Ask the Author: Richard Happer
Answered Questions (6)
Richard Happer
I stumbled on the solution to writer's block by accident one dark January night. Feeling low and short of ideas I left the house, walked up to the main street and hopped on the first bus that came along. I sat right at the back, upstairs, and stared out at the slashing rain. The streetlights pulsed past. I could hear the swishing of the bus tyres in the puddles. One by one the other passengers got off. The rain became heavier. Fat drops pounding on the other side of the glass from my cold cheek. My eyelids closed, I suppose, and I drifted off into a sort of sleep.
I snapped awake.
The bus had stopped. It was totally dark outside. I couldn't see anything in the blackness. I could hear the rain was still falling, but it was gentler now. Were we in the terminus?
"You got money, laddie?"
Huh-?!
My head snapped round.
Sitting on the seat next to me was an old man. He wore a crumpled, dirty donkey jacket and had a thick, messy beard. But his eyes were young and blue. They seemed to peer at me from another place.
"What for?" I replied.
"For this," he said, and thrust a dog-eared jotter - the grey type that you get given at school - into my hands.
"What is it?" I asked. But he merely gestured for me to open it.
I did. Inside, every line of every page of the jotter was filled with the most beautiful copper-plate script.
I read a few lines. The first one read, "An idea for a novel about three lovesick men who walk Scotland's West Highland Way. It will be romantic, funny, and a little sad. Here is the full plot..." I skipped ahead a couple of pages. I read another line, "An idea for a novel about a frustrated but endearing man who invents a time-travelling bed so that he can go back and get his 19-year-old self to sort his love life out." The jotter was full, page after page, with such notions.
I looked up at the old man.
"These are interesting ideas," I said.
"They are," he replied. "And though they might not produce bestsellers, these ideas are good for you. Will you buy them?"
"I would," I replied, "but I don't have any money."
"We could make an alternative arrangement," said the old man.
"Like what?"
He reached a grubby, claw-like hand into his dirty donkey jacket and pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper and a pen.
"Just sign this," he said, jabbing the paper into my hands.
"That's all I have to do?" I asked. "Just write my name on this piece of paper and you'll give me this jotter full of ideas for books?"
"Yes."
I shrugged.
"Sure," I said. "Seems like a good deal."
So I signed the piece of paper. The man gave me the jotter. A streetlight flashed by outside the window, suddenly bright. I shielded my eyes. When the streetlight passed I looked round.
The old man had gone.
But where...?
I ran along to the stairs and hurried down them. The bus was stationary, but it wasn't the terminus. It was my stop. There were no other passengers. Just me.
"You getting off or what, pal?" said the driver. "Some of us have got homes to go to."
I got off. I went home. I sat down at my desk. I opened the jotter. I started to write a novel, following the plan on the first page. It went well, and my book got published. More books followed, all as written for me in the jotter.
I never saw the old man with the young eyes again.
But since that night, I have never had to worry about writer's block. When I finish writing a book, I just go back to the jotter for another idea. There are more than enough to last me my lifetime.
So if you ever find yourself out of ideas, head out to the street, get on a bus to anywhere and watch out for the old man. It worked for me and I'm sure it will work for you.
After all, what could possibly go wrong?
I snapped awake.
The bus had stopped. It was totally dark outside. I couldn't see anything in the blackness. I could hear the rain was still falling, but it was gentler now. Were we in the terminus?
"You got money, laddie?"
Huh-?!
My head snapped round.
Sitting on the seat next to me was an old man. He wore a crumpled, dirty donkey jacket and had a thick, messy beard. But his eyes were young and blue. They seemed to peer at me from another place.
"What for?" I replied.
"For this," he said, and thrust a dog-eared jotter - the grey type that you get given at school - into my hands.
"What is it?" I asked. But he merely gestured for me to open it.
I did. Inside, every line of every page of the jotter was filled with the most beautiful copper-plate script.
I read a few lines. The first one read, "An idea for a novel about three lovesick men who walk Scotland's West Highland Way. It will be romantic, funny, and a little sad. Here is the full plot..." I skipped ahead a couple of pages. I read another line, "An idea for a novel about a frustrated but endearing man who invents a time-travelling bed so that he can go back and get his 19-year-old self to sort his love life out." The jotter was full, page after page, with such notions.
I looked up at the old man.
"These are interesting ideas," I said.
"They are," he replied. "And though they might not produce bestsellers, these ideas are good for you. Will you buy them?"
"I would," I replied, "but I don't have any money."
"We could make an alternative arrangement," said the old man.
"Like what?"
He reached a grubby, claw-like hand into his dirty donkey jacket and pulled out a rumpled sheet of paper and a pen.
"Just sign this," he said, jabbing the paper into my hands.
"That's all I have to do?" I asked. "Just write my name on this piece of paper and you'll give me this jotter full of ideas for books?"
"Yes."
I shrugged.
"Sure," I said. "Seems like a good deal."
So I signed the piece of paper. The man gave me the jotter. A streetlight flashed by outside the window, suddenly bright. I shielded my eyes. When the streetlight passed I looked round.
The old man had gone.
But where...?
I ran along to the stairs and hurried down them. The bus was stationary, but it wasn't the terminus. It was my stop. There were no other passengers. Just me.
"You getting off or what, pal?" said the driver. "Some of us have got homes to go to."
I got off. I went home. I sat down at my desk. I opened the jotter. I started to write a novel, following the plan on the first page. It went well, and my book got published. More books followed, all as written for me in the jotter.
I never saw the old man with the young eyes again.
But since that night, I have never had to worry about writer's block. When I finish writing a book, I just go back to the jotter for another idea. There are more than enough to last me my lifetime.
So if you ever find yourself out of ideas, head out to the street, get on a bus to anywhere and watch out for the old man. It worked for me and I'm sure it will work for you.
After all, what could possibly go wrong?
Richard Happer
My jet-set lifestyle and gold-plated lavatory seat.
Seriously, though, it does help people understand why I go through so much wine.
Seriously, though, it does help people understand why I go through so much wine.
Richard Happer
You'd have to ask my subconscious. He's the clown that keeps filling my head with mayhem. I just try to scribble it out of the way as fast as I can.
Richard Happer
A novel for 8-10 year olds who may be just realising that the world is a big and scary place. It's hopefully going to make them laugh in the face of the heartless universe. Talking dogs, a cat that writes poetry, lasers, that sort of thing.
Richard Happer
Get a nice job in banking.
Richard Happer
What if you could go back in time and correct some of the mistakes you've made?
Or even just one tiny thing? Like asking a person for a date or taking a golden opportunity.
Do you think changing it would improve your present-day situation?
Or should even things you regret be left as they are?
These are questions I've often pondered with regard to my own youthful decisions. And I decided to explore this theme by writing a novel called 'Love On The Springs Of My Time-Travelling Bed'.
This tale is about Freddy, who is confused and frustrated with his mid-thirties life and in a moment of what he considers insight decides that his current misery is all the fault of his 19-year-old self. So he builds a time machine and heads back to give his younger self a good stiff talking to, and to help him sort his love life out.
It's clearly a brilliant plan - what could possibly go wrong?
Or even just one tiny thing? Like asking a person for a date or taking a golden opportunity.
Do you think changing it would improve your present-day situation?
Or should even things you regret be left as they are?
These are questions I've often pondered with regard to my own youthful decisions. And I decided to explore this theme by writing a novel called 'Love On The Springs Of My Time-Travelling Bed'.
This tale is about Freddy, who is confused and frustrated with his mid-thirties life and in a moment of what he considers insight decides that his current misery is all the fault of his 19-year-old self. So he builds a time machine and heads back to give his younger self a good stiff talking to, and to help him sort his love life out.
It's clearly a brilliant plan - what could possibly go wrong?
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