Vision

He thought he was a visionary man. As did his publisher. As did his wife, his children and everyone he had ever influenced with his command over the King’s language and his grip of the human psyche. The fact that most of his penned works consisted of riveting thrillers, and that he derived his inspirations from the most mundane of occurrences around him, endeared him to whosoever read his works.

So, a good thirty working years, and over five volumes of short stories later, it was established that there were a very few things that he couldn’t turn into a nail-biting narrative, all of which eventually ended with a shocking turn of events, turning those hapless, helpless readers into devotees for life. Not only in Britain, but world-over, he was renowned and revered for putting the M in mystery and his book sales soared, breaking best-seller records like birch twigs.

That was over two years ago.

The verity that Dr. Norman Dean could ever face writers’ block was befuddling and unforeseen. His publisher didn’t give a flying f**k for the fact that he was out of ideas. She just wanted dots of ink on paper, nothing more. Slowly, and surely, the royalty account was running out. His twin children Rebecca and William, 19, were about to start college, and running out of funds was something that he hadn’t planned on, when he sat down to write down the charter for his life with his over-zealous father.

‘Give me another week, Lauren.’

‘How many more do you need, Norman? Snoopy could have come up with something in the time I have given you.’

‘Some more, please’.

‘No Norman. You have lost your vision.’

‘But I have given you the manuscript for the new story I am working on. Can’t you look through that? My editor told me that it’s going to be my most gripping work ever.’

‘I did go through it, and I can assure you that it is mega-crap. Like I said, you have lost your vision. And I can’t afford to have another leech on my payroll. You know how authors are leeches, don’t you Norman? They promise you something but they don’t come up with the goods. I’m terminating your account with our publishing house. Goodbye’.

A thirteen year old relationship blown to smithereens.

Well, maverick authors learn to live with things like that. They keep getting kicked out of places, out of nice hotels because of their hygiene, or lack thereof, out of expensive cafes because they spend too much time trying to decipher imaginative messages out of the items on the menu, instead of actually ordering, and out of people’s bookshelves, replaced by new slick hard-bounds, and newer and slicker writers.

‘Hey, watch where you’re going young man! Don’t you know I’ve lost my vision?’

Out on Baker Street, past the Bloomberg office, in the avenue housing the memoirs of possibly the greatest detective in creation, one would rarely expect to hear such blasphemy. Even from a grouchy old man with a cane and a dog.

Sir Arthur must be turning in his grave.

‘I’m terribly sorry sir. I was in a hurry.’

‘Quit barking, Max… It’s quite alright. Correct me if I am wrong, but I feel you were rushing to keep an important appointment. ‘

Writers were like that sometimes. Looking for mundane happenings in mundane people’s lives, trying to find pen-fodder. Especially, writers without a job.

‘Yes sir, I was on my way to submit a draft.’

‘Draft? Research student, eh?’

‘Yes sir, but I try to moonlight as a writer. Or rather, an aspiring one. I heard of this publishing house looking for ideas, so I decided to give it a shot.’

‘You see young lad, I have had a few works published myself,  and I try and keep myself abreast of any and all happenings in this circuit of ours. I can assure you that no publishing house has any openings for new works presently.’

‘This is a college start up, sir, so I am not surprised that you have not heard of it. They are encouraging writers to come up with new ideas and they have contracts in store for the five-odd people they decide to sponsor. However, they will only handle accounts under aliases, as they don’t encourage clamouring for publicity rights just as yet. Anyhow, sir, I need to get going. Here’s a card of the house, in case you know any promising novelist. Have a good day sir.’

Some days are like that. You get kicked out, run over, and shouted at for disposing off dog poop in a public dustbin, and yet you end up smiling.

‘Hello Lauren. I was wondering if I could have my manuscript back, since you won’t need it anymore. It seems like there are people who wouldn’t doubt my vision and might find me enterprising.’

Oddly enough, after the turn of events, he did not feel much animosity towards them Bloomberg people.

‘Beccy, honey. Can you pass me my copy of Sherlock Holmes? It’s on the couch.’

It had been a long time since he had sat down to enjoy a light read. And maybe draw inspiration.

Braille had never seemed more enjoyable.

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