Folks, like every lover of books I believe I can write a great novel, and let me tell you, it’s going to be a cracker!
All I have to do is simply finish the numerous bad to mediocre novels I’ve been hacking away at, then sit down and write my bestseller.
Don’t ask me why we avid readers think we can write a book. I live in a house, but I wouldn’t dream of building one; ever again.
I also like watching documentaries, but you won’t see me wandering lonely, windswept landscapes talking about the Precambrian geology of the area and ripping sleeping animals out of their burrows and forensically examining them with my camera.
So, what made me think I could write a novel?
Harry, flamin’ Harrison that’s what.
I picked up one of his pulp penny dreadfuls years ago and halfway through it I put it down and loudly declared, “Even I could write a novel better than this!”
Long Suffering Wife muttered, “Well, why don’t you?”
So I dragged out my typewriter and set to work. That should also give you some idea of how far back in time this event took place.
Armed with the thought that no matter how cruddy my book was, it would still be better than the festering pile of putrescence that Harry had somehow bribed someone to publish.
By the end of chapter one I was smiling at the thought of all the film makers beating a path to my door and fighting each other for the right to turn my masterpiece into a movie.
Sadly, halfway through chapter five even I wanted to put the main character out of his misery with a sudden, and violent, accident.
For inspiration, I borrowed another Harry Harrison novel and sat back to gloat. The smile died on my dial as I took a literary smack to the chops. Harry could really write.
Nine unfinished novels later, I look back on my frustrating literary career and wonder how many good books I could have read if I hadn’t been so busy churning out pulp.