Robert Cubitt's Blog - Posts Tagged "humour"
It Only Hurts When I Laugh
The circus is in town and a wizened little man goes into the big top during rehearsals and approaches the ringmaster. “I’ve got an act and I want to join the circus.”
“Ok” says the ring master. “Show me what you’ve got.”
So the man goes into the ring and climbs the tent pole all the way to the top. When he gets there he lets go and stretches out his arms and starts to flap them. He then proceeds to fly round the inside of the big top, doing loop the loops and barrel rolls, swooping and soaring, all the time flapping his arms for all he’s worth. After five minutes he settles gently onto the ground in front of the ringmaster once more.
“What do you think?” The little man asks.
“Is that it? You do bird impressions?”
Boom boom.
My apologies to the long running TV series M*A*S*H for stealing that joke. But did you laugh at it? If nothing else it does show you how up to date my TV viewing is these days. Actually the series is being re-run on True Entertainment (Freeview Channel 61) for those of you that are fans.
The reason I ask is that comedy in the written word is very hard to do. What one person finds amusing will pass over another person’s head and may be misinterpreted completely. Stand-up comedians spend hours practicing in front of test audiences above pubs and in tiny comedy clubs making sure their material works before they unleash it on their target audience, whether it is in a larger comedy club, at The Edinburgh Fringe or in the 02 arena. A writer doesn’t have that luxury. If he gets it wrong then it could cost him his audience forever. It’s a one shot deal.
Of course the writer may have an editor that may question the suitability of a joke, its comic value, its relevance to the plot and so on. What appeared hilarious when being written in the solitude of my front bedroom may fall as flat as a pancake when it reaches the editor’s desk.
So what does the writer do? Do they trust to their instinct and go for the laughs, or do they play safe and keep the story serious. Is there room for both?
Another problem is that it’s tough to sustain comedy over a long period. A stage comedian works at a rate of two or three laughs a minute. Story telling comedians may string a joke out for three or four minutes before getting to the punch line. So how many jokes does the writer need to put into a story to give it that humorous feel? Is it one per page? One every thousand words? One per chapter?
Let’s say it’s the latter. My books generally run out at about 25 chapters. Some have more and some less. At the rate of one significant joke per chapter the sums are easy enough. 25 jokes for a stand-up comedian, therefore, is about ten minutes worth of material. Perhaps half the duration of a comedy club slot. That’s a lot of jokes and every one of them has to hit the mark.
Of course not all the humour in a book has to be in the form of joke. Some of it can be situational. The writer gets a lot of leeway in this area, painting pictures of absurd characters or giving them funny things to do or say. The writer can make his characters do silly things. He can make them stupid to the point of imbecility. He can make them accident prone. He can make them pompous or self-important. But he still has to maintain the humour for over 80,000 words (that’s about the acceptable minimum length for a novel these days). That’s a lot of jokes to have to write.
Name one well known writer who is noted mainly for the humour in his novels. Difficult, isn’t it? There are plenty who write short pieces for newspapers and magazines. The now defunct Punch magazine was known for them. But ask them to extend that to a full blown novel and you would start to see the panic in their eyes. There have been some, of course. Terry Pratchett has managed to achieve this in many of his works, but not all of them by any means. Douglas Adams made it work in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. The late Keith Waterhouse wrote Billy Liar and I’ve already mentioned M*A*S*H, which made three outings as books for Richard Hooker (real name H. Richard Hornberger). Twelve others in the franchise were ghost written by William E Butterworth and were less critically acclaimed because of it. But when we talk about humorous writing we are often talking about satirical works or parodies, rather than books that are intended solely to be funny.
I’ve read a few books recently which, according to the blurb on Amazon, were laugh a minute works. I have to say that they generally failed to make me laugh. The jokes often descended into slap-stick and that is a visual media. More often the jokes were non-existent. So, as someone who likes to introduce a lighter note into my books, that makes me a little bit nervous. What if my readers don’t get the jokes?
Well I’ve hedged my bets a bit by not claiming that my books are funny. That way at least I’ll be managing expectations. But that is a double edged sword. A lot of the time we laugh at jokes because we know they’re jokes and we’re waiting for the punch line. If they were told in a more serious tone of voice with no comedic preamble would we automatically laugh? Maybe, but maybe not.
Like most people I have preferences when it comes to comedy. I laugh at some comedians more readily than I will laugh at others. We all know that humour is a very personal thing, as evidenced by the joke I started with. Some people will have laughed and others won’t. There are some comedians who fail to make me laugh at all. These are usually comedians that I don’t like for other reasons. I’ll name no names – you read the newspapers so you probably know who I mean. Does that mean I don’t find them funny? Or does that mean I’m determined not to find them funny even if they are? I suspect the latter.
So, humour in a novel is fraught with difficulty, for both the writer and the reader. All I can say is that if you find yourself
laughing at my books then the jokes were intended. If you don’t laugh then the book is a serious work of fiction and therefore not the place for me to start telling jokes. Either way I hope you enjoy them.
To finnd out more vitis my website http://robertcubitt.com/books.html
“Ok” says the ring master. “Show me what you’ve got.”
So the man goes into the ring and climbs the tent pole all the way to the top. When he gets there he lets go and stretches out his arms and starts to flap them. He then proceeds to fly round the inside of the big top, doing loop the loops and barrel rolls, swooping and soaring, all the time flapping his arms for all he’s worth. After five minutes he settles gently onto the ground in front of the ringmaster once more.
“What do you think?” The little man asks.
“Is that it? You do bird impressions?”
Boom boom.
My apologies to the long running TV series M*A*S*H for stealing that joke. But did you laugh at it? If nothing else it does show you how up to date my TV viewing is these days. Actually the series is being re-run on True Entertainment (Freeview Channel 61) for those of you that are fans.
The reason I ask is that comedy in the written word is very hard to do. What one person finds amusing will pass over another person’s head and may be misinterpreted completely. Stand-up comedians spend hours practicing in front of test audiences above pubs and in tiny comedy clubs making sure their material works before they unleash it on their target audience, whether it is in a larger comedy club, at The Edinburgh Fringe or in the 02 arena. A writer doesn’t have that luxury. If he gets it wrong then it could cost him his audience forever. It’s a one shot deal.
Of course the writer may have an editor that may question the suitability of a joke, its comic value, its relevance to the plot and so on. What appeared hilarious when being written in the solitude of my front bedroom may fall as flat as a pancake when it reaches the editor’s desk.
So what does the writer do? Do they trust to their instinct and go for the laughs, or do they play safe and keep the story serious. Is there room for both?
Another problem is that it’s tough to sustain comedy over a long period. A stage comedian works at a rate of two or three laughs a minute. Story telling comedians may string a joke out for three or four minutes before getting to the punch line. So how many jokes does the writer need to put into a story to give it that humorous feel? Is it one per page? One every thousand words? One per chapter?
Let’s say it’s the latter. My books generally run out at about 25 chapters. Some have more and some less. At the rate of one significant joke per chapter the sums are easy enough. 25 jokes for a stand-up comedian, therefore, is about ten minutes worth of material. Perhaps half the duration of a comedy club slot. That’s a lot of jokes and every one of them has to hit the mark.
Of course not all the humour in a book has to be in the form of joke. Some of it can be situational. The writer gets a lot of leeway in this area, painting pictures of absurd characters or giving them funny things to do or say. The writer can make his characters do silly things. He can make them stupid to the point of imbecility. He can make them accident prone. He can make them pompous or self-important. But he still has to maintain the humour for over 80,000 words (that’s about the acceptable minimum length for a novel these days). That’s a lot of jokes to have to write.
Name one well known writer who is noted mainly for the humour in his novels. Difficult, isn’t it? There are plenty who write short pieces for newspapers and magazines. The now defunct Punch magazine was known for them. But ask them to extend that to a full blown novel and you would start to see the panic in their eyes. There have been some, of course. Terry Pratchett has managed to achieve this in many of his works, but not all of them by any means. Douglas Adams made it work in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. The late Keith Waterhouse wrote Billy Liar and I’ve already mentioned M*A*S*H, which made three outings as books for Richard Hooker (real name H. Richard Hornberger). Twelve others in the franchise were ghost written by William E Butterworth and were less critically acclaimed because of it. But when we talk about humorous writing we are often talking about satirical works or parodies, rather than books that are intended solely to be funny.
I’ve read a few books recently which, according to the blurb on Amazon, were laugh a minute works. I have to say that they generally failed to make me laugh. The jokes often descended into slap-stick and that is a visual media. More often the jokes were non-existent. So, as someone who likes to introduce a lighter note into my books, that makes me a little bit nervous. What if my readers don’t get the jokes?
Well I’ve hedged my bets a bit by not claiming that my books are funny. That way at least I’ll be managing expectations. But that is a double edged sword. A lot of the time we laugh at jokes because we know they’re jokes and we’re waiting for the punch line. If they were told in a more serious tone of voice with no comedic preamble would we automatically laugh? Maybe, but maybe not.
Like most people I have preferences when it comes to comedy. I laugh at some comedians more readily than I will laugh at others. We all know that humour is a very personal thing, as evidenced by the joke I started with. Some people will have laughed and others won’t. There are some comedians who fail to make me laugh at all. These are usually comedians that I don’t like for other reasons. I’ll name no names – you read the newspapers so you probably know who I mean. Does that mean I don’t find them funny? Or does that mean I’m determined not to find them funny even if they are? I suspect the latter.
So, humour in a novel is fraught with difficulty, for both the writer and the reader. All I can say is that if you find yourself
laughing at my books then the jokes were intended. If you don’t laugh then the book is a serious work of fiction and therefore not the place for me to start telling jokes. Either way I hope you enjoy them.
To finnd out more vitis my website http://robertcubitt.com/books.html
The Conversation - Version 1
The two women tapped their way into the bar on their high heels, giggling and whispering. He looked up and gave them a smile, welcoming but not encouraging. He was used to seeing them sitting poolside at this time of day, stretched out on sun loungers and sacrificing their skin to the heat of the Mediterranean sun. Not today though. The fine, unseasonal drizzle discouraged the pool users.
He turned his attention back to his laptop and continued to type. He was briefly aware that after leaving the bar with their drinks the women had taken seats at the table next to where he sat, but he kept his eyes on the screen and tapped in the next sentence, focused on his self-appointed task.
There was a loud cough, clearly designed to attract his attention.
“Your wife not with you today?” One of them, the brunette, asked. She was always the one to start a conversation, he had noticed. His wife had referred to her as ‘the gobby one’.
He wondered whether to answer. It might signal the start of a longer conversation, which he didn’t really want. In the end good manners took control. He looked up. “No. She’s not feeling too well. We think it was something she ate.”
“Here?” The woman sounded alarmed at the possibility that she might get food poisoning from the hotel cuisine.
“No. We’re only on B&B so went out for dinner last night. I’m fine but Bernice had the prawn cocktail and that may have been the cause. We both had the same main course so it couldn’t have been that.”
“Oh, poor thing. Is she really bad?” The blonde spoke for the first time.
“Upset tummy. She doesn’t feel up to coming down. She doesn’t want to be more than a few feet from the loo.” He grimaced. The two women sympathetically mirrored his expression.
“Where was it you ate?” Gobby asked, determined to keep his attention.
“Big place on the sea front in the Old Town. It’s called Miguel’s, I think”
“Thanks for the warning. We’ll be sure to give it a wide berth.” The woman stuck the straw from her drink into her mouth and pursed her lips to suck some of the liquid into her mouth.
He used the opportunity to return to his typing and he could hear the murmur of conversation at the next table. It wasn’t loud enough to be intrusive. He was given a few minutes to concentrate before they interrupted him again.
“Are you working during your holidays?” The brunette, Gobby, broke in accusingly. Her accent was north western, not as broad as scouse nor as harsh as mancunian. More Lancashire perhaps.
“It helps to pass the time on a damp day like this.” He defended himself.
“What are you working on?”
“Writing a book. It’s what I do for a living these days.”
“Anything I’ve read?”
“I don’t know what you’ve read. Have you heard of Professor Little?”
“No. Can’t say I have.”
“Nor me.” The blonde didn’t want to be left out of the conversation.
“He’s an amateur detective and he’s in all my books. Well, he’s a professor at a university really, but he always seems to get involved in murder investigations.”
“A bit like Father Brown.” The blonde commented
“Yes, a bit.” He acknowledged.
“Whose he?” Brunette asked, a little bit confused.
“You know, him off the telly, in the afternoons.”
“I never see telly in the afternoons. I’m at work, remember. We can’t all afford to sit around all day watching the telly.”
“Not all day.” The blonde protested. “Only while the kids are at school and after I’ve finished the housework.”
He tried to get back to his typing, but the two women were obviously bored and looking for some distraction. They had decided it would be him.
“So where do you get your ideas from?” The brunette persisted.
He stifled a sigh but conceded defeat. Picking up his beer glass he took a swig before answering.
“Stories are all around us. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open and you have the start of a story. Then you just have to make it interesting enough for people to want to read it.”
“Aren’t people interesting enough as they are?”
“Not really. Not interesting enough for a book anyway. People don’t want to read about people who have lives just like their own. They want to read about people who have adventures. The characters may appear to be like themselves, at the start, but then something happens to make the story more exciting. Then people will read on.”
“So how would you make that work with a couple of girls like us?”
‘Girls’ was stretching it, a bit, he thought. They were both in their mid to late thirties, but he thought he may as well go for it. After all, they’d started the conversation.
He checked out a few key indicators, just as his protagonist Professor Little would have done, then took another pull at his beer to give himself time to think.
“OK, well, here you are, two women in your early thirties” he flattered them and the blonde had the decency to blush. “One of you is married and the other not. Perhaps you’re in a long term relationship.” He looked at the brunette and she gave a slight nod of encouragement. “You’ve known each other for years, maybe since school. Each year you take a holiday together without your partners.”
“That’s good. How did you know all that?” The blonde asked, slightly in awe of his deductive powers.
“Wedding and engagement rings and ear wigging on your conversations when you’ve been sat beside the pool. Not really clever, just nosey. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“We’ll have to be more careful about what we say, Maggie.” The brunette said. Maggie, the blonde, giggled.
“So, that’s got the basics. Each year you go on holiday for a bit of fun and freedom without your partners. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, you agree. You have a few drinks, flirt with the blokes a bit but nothing serious. Maybe a kiss and a cuddle with the men, but no more than that. You’re nice girls.”
“Too right we are.” Maggie said with emphasis. “I would never cheat on my Darren.”
“Nor me. With Mike I mean, not Darren” The brunette crossed her arms, her whole body posture changing as she took offence.
“Calm down, ladies. It’s only a game. I don’t know either of you and I’m making this up as I go along.”
The brunette relaxed a little, but stayed alert for the possibility of more slights against her character. He wished he’d never started this, but he was committed now.
“So, there we are, just two women having a fun holiday together. Thousands of women do the same thing every year, so that wouldn’t sell any books. From that I’d have to make it more exciting.”
“How do you do that?” Maggie asked.
He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “Imagination. I have to think of something to make the story more interesting. Maybe you become involved in a crime or terrorism. You start off as innocent bystanders and get drawn in by what you witness. Whatever it is it has to be believable for the reader, but it also has to be exciting. In your case I think I’d go for a romance angle.”
“We’re not like that. We told you.” The brunette crossed her arms again, once more on the defensive.
“You’re not, but you aren’t you anymore. Now you’re my characters. I can do anything I like with you in my story. After all, it isn’t real. It’s all out of my imagination.”
“OK. I’ll buy that.” Maggie said. “You’ve got me hooked. What happens next?”
“Well, it’s more about what happens before. I have to go into your back story to find things to change in some way for you to do what you’re going to do. So you, Maggie, maybe your marriage is getting a bit stale. Things aren’t the way they used to be. Maybe your sex life has dried up, or has become so boring that you wish it had dried up. So the chance a little bit of an adventure would be quite appealing. You, on the other hand,” he turned to the brunette, “are just about to get married. This is your last taste of freedom before the big day. You’re tempted to go a bit wild; have one last fling before you settle down to a life of domestic bliss.”
He saw Maggie look down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. He thought she might be close to tears. Had he gone too far? Was he too close to the mark? Was her marriage really in trouble? No. They had encouraged this conversation and if they didn’t like it they could stop it any time they wanted to.
“So what happens next?” The brunette’s eyes shone with curiosity. She now seemed to be enjoying the story.
“You go to a night club. You drink a bit too much and you meet a couple of guys who try to chat you up. We’ll call them Boff and Knobhead. You both fancy Boff and neither of you want to know Knobhead, but neither of you realises how the other feels about Boff. All four of you get a taxi back here together and end the night sitting beside the swimming pool drinking and talking. Knobhead is so drunk he falls asleep, so he’s out of the game. Both of you wish that the other would go to bed, leaving you alone with Boff. One of you has to go to the loo, let’s say it’s you Maggie, and when you comes back she finds Boff and… sorry, I don’t know your name.” He had narrowly escaped calling her ‘Gobby’.
“Debra”
“Ok, Debra, when Maggie comes back she finds you in a clinch with Boff.”
“So what happens next?” Maggie was now caught up in the story as deeply as Debra.
“Maggie grabs her handbag and says she’s off to bed, she’s clearly angry. Boff says no; why not stay together? Maggie says she can see what’s going on and doesn’t want to get in the way. Boff suggests that she wouldn’t be in the way if she joined in.”
The two women exchange startled looks. He’d caught them on the hop. They hadn’t been expecting that. Almost as one they raised their hands to their mouths and giggled nervously.
“So what happens next?” Maggie and Debra both spoke at the same time.
“See, I’ve got you hooked. The lives of two ordinary women have just become interesting enough to want you to read to the end of the book.
“But you have to tell us what happens next.” Maggie demanded, an edge to her voice.
“I don’t have a clue. That would be the end of the first part of the book, what we writers call the first act. The second act would change the lives of the two characters. It would probably create conflict and break up their friendship. Books, all books, are basically about conflict. Act three, the last part of the book, would bring the two of you back together again, but as different people with a different, stronger relationship. And they all lived happily ever after.”
“But I still want know what happens next. Do Boff and Debra and me……”
“It’s only a story, Maggie.” He tried to placate her. “It didn’t really happen and, according to you both, it never would happen.” He closed the lid of his laptop and stood up, ready to leave. “Tell you what. It’s still raining so you won’t be going back to the pool any time soon. Why not tell each other the rest of the story. You might be surprised at how it turns out.”
He turned and strode off towards the bank of lifts that would take him back to his room. He could feel the eyes of the two women boring into his back. He allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps he had already changed their lives.
He found his wife as he had left her, lying on the bed in the darkened room with a damp towel across her forehead. She stirred slightly at the sound of his arrival.
“What are you doing?” She said, he voice barely audible.
He sat at the small table that occupied the corner of the bedroom. “Sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She murmured a negative.
“I’ve just had a really good idea for a book. I want to get the basics down before I forget them.”
He clicked on a table lamp, opened his laptop and started typing once again.
A slightly different version of this story will be posted shortly - which one will you prefer?
He turned his attention back to his laptop and continued to type. He was briefly aware that after leaving the bar with their drinks the women had taken seats at the table next to where he sat, but he kept his eyes on the screen and tapped in the next sentence, focused on his self-appointed task.
There was a loud cough, clearly designed to attract his attention.
“Your wife not with you today?” One of them, the brunette, asked. She was always the one to start a conversation, he had noticed. His wife had referred to her as ‘the gobby one’.
He wondered whether to answer. It might signal the start of a longer conversation, which he didn’t really want. In the end good manners took control. He looked up. “No. She’s not feeling too well. We think it was something she ate.”
“Here?” The woman sounded alarmed at the possibility that she might get food poisoning from the hotel cuisine.
“No. We’re only on B&B so went out for dinner last night. I’m fine but Bernice had the prawn cocktail and that may have been the cause. We both had the same main course so it couldn’t have been that.”
“Oh, poor thing. Is she really bad?” The blonde spoke for the first time.
“Upset tummy. She doesn’t feel up to coming down. She doesn’t want to be more than a few feet from the loo.” He grimaced. The two women sympathetically mirrored his expression.
“Where was it you ate?” Gobby asked, determined to keep his attention.
“Big place on the sea front in the Old Town. It’s called Miguel’s, I think”
“Thanks for the warning. We’ll be sure to give it a wide berth.” The woman stuck the straw from her drink into her mouth and pursed her lips to suck some of the liquid into her mouth.
He used the opportunity to return to his typing and he could hear the murmur of conversation at the next table. It wasn’t loud enough to be intrusive. He was given a few minutes to concentrate before they interrupted him again.
“Are you working during your holidays?” The brunette, Gobby, broke in accusingly. Her accent was north western, not as broad as scouse nor as harsh as mancunian. More Lancashire perhaps.
“It helps to pass the time on a damp day like this.” He defended himself.
“What are you working on?”
“Writing a book. It’s what I do for a living these days.”
“Anything I’ve read?”
“I don’t know what you’ve read. Have you heard of Professor Little?”
“No. Can’t say I have.”
“Nor me.” The blonde didn’t want to be left out of the conversation.
“He’s an amateur detective and he’s in all my books. Well, he’s a professor at a university really, but he always seems to get involved in murder investigations.”
“A bit like Father Brown.” The blonde commented
“Yes, a bit.” He acknowledged.
“Whose he?” Brunette asked, a little bit confused.
“You know, him off the telly, in the afternoons.”
“I never see telly in the afternoons. I’m at work, remember. We can’t all afford to sit around all day watching the telly.”
“Not all day.” The blonde protested. “Only while the kids are at school and after I’ve finished the housework.”
He tried to get back to his typing, but the two women were obviously bored and looking for some distraction. They had decided it would be him.
“So where do you get your ideas from?” The brunette persisted.
He stifled a sigh but conceded defeat. Picking up his beer glass he took a swig before answering.
“Stories are all around us. All you have to do is keep your eyes and ears open and you have the start of a story. Then you just have to make it interesting enough for people to want to read it.”
“Aren’t people interesting enough as they are?”
“Not really. Not interesting enough for a book anyway. People don’t want to read about people who have lives just like their own. They want to read about people who have adventures. The characters may appear to be like themselves, at the start, but then something happens to make the story more exciting. Then people will read on.”
“So how would you make that work with a couple of girls like us?”
‘Girls’ was stretching it, a bit, he thought. They were both in their mid to late thirties, but he thought he may as well go for it. After all, they’d started the conversation.
He checked out a few key indicators, just as his protagonist Professor Little would have done, then took another pull at his beer to give himself time to think.
“OK, well, here you are, two women in your early thirties” he flattered them and the blonde had the decency to blush. “One of you is married and the other not. Perhaps you’re in a long term relationship.” He looked at the brunette and she gave a slight nod of encouragement. “You’ve known each other for years, maybe since school. Each year you take a holiday together without your partners.”
“That’s good. How did you know all that?” The blonde asked, slightly in awe of his deductive powers.
“Wedding and engagement rings and ear wigging on your conversations when you’ve been sat beside the pool. Not really clever, just nosey. It’s an occupational hazard.”
“We’ll have to be more careful about what we say, Maggie.” The brunette said. Maggie, the blonde, giggled.
“So, that’s got the basics. Each year you go on holiday for a bit of fun and freedom without your partners. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, you agree. You have a few drinks, flirt with the blokes a bit but nothing serious. Maybe a kiss and a cuddle with the men, but no more than that. You’re nice girls.”
“Too right we are.” Maggie said with emphasis. “I would never cheat on my Darren.”
“Nor me. With Mike I mean, not Darren” The brunette crossed her arms, her whole body posture changing as she took offence.
“Calm down, ladies. It’s only a game. I don’t know either of you and I’m making this up as I go along.”
The brunette relaxed a little, but stayed alert for the possibility of more slights against her character. He wished he’d never started this, but he was committed now.
“So, there we are, just two women having a fun holiday together. Thousands of women do the same thing every year, so that wouldn’t sell any books. From that I’d have to make it more exciting.”
“How do you do that?” Maggie asked.
He tapped the side of his head with his index finger. “Imagination. I have to think of something to make the story more interesting. Maybe you become involved in a crime or terrorism. You start off as innocent bystanders and get drawn in by what you witness. Whatever it is it has to be believable for the reader, but it also has to be exciting. In your case I think I’d go for a romance angle.”
“We’re not like that. We told you.” The brunette crossed her arms again, once more on the defensive.
“You’re not, but you aren’t you anymore. Now you’re my characters. I can do anything I like with you in my story. After all, it isn’t real. It’s all out of my imagination.”
“OK. I’ll buy that.” Maggie said. “You’ve got me hooked. What happens next?”
“Well, it’s more about what happens before. I have to go into your back story to find things to change in some way for you to do what you’re going to do. So you, Maggie, maybe your marriage is getting a bit stale. Things aren’t the way they used to be. Maybe your sex life has dried up, or has become so boring that you wish it had dried up. So the chance a little bit of an adventure would be quite appealing. You, on the other hand,” he turned to the brunette, “are just about to get married. This is your last taste of freedom before the big day. You’re tempted to go a bit wild; have one last fling before you settle down to a life of domestic bliss.”
He saw Maggie look down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. He thought she might be close to tears. Had he gone too far? Was he too close to the mark? Was her marriage really in trouble? No. They had encouraged this conversation and if they didn’t like it they could stop it any time they wanted to.
“So what happens next?” The brunette’s eyes shone with curiosity. She now seemed to be enjoying the story.
“You go to a night club. You drink a bit too much and you meet a couple of guys who try to chat you up. We’ll call them Boff and Knobhead. You both fancy Boff and neither of you want to know Knobhead, but neither of you realises how the other feels about Boff. All four of you get a taxi back here together and end the night sitting beside the swimming pool drinking and talking. Knobhead is so drunk he falls asleep, so he’s out of the game. Both of you wish that the other would go to bed, leaving you alone with Boff. One of you has to go to the loo, let’s say it’s you Maggie, and when you comes back she finds Boff and… sorry, I don’t know your name.” He had narrowly escaped calling her ‘Gobby’.
“Debra”
“Ok, Debra, when Maggie comes back she finds you in a clinch with Boff.”
“So what happens next?” Maggie was now caught up in the story as deeply as Debra.
“Maggie grabs her handbag and says she’s off to bed, she’s clearly angry. Boff says no; why not stay together? Maggie says she can see what’s going on and doesn’t want to get in the way. Boff suggests that she wouldn’t be in the way if she joined in.”
The two women exchange startled looks. He’d caught them on the hop. They hadn’t been expecting that. Almost as one they raised their hands to their mouths and giggled nervously.
“So what happens next?” Maggie and Debra both spoke at the same time.
“See, I’ve got you hooked. The lives of two ordinary women have just become interesting enough to want you to read to the end of the book.
“But you have to tell us what happens next.” Maggie demanded, an edge to her voice.
“I don’t have a clue. That would be the end of the first part of the book, what we writers call the first act. The second act would change the lives of the two characters. It would probably create conflict and break up their friendship. Books, all books, are basically about conflict. Act three, the last part of the book, would bring the two of you back together again, but as different people with a different, stronger relationship. And they all lived happily ever after.”
“But I still want know what happens next. Do Boff and Debra and me……”
“It’s only a story, Maggie.” He tried to placate her. “It didn’t really happen and, according to you both, it never would happen.” He closed the lid of his laptop and stood up, ready to leave. “Tell you what. It’s still raining so you won’t be going back to the pool any time soon. Why not tell each other the rest of the story. You might be surprised at how it turns out.”
He turned and strode off towards the bank of lifts that would take him back to his room. He could feel the eyes of the two women boring into his back. He allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps he had already changed their lives.
He found his wife as he had left her, lying on the bed in the darkened room with a damp towel across her forehead. She stirred slightly at the sound of his arrival.
“What are you doing?” She said, he voice barely audible.
He sat at the small table that occupied the corner of the bedroom. “Sorry. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
She murmured a negative.
“I’ve just had a really good idea for a book. I want to get the basics down before I forget them.”
He clicked on a table lamp, opened his laptop and started typing once again.
A slightly different version of this story will be posted shortly - which one will you prefer?
A Meeting On The Road
In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, "Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage." Matthew 2: 1-2
Caspar sat beside his camp fire and offered up his hands to its warmth. He had travelled far but soon his journey would be ended. A noise made him sit upright, alert and ready. He reached for his stout staff and gripped it tightly.
“Caspar, you old goat. Mind if I join you by your fire?”
Caspar looked around as his name was called, peering into the darkness. At last he made out a figure, leading a camel by its rope.
“Melchior. Old goat yourself. I should have known that thing would attract your attention.” He gestured towards the bright object that illuminated the night sky. “Come and be welcome. Do you have food or wine?”
“Plenty of both, and I’ll share them willingly in exchange for the use of your fire and your company for the night.”
As the new arrival settled his camel for the night and took his seat next to the warming blaze Caspar re-started the conversation.
“What do you think it is, that bright object?”
“A new star, perhaps. It is surely a sign.”
“It is a comet.” A fresh voice echoed out of the darkness.
“I know that voice.” Melchior barked out a laugh. “Balthasar, were you following me?”
“Not so much following as going the same way.”
“Come, friend Balthasar, sit with us.” Caspar beckoned him forward.
“And you, too, may share in what food I have.” Melchior added.
“No, let me contribute. I don’t have much, just some dates and a stale loaf of bread, but it will add to your feast.”
“So, friend Balthasar.” Caspar was anxious to ask a question. “What is this thing, this comet?”
“It is something we have seen before, though not in this lifetime. There are descriptions in the books of knowledge. You can tell it’s a comet by the tail that follows it. Its coming is a sign of great portent.”
“So what is the difference between a star and a comet?” Asked Caspar, tearing a lump off of a loaf of bread.
“The only difference I have seen is that the comet moves through the firmament but the stars stay more or less constant. No one knows more than that.”
“Does this comet have a name?”
“I was thinking of calling it Bailey’s Comet. It seems to fit with the season. I have some in my bag if you would like a sip.”
Caspar and Melchior laughed at their friend’s joke as they passed the bottle around.
“So what is this comet made of?” Melchior asked, his interest piqued.
“I have no idea. We would need to send some craft up there to find out.”
They all laughed at this new ribaldry. Send a craft into the sky to find out what a comet was made of, indeed. Such an implausible act.
“Where do you think it will lead us?”
Balthasar answered. “Bethlehem, I have no doubt. I passed through Jerusalem on my way here. The temple scholars are abuzz with gossip. They say that the star, sorry, comet is a symbol of the birth of the Messiah who will lead the Jews to freedom.”
“The Jews breed Messiah’s by the dozen. Or so it is said.” Melchior commented.
“True, but King Herod takes it seriously. He commanded me to find the child and return to him with news of its location, so that he may go to worship.”
“King Herod will do many things, I’m sure, but worship the arrival of the Messiah isn’t one of them.” Melchior counselled. “I advise you to return home by a different route and give Jerusalem a wide birth.”
“Why he didn’t just have you followed I don’t know.” Caspar grunted. “He might even have offered you an escort to protect you from bandits.”
“I’d be more worried by Romans than bandits.” Balthasar commented dryly as he patted the hefty Arabian scimitar that he had laid on the ground beside him.
Together they chanted “What did the Romans ever do for us?” then laughed so much they nearly choked on their food. The bottle did another circuit.
“So how’s the Magi business treating you two?” Caspar asked his companions.
“Rubbish.” Melchior answered for them both. “How can you make any money out of being a wise man when the internet can answer any question almost instantly.”
To read the rest of this short story please visit my website http://robertcubitt.com/bobs-blog.html If you read this after 27th December 2014 please look in the December 2014 archive. May I wish a Merry Christmas to my reader.
Caspar sat beside his camp fire and offered up his hands to its warmth. He had travelled far but soon his journey would be ended. A noise made him sit upright, alert and ready. He reached for his stout staff and gripped it tightly.
“Caspar, you old goat. Mind if I join you by your fire?”
Caspar looked around as his name was called, peering into the darkness. At last he made out a figure, leading a camel by its rope.
“Melchior. Old goat yourself. I should have known that thing would attract your attention.” He gestured towards the bright object that illuminated the night sky. “Come and be welcome. Do you have food or wine?”
“Plenty of both, and I’ll share them willingly in exchange for the use of your fire and your company for the night.”
As the new arrival settled his camel for the night and took his seat next to the warming blaze Caspar re-started the conversation.
“What do you think it is, that bright object?”
“A new star, perhaps. It is surely a sign.”
“It is a comet.” A fresh voice echoed out of the darkness.
“I know that voice.” Melchior barked out a laugh. “Balthasar, were you following me?”
“Not so much following as going the same way.”
“Come, friend Balthasar, sit with us.” Caspar beckoned him forward.
“And you, too, may share in what food I have.” Melchior added.
“No, let me contribute. I don’t have much, just some dates and a stale loaf of bread, but it will add to your feast.”
“So, friend Balthasar.” Caspar was anxious to ask a question. “What is this thing, this comet?”
“It is something we have seen before, though not in this lifetime. There are descriptions in the books of knowledge. You can tell it’s a comet by the tail that follows it. Its coming is a sign of great portent.”
“So what is the difference between a star and a comet?” Asked Caspar, tearing a lump off of a loaf of bread.
“The only difference I have seen is that the comet moves through the firmament but the stars stay more or less constant. No one knows more than that.”
“Does this comet have a name?”
“I was thinking of calling it Bailey’s Comet. It seems to fit with the season. I have some in my bag if you would like a sip.”
Caspar and Melchior laughed at their friend’s joke as they passed the bottle around.
“So what is this comet made of?” Melchior asked, his interest piqued.
“I have no idea. We would need to send some craft up there to find out.”
They all laughed at this new ribaldry. Send a craft into the sky to find out what a comet was made of, indeed. Such an implausible act.
“Where do you think it will lead us?”
Balthasar answered. “Bethlehem, I have no doubt. I passed through Jerusalem on my way here. The temple scholars are abuzz with gossip. They say that the star, sorry, comet is a symbol of the birth of the Messiah who will lead the Jews to freedom.”
“The Jews breed Messiah’s by the dozen. Or so it is said.” Melchior commented.
“True, but King Herod takes it seriously. He commanded me to find the child and return to him with news of its location, so that he may go to worship.”
“King Herod will do many things, I’m sure, but worship the arrival of the Messiah isn’t one of them.” Melchior counselled. “I advise you to return home by a different route and give Jerusalem a wide birth.”
“Why he didn’t just have you followed I don’t know.” Caspar grunted. “He might even have offered you an escort to protect you from bandits.”
“I’d be more worried by Romans than bandits.” Balthasar commented dryly as he patted the hefty Arabian scimitar that he had laid on the ground beside him.
Together they chanted “What did the Romans ever do for us?” then laughed so much they nearly choked on their food. The bottle did another circuit.
“So how’s the Magi business treating you two?” Caspar asked his companions.
“Rubbish.” Melchior answered for them both. “How can you make any money out of being a wise man when the internet can answer any question almost instantly.”
To read the rest of this short story please visit my website http://robertcubitt.com/bobs-blog.html If you read this after 27th December 2014 please look in the December 2014 archive. May I wish a Merry Christmas to my reader.
