Success Breeds Success
By jonsys
- 456 reads
Gareth Owen had a flair for writing stories since his schooldays.
English literature had always fascinated him since he learned joined up
writing. Composition, and making up stories, allowed his vivid
imagination to run amok. Gareth planned on making a career out of
writing when he left school, but his father insisted he get a proper
job. Then, if he wanted to, Gareth could write in his spare time. If
writing is only a phase he's going through, and he packs it in, all
well and good. At least he'd have money coming in when his dad set him
up in business as a window cleaner. Dad bought a round for five hundred
smackers - the exact amount he'd won on the horses when he backed a
long shot. A coincidence, you may think? (Well, all wanabe writers are
allowed one coincidence to get things going.) Gareth's school pals said
being a wash-leather was too much like hard work. They had chosen
easier jobs, but their headmaster said work is only hard if you don't
like a particular job. Gareth's mates scoffed, saying nobody can get
lower than a window cleaner. Even shithouse attendants get more
respect. Gareth claimed, though he really wanted to be a writer, being
his own boss gave him a chance to write whenever he wanted. Still the
wisecracks kept on coming. Using his imagination, he invented a little
story to shut them up. Gareth told the gang his granddad had told him
that the Owens are actually descended from Welsh dynasty with a
pedigree as long as your arm. That his highly educated ancestry
consisted of the elite gentry; notable writers and novelists;
professors and schoolmasters who owned a string of private schools
throughout Wales, teaching writing skills. Now, every basket of
eggheads has a rotter. The Owen dynasty was no exception. Namely
William Owen. A philanderer exiled to England to avoid a scandal in the
early eighteen hundreds. You see, this
couldn't-keep-his-hands-to-himself sex mad fool had back problems -
getting those of young females onto a bed. (Gareth's detailed account
of the sexual romps had their tongues hanging out.) Now, educated
Willy, as he was so aptly nicknamed, brainwashed these adolescents into
believing they were only put on this earth to please him. Well, not
surprisingly, his sexual prowess preceded him across the Welsh border.
The English female aristocracy spurned him. Sex starved Willy had no
choice, but to lower his dignity - and his pants - and hobnob with the
working classes. They were below his station, but he was desperate for
a woman's body. He fancied a bit of rough with this wench from the
Eastwood clan. She was as common as a cowpat. Her barbaric ancestors
probably roughed it in a WOOD in the EAST, feeding off berries and nuts
and copulating with animals. The wench, a fiery girl, brought Willy
down to her level, stimulated him with violent lovemaking. (Again the
sordid details.) Luckily, Willy didn't catch anything from her - but
she got something from him - a belly full of arms and legs. Yes, she
was pregnant, but not by accident. Having learned of his wealthy
family, she devised a devious plot to force a shotgun wedding. Her
sadistic father and uncouth brothers would see to that. This wench
planned to live in luxury for the rest of her life. But wily Willy had
the last laugh on their wedding night. While humping his wench, he told
her, in between grunting and groaning, that wealth had turned its back
on him. No way, this night, would he let this wench turn her back on
him. The wench, instead of enjoying fine clothes, had a house full of
kids, pulling at her apron strings. Willy decided to write about his
exploits and eventually became a famous novelist. And that's how it is.
Gareth is destined to be a writer. It's in his blood. Well, that shut
his critics up. They agreed nobody could make up a story like
that.
In actual fact, window cleaning and outdoor work suited Gareth. Not
like his pals, stuffed up in some office, or choking to death in a
steel works. No, Gareth gulped in fresh air, met people, especially
young girls of his age. (He was inclined to be a sex maniac like the
fictitious Willy Owen.) Winter months may have been an ideal job for a
welder, but Gareth didn't really mind the freezing cold. The best was
yet to come. He looked forward to the hot summer months, and females
sunbathing topless in their gardens. Meanwhile, if he was laid off by
the weather, he could go home and write. A perfect situation when one
comes to think about it. One day, in the future, he'd be rolling in
dough and pay dad back the five hundred quid, and more besides.
At school, there was one other subject Gareth liked - music. He had a
strong, tenor voice. A Welsh tenor voice his dad said. The music
teacher would get Gareth to perform arias in front of the class. She
asked him if he had ever thought of making a career out of singing.
Operatic Societies are always on the look out for talent, and snap him
up in a flash. They'd advise singing lessons to give his voice a finer
tone. Gareth confessed, while he liked singing, he really wanted to be
a writer, and had set his mind to it. Besides, he wouldn't be able to
afford to spend money on singing lessons. All his spare cash would go
on writing materials - fags and booze. Tall for his age, he passed for
eighteen; sang pop music on pub karaoke nights. He didn't want to be a
singing sensation, insisting he only did it for a lark.
On his way home one night, (Two steps forward and one back.) Gareth
passed a garden pond. (No, he didn't fall in it.) The gnomes dotted
around its banks reminded him of Irish Leprechauns. This triggered off
an idea. His dad forever grumbled about the rubbish on television. If
Gareth can't write better than that scrap&;#8230; Gareth thought
he'd try his hand at writing a sit-com. When he got home, eager to
start penning, he put his head under the coldwater tap to sober up.
Consumed gallons of black coffee, which he hated. He had a sweet tooth
and liked it milky. Finishing the script by morning, he posted it off
on his way to work. Today was a special day in more ways than one. The
day he met his future wife. A new family had just moved into the
district and Gareth cleaned their windows. Sue, gorgeous and sexy, and
about his age, came out to him. Sue knew what Gareth wanted and Gareth
couldn't wait to get his hands on it. She paid him the money for
cleaning the windows. They both hit it off immediately and started
dating, doing the karaoke rounds together. She wore make up to fool pub
landlords into thinking she was older than she looked. (Why do young
girls try to look older, while older women try to look younger?) On
their first date, Gareth serenaded her while walking her home through
the park. Sue loved it. But Gareth wanted more than a pop fan. What
would the infamous Wily do in a situation like this? Never mind Willy -
what about the bulge in his pants? After belting out a crescendo, she
carried away by romantic euphoria; he kissed her, breath reeking of
stale beer and fish and chips. She returned the wet kiss, a signal that
she wanted him. In true Owen style, Gareth laid her on the grass, no
foreplay, just a quick lunge and climax. That night he learned that the
penis is mightier than the pen. Using no contraceptive, Gareth, like
all singers, and TV scriptwriters, relied on perfect timing. Just one
split second faster in withdrawing and Sue's mother would not have been
made a grandmother before she was forty. Her dad simply said, at least
the lad hadn't left his daughter in the lurch. (And that was it. No
lecture. No broken jaw. Gareth had downed all that Dutch courage for
nothing.) A stop-the-neighbours-talking wedding soon followed - on the
same day the script submitted to the BBC months ago, came winging back.
Sue worshiped Gareth and tried her best to comfort him. From that day,
for her, it really was for better or worse. She put up with his heavy
boozing sessions, which were becoming quite frequent. Gareth didn't
really appreciate her loyalty, leaving her at home to baby sit, (She
didn't mind that.) He'd stagger home, having downed his sorrows,
following another rejection, sober up and literally start scribbling
down ideas he'd thought up. This is what she admired in him. A
determination to 'get on.'
Well, at least his window round was making good progress. He'd
canvassed and extended it no end. One thing about Gareth, he was a
conscientious grafter. His life was mapped out, cleaning windows in the
morning, boozing in the afternoons and writing at night. Furthermore,
he never lost a day's work through boozing. And he wrote every day,
including holidays. Sue read all his writing. Naturally, she told him
it was good, what he wanted to hear. Usually disguised as a backhanded
compliment. (Well, if Sue dared to slag off his work, he'd jump down
her throat, demanding to know what she knew about writing.) Gareth
firmly believed that because he could string words together to make a
sentence, it made him a writer. He never thought one had to learn one's
craft, to develop a style among other things. Sue didn't actually tell
Gareth to enroll on a writer's correspondence course. She suggested it
to him in such a shrewd way, that he believed he'd thought of it in the
first place. Sue even got into debt and bought him a typewriter out of
a friend's mail order catalogue and urged him to learn to type.
Submitting penciled manuscripts is hardly professional. Through the
course, he learned proper layout and submission procedures. The rest,
characterization, plot and mundane stuff like that he skimmed through.
He believed all that came naturally. One of Gareth's failings is that
he didn't like reading - not even other authors. In fact he hated
reading period. Failed to maintain concentration, letting his mind
wander. Sue urged him to learn to be an ardent reader. His mind needed
input. Gareth's other drawback was his reluctance to do research. He
hated it jut as much as reading. Self-consciousness, interviewing
possible celebrities, didn't help. The course advised him to study the
markets, i.e. magazines, the TV times on current programme trends and
requirements. Gareth's sound logic was: keep on turning out scripts
etc, eventually one would suit requirements. Or the medias would have
to suit Gareth. Having a photographic memory, he learned all about
writing parrot fashion. But never really absorbed it. He finished the
twenty-eight course assignments in less than six months. His reasoning?
Quicker he finished the course, quicker he'd start earning money. Good
thing he had kept his day job.
By the time he reached thirty years old, Gareth had graduated - from
cleaning house windows to industrial and commercial window cleaning. He
had also knocked out 33 TV drama rejections. Articles constructed
fictionally or from memory, came back like pet homing pigeons. Come to
think of it, racing pigeons fared better - they at least won something
now and again. He did have some success with writing letters to
newspapers, but committed the cardinal sin - he 'doubled up' sending
the same letter to two newspapers at the same time. After that he
wasn't very popular. Gareth thinks he may have been black listed. To
boost his ego, he took his rejection slips down to the pub to show his
mates. Mainly to prove to them that he was a writer and not making
things up. (Excuse the pun.) This seemed the only satisfaction from
writing he was likely to get. Gareth and Sue had six kids. It didn't
need any great effort, a bit of puffing and panting and making the
earth move. He was beginning to wonder about William Owen and his wench
who had a large family. Was he destined only for that? Gareth
questioned his imagination. Had he really made that story up? Or had
his grand dad actually told him the day he was born? Had the truth been
wedged in Gareth's subconscious mind all these years, only now coming
to light?
Well, Gareth's authority on kids sparked off another brainwave. Maybe
he was destined to write for children. And this idea almost paid off.
In an edition of the Writers' &; Artists' Yearbook he learned that a
certain children's film company in London were looking for storylines.
His synopsis didn't come winging back like in the past. Instead he was
invited to have lunch with one their Chief Executive Producers. The
producer liked his storyline, asked Gareth to submit a treatment draft,
but suggested a few alterations. Gareth made notes of the required
changes to consult when he got home. He rang Sue to tell her the good
news. But alas, Gareth, only too eager to celebrate, went on a London
pub-crawl and got sozzled. He lost his note pad, but couldn't remember
which pubs he'd been in or the context of the alterations. He
visualized the finder having difficulty in reading his wobbly
handwriting, before tossing it in the rubbish bin. Needless to say, the
producer, disappointed, rejected Gareth's treatment without his
suggestions. He offered Gareth accepted a small payment for sole copy
write of the storyline. Another drowning of sorrows was imminent. Never
to give up, Gareth tried his hand at writing TV sketches for television
comedians, (What a laugh) captions for Greeting Cards (Failed again to
caption the market.) Still he never gave in. Over the next ten years he
wrote ten more TV drama flops. He told Sue maybe he was just unlucky
where writing is concerned, or... it's not what you know etc&;#8230;
At least she's slowly got him to read other novelists more
conscientiously. She sees something in his writing that nobody else
does.
Yet, he flourished in his window cleaning business. His six kids when
they left school (There were no additions) joined the firm and turned
it into a family concern. Now all his family is well off. They own
their own big houses, new top of the range cars every year. His grand
kids will go to college when they grow up. Gareth and Sue are currently
on a fourteen-day African Safari in Kenya (She likes animals - that's
why she married Gareth.) Still Gareth won't let go of the idea of
becoming a writer, though its hit and miss. He's toying with the idea
of a TV Sit Com about window cleaning, using his experiences as
background. (Makes sense, really. Writers are always advised to write
on subjects they know about. Gareth's had a lifetime of window
cleaning.) Regarding writing, Gareth'll tell any budding author
straight. Writing is an incurable disease. One must suffer for one's
profession. Take him for instance. Judge his writing financially, and
he's a failure. Judge his writing on self-achievement - and he's a
success. Don't lose heart. Gareth didn't.
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