On Wednesday, I was in London, having a work meeting. I left my moleskine notebook (always a good ploy if you want to look like some sort of beatnik muthhafukka cool writer) on the desk. One of my colleagues, who incidentally I’d only just met in that meeting, passed it back to me… “er Mel, is this yours?”. “Yes!” I declared, thinking, “She thinks I am one cool son of a bitch now”, but then I realised….. all sorts of weird shit is written in there. I should have two really, one for work stuff, to jot down meaningless guff in meetings that I then cannot follow when I revisit, scratching my head thinking “what the fuck does that actually mean?”, and a second one, the one that I write my insane ramblings, holding the pen or crayon in my fist and feverishly (tongue out and wild eyed) scrawl my innermost thoughts, be it short story ideas, comedy sketches or sickening doodles of farmyard animals being ripped apart by aliens with heat rays.
I wondered whether she took a peek, not because she was nosey, but she might have been looking for the owner.
So, wincing, I opened my book to see what she might have seen had she opened it at the first page. It reads thus, it is the beginning of a chapter of the novel I’ve been tinkering with for the past ten years. The novel I will never finish, because it's shit.
Ronald Carters journal. "I'm not a mans man, I don't even feel like a man. I'm impotent, unimportant, I'm nothing. A ghost, a voyeur. When I'm not ignored I'm teased or pitied. I get a lot of time to think."
She probably thinks I’m a serial killer now.
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