lewis?’ said the first one. ‘Or do you prefer Mr. Carroll?’

‘Neither’ said their visitor without rancour. ‘It’s a pen-name, you see. My name is actually Dodgson: Charles Lutwidge Dodgson’.

They nodded sagely.

‘We’re used to that, of course’ said the second. ‘Many of our authors write under assumed names. What do you do for a living Mr. Dodgson?’

‘I’m an Archdeacon in the Church of England’ he replied evenly, watching them exchange surprised glances.

‘Well, you certainly have some imagination . . .’ they responded, searching for what they considered the correct mode of address . . . ‘Reverend.’

‘I like children, you see: particularly little girls.’

They exchanged nervous glances.

‘Not too much I hope,’ said the first, shifting in his seat and effecting what he hoped was a humorous cough. ‘We don’t want Operation Yewtree after us.’

Dodgson looked at them blankly. There was an embarrassed silence whilst he waited for one of them to speak.

‘Well, it’s like this, you see’ said the first. ‘We like your book. In fact, we think it could grow to be as big as the Harry Potter franchise – only without the wizardry and the Quidditch.

‘I’m afraid I’m not familiar with Harry Potter, gentlemen and I have no idea what his franchise is – never mind his Quidditch.’

They both laughed politely at what they considered to be his attempt at humour. ‘It’s just that we would need to make some alterations.’ said the second. ‘You know what people are like these days.’

‘Not really’ replied Dodgson. ‘I live a fairly sheltered life you see, with my family. What alterations were you thinking of?’

‘Well: it’s the Mad Hatter, for one.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s the word “Mad” said the first. ‘We feel it’s . . .’ he searched for a word. ‘Derisory. Insulting even.

‘Yes,’ said the second, earnestly. ‘We were wondering if you could call him the “Off-Centre Person Who Makes Hats.” Perhaps say that he’s receiving counselling – maybe cognitive therapy.’

Dodgson blinked at them uncomprehendingly.

‘But it’s such a cumbersome description. The Mad Hatter’s an eccentric. If I water down that aspect to him then the whole point of the character is lost. It’s just a bit of childish fun. There’s no malice attached to it.

The two publishers looked at each other.

‘No malice about Alice!’ one joked, but it fell on deaf ears.

‘It’s not just that character, I’m afraid.’

‘No?’ Dodgson’s expression remained inscrutable.

‘It’s the two men in the sequel of the book: the twins.’

‘What about them?’ blinked the Reverend Dodgson.

‘It’s the way you describe them’ ventured one of the publishers bravely.

‘And the way that guy Tenniel has drawn them’ ventured the other.

They spoke in unison.

‘They’re referred to as fat and they look enormous in the drawings. It’s offensive. If you must refer to their size, can’t you say that they’re ‘horizontally challenged.’

The Reverend Dodgson was beginning to become ruffled.

‘Good grief, Gentlemen, I based them on a nursery rhyme. They are described as ‘fat’ in that. I have therefore incorporated them thus in my own story. The interpretation of their being twins is intended to be allegorical, like most of my stories. It may be that they are mirror images of each other and one and the same person.’

Both publishers were perplexed by the pedagogical turn of phrase, which was alien to their twenty-first century ears. In addition, they were both being required to think – not a circumstance that often befell them. In vain they tried to recover their equilibrium and revert to their controlling sales-negotiating technique.

‘How about altering their names to something more contemporary?’ suggested one. ‘Names which are shorter and won’t require enormous clothes to display them.’

‘Such as?’ asked the author, settling back in his chair and making a determined effort to remain calm.

A beaming, self-satisfied smile crossed the first publisher’s face: his ‘eureka’ moment had come at last.

‘Ant and Dec!’ he exclaimed.

‘Who or what on earth are ‘Ant’ and ‘Dec?’ enquired the flustered Reverend Dodgson. ‘Are they twins?’

‘No’ chorused the publishers.

‘Are they brothers then?’

‘Well, no’ replied the first. ‘But they are very close friends and people don’t usually mention one without the other.’

‘I don’t mention them at all’ responded the author dryly, shifting uneasily in his seat. His feathers had started to metaphorically ruffle.

‘Anything else whilst you’re about it, gentlemen?’

‘Just a tiny tweak.’ said the first publisher in a conspiratorial manner, using his thumb and forefinger to note the narrowness of the margin that necessitated the action - hopefully mitigating any offence it would cause the author. ‘It’s the dormouse, you see. He’s always asleep.’

The Reverend Dodgson sighed deeply.

‘Yes, Gentlemen, I know he is. Dormice hibernate for a good part of the year: it’s a trait of theirs. I thought it would be amusing to have mine go to sleep at a moment’s notice, right in the middle of a social event like a tea party, then wake up every now and again and make some little remark.’

Two anxious heads shook sideways in unison.

‘I’m afraid not, Reverend. It might offend people who have relatives with narcolepsy. The N.H.S. would be down on us like a ton of bricks.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about and I’m not even going to ask you to explain it’ said Dodgson somewhat peevishly. ‘The N.H.S. whoever they might be can

protest all they like. The inoffensive little dormouse will remain in the book – otherwise you and I will be parting company immediately.’ There was a silence whilst the two publishers pondered their next gambit.

‘O.K’ said the first one slowly. ‘The dormouse can stay in, but we both have one absolute condition.’

The Reverend Dodgson felt himself grew tense.

‘It’s the title’ said the second publisher. ‘It’s a little girl’s name.’

‘It is indeed an eponymous title’ agreed the author. ‘But then both Jane Eyre and David Copperfield are eponymous characters. Surely you can have no objections in this case.’

‘Yes, but they’re both kind of old books’ said the first publisher with a distinct lack of erudition of self-expression. ‘We need our leading character to be gender-fluid to reflect the times we live in.’

‘Gentlemen, you might have been conducting most of our conversation in Swahili for all I’ve understood it, but this final condition has left me completely baffled. The main protagonist is a little girl – someone I’m very fond of and whose family I know. The title of the book is ‘Alice In Wonderland’ and the proposed follow-up is ‘Alice Through The Looking Glass.’

The two publishers nodded sagely.

‘She might want to be a little girl now, but who knows what she’ll feel in a few years’ time? Supposing she wants to be known as “Alex’ or an “Andrew” and be classed as someone of the male sex. She must be given that right and not be categorised now, when she’s at a vulnerable age.’

‘She’s a fictional character as far as the world is concerned’ the Reverend countered. ‘A pretty little girl who will grow up to be a very pretty young lady,’ ‘Of that I have no doubt.’

Two faces crumpled in abject but shallow sorrow, in the hope of evoking sympathy from their intractable client. One of them reached for his notepad.

‘Look, Reverend. This is what we both have in mind for the title. We can shake hands on it now, draw up a contract and, with the minor alterations we’ve asked for, we’ve got a book that’s going to hit the market and be the hottest thing since . . .’

‘Ant and Dec?’ queried the author with some sarcasm. ‘Harry Potter and this so-called franchise he has? Or maybe the N.H.S – whatever that august body stands for?’

‘All of those things’ they agreed, missing the irony. ‘Now: can we draw up the contract?’

The Reverend Dodgson looked at the piece of notepaper. He was reluctant to sacrifice his principles but there many churches he knew of that required new roofs and many parishioners who would benefit monetarily from his writing talents.

He stood up and reached for his top hat.

‘Gentlemen, I bid you farewell,’ he said with a flourish. ‘And I now look forward to receiving the first copy of “A Person’s Adventures In Wonderland.” If it’s the success you anticipate then I also look forward to the publication of its sequel “A Person’s Adventures Through The Looking Glass”.

‘You won’t regret it’ the two publishers assured him. ‘Who knows: it may even prove to be a best-seller on Kindle?’ The Reverend Dodgson opened his mouth and then thought better of it. ‘Whatever you say, Gentlemen’ he said instead, and he shut the door hurriedly behind him.