SHANNON: (to writing department) Fuck you. [Tick!]
Byron takes a drink of coffee.
BYRON: Okay. So...
Title. Check. Name. Check. Date. Double check. I’ve even formatted it to maximize letter size, thereby minimizing the word count and migraines. Speaking of which...
Byron types a few strokes on his laptop. He looks over at the goldfish bowl on the desk to his right, grins at it.
BYRON: Twenty three words and counting, Cat, and all I had to do was stop checking my email obsessively, sit down, and start typing. This will be simple, look how far I am already! I’ve got a mind blowing premise that avoids the topics of death, true love, and speculation about the afterlife. I didn’t even cop out and write a monologue about writing a monologue! How lame would THAT have been?
I don’t know why I spent the last three days in the Starbucks searching for my muse, sucking back caramel macchiatos like a tree planter after four months in the bush. The only thing I got out of that was a fistful of napkins with my now utterly perfected signatures on them, and a serious case of the sugar shakes. From now on, it’s Coffee-mate for me! At least until the next pay cheque comes: addictions are expensive to keep. And yet I cannot help shelling out another twenty for that sweet goodness to give my tongue another lap dance!
He reaches for his mug and takes a long, loud sip. He winces at the taste, and slides the cup as far away from himself as possible.
BYRON: Now, don’t make that face at me, Cat. I’m not saying that having a handcrafted signature won’t have its benefits in the future. You know, when I’m rich, and famous, and have agents for my agents’ agents. Maybe even an agent for you. I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you, Cat? I’ll even sign a copy of my first novel for you, and keep it beside your bowl, to remind you of The Good Old Days. We’ll have to rig up a bell pull so that you can ring one of my agents to turn the pages. Maybe you can dictate a book of memoirs about our time together using some sort of smoke-slash-bubble signal Morse Code...
But I digress. All of that time in the coffee shop, slaving over burning hot papers, brought me to a realization, Cat. Through the haze of foamed milk, I realized something critical about the very nature of writing itself. You must keep this to yourself, though: I fear plagiarism and copyright infringement! The secret to writing is NOT writing well. The secret is making people BELIEVE you can write well, including yourself. Making shit up, in other words. Oh, you raise your scaly eyebrows at me, but consider for a moment: Atwood.
Old Marge. Renowned Canadian writer of all that is rocks, trees, rocks, more trees, and feminism. What a woman! At this point in her career, she could sneeze on some foolscap, put it in an envelope for sanitary purposes, hand it to her editors and have it published that same evening. And by the next morning, it would hit the bestseller’s list across Canada and be the talk of every CBC radio show for the next six months. All because we love to be shot it the face by her dour scowl as the caustic strains of her voice wash over our ears, lecturing us on the finer details of her latest and greatest work of genius. You’ll have to excuse me; I’m getting a little hot and bothered just thinking about it.
Byron takes a fancy scarf out of his back pocket and dabs his forehead with it. He waves it in the air to fan himself.
BYRON: I just don’t know if I can do what she does, Cat. I don’t know if I can stand up there in front of the class and make them believe in my story. Erin is an actress and can write complicated geometry around me. Tom has a far better fashion sense, even taking into consideration those Emo bangs and glasses. And I swear to God, if Monique doesn’t shut up about all the awards she’s already won, I’ll be forced to commit an atrocity!
It’s different, you know, when all that is between you and your critics is a first draft a couple of rows of desks. Nothing shields you from all those egos, all trying to be the best in the game of King of the Slush Pile. I can feel their eyes! The black beady little eyes of carrion crows! Pecking at my face until they reach my brains, rending apart my creativity, eating me alive! JUDGING me!
Byron whimpers, and wraps the scarf around his head like a turban.
BYRON: There, this will keep them out of my head for now. But what will I do in workshop later? I’m no Margaret Atwood, Catherine the Fish. But even Marge must have gone through this too, at some point. How did she survive the trials of a writing class when nobody believed in her writing, when people kept telling her to get a pen name because ‘Margaret’ didn’t sound cool enough? Cat, I must ask myself in this time of despair: What would Atwood do?
Byron looks up at the sky, then back down at the keyboard. Sighs.
BYRON: She would stick up her nose at them, and keep typing. Okay. So...