Writing for Fun
January 2015
Life Is . . . - Pete Norman
Life is . . . a minestrone, served up with parmesan cheese.
I sat back away from the keyboard, chuckling to myself. Back in 1975 those boys from 10cc must have had great fun writing crazy lyrics like that, but then I suppose that with all those recreational drugs doing the rounds in those days, they probably had great fun most the time. However, this was not what I was searching for today. I pressed the BACKSPACE key and watched as the letters disappeared like a row of collapsing dominos until I was left staring at a blank screen again with just the awkward heading hovering like the angel of death above it.
Who was it who suggested this damned title anyway?
I had taken my usual Cavalier attitude that if I sat in front of the computer long enough then imagination would surge through me like a lightning bolt, but the reality was more like a damp squib and I was floundering.
I attacked the keyboard again.
Life is . . . just a bowl of cherries.
BACKSPACE key. More dominos; little rows of soldiers collapsing before the mighty flashing cursor. But where, I wondered, did all those deleted letters actually go? They certainly did not go into the Recycle Bin; perhaps they fell down a hole in the motherboard and lay in a little pool in the bottom of the computer where they slowly evaporated.
I sat back and stared at the blank screen again, seeking inspiration.
None came.
I was really struggling.
I got up and went through to make a coffee, that was one of my more reliable block-busters. Andrea was asleep in her chair, which, under the circumstances, was probably for the best, so I did not wake her, I just made the one cup.
I sat back at the keyboard again, but nothing had changed, so I fired up Spider Solitaire – I knew that a couple of games would take my mind off the writer's block and I would soon be firing on all cylinders again.
The best part of an hour and countless card games later I reluctantly opened up the Word file again.
Nothing . . .
I sucked on an imaginary pencil and stared aimlessly out of the window, watching with unkind glee at the pigeons destroying the shine on next door's freshly polished car . . . and then it came to me in a flash of inspiration. Last night we watched that Simon Cox documentary about life on other planets.
Instantly my fingers were a blur . . .
Life is . . . extremely rare.
A little bit of Google research was necessary.
There are estimated to be three hundred billion stars in our galaxy and one hundred billion galaxies in the known universe. The chances of life existing on another world are extremely rare, but theoretically possible . . .
But they also say that there is a chance of me winning the roll-over jackpot in the Lottery . . . and I am pretty certain that is never going to happen.
BACKSPACE key. Dozens more little domino soldiers slaughtered in the name of fiction.
I stared once again at the blank screen.
It was time for another coffee.
This time she was awake. 'How's it going?' she asked.
'It's not,' I said. 'Wanna coffee?'
She nodded.
As I walked out into the kitchen I heard her groan – how sweet, I thought, that she was so concerned about my difficulties. Then she called out, 'I think you'd better get me to the hospital.'
'Now, remember what the midwife told you. You mustn't be too hasty,' I said, 'You have to wait until . . .'
'Take. Me . . . To. The. Hospital . . . RIGHT. NOW!'
Ok, so maybe the coffee can wait.
As she struggled to squeeze into the car the thought occurred to me that if women carried for twelve months instead of nine, we would need to hire a low-loader to fit them in.
I grinned.
She asked me what I was grinning about.
I told her.
She groaned, clutched her distended belly and said, 'If you find it so damned funny then maybe you would like to have the next one yourself!'
Then she laughed and the tension was released and we giggled all the way to the hospital, in between the bouts of groaning, that is.
I abandoned the car in a limited waiting bay, helped her into a wheelchair and we raced up to the Maternity Ward. I was unceremoniously ejected while they examined her and then a few minutes later a mad flurry of nurses and bed exploded from the door nearly flattening me in the process. I followed as fast as I could but the Delivery Room door was slammed firmly in my face, so I sank onto the hard plastic orange seat outside and waited.
When you can hear the sound of something but are prevented from seeing what is actually going on, the mind fills in all the gaps and the imagination, particularly a writer's imagination, can fill in those gaps with an impressive array of images – frightening images. There were endless barked commands, a few dull thumps, lots of groaning, and the most worrying sound of all, large metal things rattling together. I shrunk into my uncomfortable chair, completely impotent . . . but then, I had to admit, if I had been impotent nine months ago, then I would not be sitting here, would I?
After what seemed an age – an age populated with all of the above, on a continuous loop, steadily rising in intensity – there was a rapid burst of loud voices, followed by a single word screamed at the top of her lungs, 'B.A.S.T.A.R.D!'
I shrank impossibly further into my chair, fearing for my life, but there immediately followed a long drawn out silence – total, blessed silence. Then there was a soft sound, just like a kitten mewing, and then a confused babble of voices. Did that mean it was all over?
The door opened and a nurse's head appeared. She was smiling. 'Mr Taylor, you can come in now.'
With a great deal of trepidation I slid through the door, not knowing what fate awaited me inside that dreadful room, but to my great relief Andrea was sitting up in the bed with her face red and her hair plastered across her forehead and the most wonderful smile, which appeared to be directed towards the bastard who she claimed was responsible for all of her problems. In her arms she cradled a little fat white towel.
'Congratulations, daddy, you have a beautiful baby girl.'
She held out the bundle to me. I took it from her as carefully as if it was a priceless Ming Dynasty vase. The towel was surprisingly heavy and inside it all I could see was a tiny pink angelic face with two piercingly blue eyes staring dreamily up at nothing in particular. She let out a soft burp and I laughed in sheer delight.
I now know exactly what life is; I knew exactly what I was going to write.
Life is . . . amazing, delicate and precious!