I’m gonna tell you a story about a story that’s never existed, written by a man I know who writes stories. Or that how the story’s been told. This man, someone I met through others has a publishing deal to write a children’s story to hit the book shelves next year. Its taken well over a year to get to this point but the book is written. Its now just a matter of of printing, packaging and publishing. Or that’s how the story goes.
So what does all this mean? What am I saying? Why am I questioning my own words? Am I trying to mislead you?
Well this is where I have to step back, hold up my hands and say I don’t know. For I truly don’t know. This upcoming publication by a friend of a friend has been taken as read by us all for a long time. We were all proud and looking forward to introducing our friend the author.
Our friend the author has been house-hunting with his girlfriend with the £60,000 advance. They’re both excited. Who wouldn’t be? have looked round numerous well-attired flats and houses, all with an extra room for guests and a nice flat-screen for the wall. We’re also awaiting the promised, lavish dinner when the publication is finally confirmed.
So why am I reading this you might ask?
The issue at hand is there is no book. There will be no dinner and consequentially there can be no house for a lack of advanced finance. Its only come to light recently and no one knows how to play it yet. I’m not tempted to say anything for he’s a friend’s friend. Its not my place.
My friend has simply dropped the book story, stopped asking questions to allow the story to be forgotten like drunken gossip. No one wants an open confrontation. The book has taken on a surreal life of it own. Its very absence, its non-existence has given it life. We’ve weaved it into our lives. We’re writing the idea of the book into our story. We’ll remember it as we age over whiskey and mull over times past. We’ll sip and smile.
But I couldn’t possible write that story. It may not occur. We’ll have to see where the narrative takes us.