In the USA, I'm told, 500 books are published each month. Now, you know and I know that statistics are just a group of numbers looking for a fight, which means that this 500 figure could be way out. However, let's just suppose that it is right and so, my maths tell me (yes, I used to be an accountant), there are around 6,000 books published a year in the USA. Then add in every other country - Venezuela, New Zealand, England, Poland, Canada, France, Brazil, Nigeria and all the rest - and you have a really big number of books published each year … something approaching a zagillion - that's a word I made up for a really big number. Then think of how long books have been published so far … the earliest dated printed book known is the Diamond Sutra, printed in China in 868 CE. In 1041, movable clay type was first invented in China. Johannes Gutenberg, a goldsmith and businessman from the mining town of Mainz in southern Germany, borrowed money to invent the printing press with replaceable/moveable wooden or metal letters in 1436 (completed by 1440).
So, given the length of time printing has been going on and how many books a year are printed, the number of books out there must be nearly a fraptillion - that's a word I made up for a really, really big number.
That then begs the obvious question - why would anyone want to add to that massive pile of ever-increasing books? After all, mustn't everything have already been said with all the kruzatillion words in all those fraptillion books? What else can one say that hasn't already been said? And, the logic tells us (me, anyway!) that if you want to stand out and make a difference in some endeavour, why choose yet another little book in this unimaginably HUGE paper mountain? Surely you're better doing something that few others have done - starting a snail reform school, creating waterproof matches for underwater fires, creating an economy based on chocolate and/or coffee rather than money … stuff like that - to stand out and be heard. Writing another wee book has got to be the most insane waste of effort imaginable to man … and woman. Not sure which man and/or woman so take your pick.
Anyway, given the odds of not being found in this boundaryless paper jungle and the massive likelihood that what you've got to say has already been said, why would anyone choose to be a writer? The answer's obvious. Only an insane person - a certifiably insane person - would choose to write a book. And a totally, manically insane person would choose to write another book and another book. So, what do you call someone who wants to make a career of writing books, one after another, just adding more stuff to an already huge pile of stuff.
There is no word to describe how inordinately insane a person has to be to want to earn a living as a writer - even a wordsmith like me cannot find such a word. The word does not exist … perhaps I need to write a book about that missing word … aahhh! There I go again, wanting to write more and more stuff and, yes, I plead unimaginable insanity because I just want to write and write and write, just like the heptacrullions of other people who also want to write, which just proves that logic has no place in this world of ours - we all do what we want to do just because we want to do it … perhaps I could write another book about the death (or absence) of logic … oops, there I go again!
Anyway, along with every other writer, I plead insanity, illogical insanity, and here followeth the third lot of 2,000 words, telling of Arthur Bayly's adventures - let me know what you think thus far …
“Safer? Aah, yes safer, much safer,” said Mary, looking hopeful and a little relieved.
“How would my home be safer than this building?” asked Arthur as a logical thought popped in. “We have no alarms and things like we do here.”
“No you don’t, Arthur,” said Sam, leaning forward, over his desk. “But the security risk would be gone when you’re … aah, not here,” said Sam, starting to lose his air of mastery.
“So I work from home and everyone’s safe?” asked Arthur while finding it difficult to make things add up.
“Exactly!” said Sam, sitting back, smiling. Arthur felt none of Sam’s evident satisfaction.
“Look, Arthur, we’re not able to go into details at the moment and it’s a big decision,” said Mary, letting out a big breath. “Would you like to go home, discuss it with your wife and come back to us on it?”
“And if we feel I can’t do that?” asked Arthur, plucking up courage.
“Ooh, aah, we hope you don’t come to that conclusion,” said Sam, smiling awkwardly.
“Oh,” said Arthur, feeling the word redundancy hovering somewhere close by. “And how long would this be for – days, weeks, what?”
“Look Arthur, we wish we could tell you more but we just can’t, at this time,” said Mary, looking at Sam as if for support.
“Right, yes, aah, I should go and talk about this to my wife, then?” suggested Arthur as his mind went in and out of focus. He knew he should do something here like stand up, shake hands and walk out but his body wasn’t well connected to his thinking and wouldn’t budge.
“Yes, that’s a grand idea, Arthur,” said Sam, looking relieved. “Go and talk about it with your wife.”
“Right, yes, I can do that,” said Arthur, feeling as if he’d failed somehow.
“Great!” said Sam, standing and extending his hand. “Nice to chat, what!”
Arthur’s body finally responded and got him shakily to his feet. His hand disappeared into Sam’s corpulent fist and was thoroughly shaken and stirred – like his brain, really. “Right, Sir, of course,” said Arthur, following Mary brusquely out of the office and back down to his own desk. He expected Mary to go somewhere else but she plumped herself down on his slightly tatty vinyl swivel chair, while he seated himself behind his desk, feeling less secure by the minute. He looked around and wondered if the Russian spy was not in his imagination but real after all.
“Look, Arthur, I know there’s a lot to absorb,” said Mary in an earnest attempt to be friendly. “Why don’t we just find all the parts of this Atkinson file you’re working on and you take the rest of the day off. Go home. There’s no need to tackle anything else after we’ve seen to the Atkinson file.”
Arthur showed her where all the Atkinson papers and computer files were. Mary said goodbye, shook his hand awkwardly and disappeared up the corridor.
And so Arthur sat. He didn’t quite know what to do next and, if he did, he imagined that his shaky legs would not have been up to the job. He sat. Even his brain was silent, for a change. ‘Right, I said I’d just go,’ said his brain, weakly, after an interminable silence. ‘Perhaps I’d better just do it. Just go.’ No bodily response. Several people looked as they passed. Oddly, Arthur didn’t care what they thought, for the first time in his life. However, he did have to pick himself up, tidy his office, remember all his things and take them and himself from the building in a proper and stately way. Not too much to ask, one would have thought. So he sat for another minute and planned all he was going to do – turn off computer, put files away, put pens and calculator away, stand up, put coat on, ensure he had everything with him and then just go, which he did, as quietly as he’d entered.
Then, he was outside his office, on the street, at eleven thirty in the morning and he had never been here at that time before. He turned towards the underground station and started for home, as he had on at least eight thousand other occasions. He was about to enter the grimy station but looked down the concrete steps and found he couldn’t move.
‘What am I doing?’ his brain asked his mind. ‘I have the rest of the day off and nothing to do.’ He was reminded that other people frequented coffee bars and decided, on the spot, to do that … if, indeed, one can frequent a café just once. As he sat at the tiny table, squished against other chairs, with a coffee and pastry before him, he dropped his head in his hands and felt like crying. It took all the force of his will to stop the tears. He now wished he had been made redundant as there would, at least, have been some certainty, some safety.
Raising his head with a forced smile, he surveyed the passing parade of humanity. The KGB spy wasn’t to be seen but the uncertainty was on his tail. He’d never actually looked at people before and had just assumed that, unlike him, they were all happy and coping with their lives. However, from behind his watery eyes, he fancied he saw the same fear, uncertainty and lostness he felt. Despite the tears, a wry smile persisted. ‘Have I got it so wrong all this time? Am I not the only one who feels lost and alone? Do others feel like me?’
The pastry was adequate to boring but the coffee was actually delicious – the first he had ever had. With a smile, he remembered that he’d made, and not drunk, his first coffee this morning and it was probably still sitting somewhere in his office, a testament to unfinished business … or, he thought giddily, a testament to starting new business, maybe. When the food and drink were finished, he felt too embarrassed to just sit and do nothing, as some people seemed to be doing, and so he did what he did well – he went home.
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