A City of Novels

By David Macpherson

Who wants to create a novel?

 

Everyone.

 

There are cities filled with people bubbling to be a novelist. They abscond themselves in coffee shops in their attempt to make the great novel. Everyone at this coffee shop is writing their novel. The coffee shop itself is working on their its as well.

 

This is one of those cities. There are people who want to help the other potential writers. Others try to knock them down. Other still try to make a quick buck off the writers.

 

This is a strange and twisted portal to the desire to write. Everyone here is writing. No one seems to be reading. Break the mold, read this book. Be the first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Macpherson
• Release date: Jul 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201612009

Book preview

A City of Novels

by

David Macpherson

A City of Novels

Copyright 2021 David Macpherson

All Rights Reserved

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The House Concert

I attended a house concert on a cool evening. The apartment owner is a friend and invited all the writers and artists and musicians he knew. It doesn’t matter what kind of artist you are, it appears, as long as you attend events and put money in the hat when it travels around on its beggar’s journey. We sat on cushions thrown hastily on the floor. A few, mostly the writers, leaned against the walls, spying at the books on the shelves.

The performer for the evening was a folk singer who used loop machines to create the sound of a large band. She sang of garbage pick ups, zombie uprisings, lost love, and two songs about clothing optional beaches. Her words were lost in all the loop recordings of her voice, but I suppose I heard enough to be inspired.

It was on the third song of her second set that I said to myself, Yes. I am going to write a book where I will rework Dicken’s Hard Times as a 1930s Hard Boiled Noir story. That will make a fine novel. It was the song that inspired me, or allowed me to be inspired. I do not recall what the song was about, though I am sure it was not about Victorian England nor hard boiled detectives. But the song made me see how to do it.

I left the concert pleased. I wrote the book in seven weeks, though it is still not in shape to be sent out. But I was happy nonetheless.

Later, in front of other writers, I mentioned the book and when I was inspired. Three other writers who were at the house concert also wrote novels inspired by the folk singer. On further discussion, different songs inspired the writers. One writer seemed very pleased that the inspiration for her book came from the very first song the singer performed. I know it isn’t a race, but I think it is great for me to be so quickly sparked, don’t you? I am just the type to be ready to take whatever is given to me and run. Nothing wrong with you all: waiting, contemplating, weighing in your mind. Nothing wrong at all.

The one thing that was agreed between the writers is that no one wanted to see that folk singer perform again. You can’t trust so much open generosity. It doesn’t seem proper.

The Number on Your Forehead

Henry, the barista at the third best coffee bar in town, can see numbers. He can see where all the novelists are on the one million word quest. After spending so much time serving and cleaning up after all these writers hammering away on their laptops, he can read their word count like there was  a counter on everyone’s foreheads.

He was surprised I didn’t know about the million words. He came up to me and congratulated me for hitting five hundred thousand words and that I must be relieved that I was on the downward side of the million mark. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.

After he got over his shock he explained, I don’t know who said it first, some writer I guess, but who ever said it, said that every writer has a million bad words in them before they even start writing something worth reading. A million words of lousy and then the guy is only getting started to be decent. And I can tell by looking at you that you are half a million words.

I shrugged, That’s an oddly polite way to tell me that I’m still a bad writer.

Henry stretched out his arms to take in the entire coffee shop. Look at all this, the place is filled with lousy writers. I can tell. I can read the numbers of the writer. They pop up and I know where they are on the number count. I see all the numbers. Like him, he just got started and he only has fifty thousand words, maybe he’s a poet. She, over there, she’s at eight hundred thousand words, which means she’s close to being good, though by that smug look, she’s probably sure she already is good. She’s not. She showed me her last manuscript. And that guy is three hundred and thousand words and the funny thing is, he hasn’t finished one book. He told me he’s working on an epic fantasy and he’s only halfway done with the first, that’s going to be one large novel at seven hundred thousand words, and following the rule, it will still be lousy.

I pointed at Frederick F. the only one I know who has a contract with a big publisher, What about Frederick? What’s his number.

That’s a good one. He has a million two hundred thousand. He’s past the line, but that don’t mean he ain’t lousy. The rule is that one million and then you can start being good. It doesn’t mean that you will be good.

I finally asked, So Henry, what’s your number?

He looked at me and soured his face. I have to go back to the counter. People need their coffee. People need their caffeine to help them build up their word count. He turned and headed to the espresso machine.

Around About Lunch Time

The little man wearing the tattered rags pointed up to the top of a nearby building. Look, look at that up there. He said to me. Do you see up there? Do you see them? Up there?

I squinted and noticed that on the top of the Piano-Tuners Building were several people perched on the ledge. Those are people, what are they doing up there?

Well I guess they are people, the ragged old man said, I just call him what they are. Vermin. Pests. I won’t keep you in suspense. They’re literary agents.

Literary agents? Book agents? What are they doing up there?

They’re on their lunch break I suppose. They have wings. Book agents can fly. Not really well, the wings are thin, but they can fly a little bit.

I shielded my eyes from the sun. Do they ever come down here?

The tattered old man laughed. Come down here? With you? With novelists? To socialize? To say hi? Let me ask you, have ever seen an agent enter the shops you fiction writers tend to go to? Of course not. They are above. You climb up to that part of the building, those vermin will fly right away. They like to be above you, because you all seem to think it’s fitting to be down on the ground like you are. Silly.

We watched in silence for a few minutes. Then, one of the agents unfurled his wings and leapt from the building, dive bombing down.

I turned to the old man, I thought you said that they don’t fly down to where we are?

I said to socialize. They ain’t socializing.

The agent reached three feet before the pavement when he adjusted his wings and strafed the road. He picked up speed. He was flying straight toward this writer I knew, Hannibal. Hannibal was working on a Roman Centurion romance novel. He sat on a chair outside the fifth best coffee shop in town. He was a small guy, filled with indecision and acne. He was the runt of any litter he found himself in.

The agent did not slow, he plowed right into Hannibal. He wrapped his arms around the writer and then adjusted his wings again and headed up to the sky. Hannibal screamed and flailed his arms and legs, but still was in the grasp of the ascending agent.

The agent reached the top of the Piano-tuner building and dropped Hannibal onto the