Lost For Words

Part One: The Letters.

Chapter One

A wise man once said - to make money you have to keep your mind open
and your arms out.
Thom Phillips was a very open minded person, he had to be.
He made money by writing novels.
By keeping his mind open, ideas for plotlines and characters sprung
into his head and could be converted onto paper and finally into
best-selling literature. A best seller that would make him money and
that was something he had never achieved. Maybe the wise man had a
point.
Thom's life was a continuous routine, he did the same things every day
and that was how he liked it. By sticking to this he felt that it
allowed his brain to run on "autopilot", letting his mind run free
grasping onto every single idea that had the strength and audacity to
pop into his head. In his line of work ideas made money and that was
being open minded.
Having a routine such as this meant Thom knew exactly what was going to
happen to him and when it was going to happen. He was no longer scared
of the future and of what it may bring. He no longer got up in the
morning to discover an unwanted bill or other bad news waiting
underneath his letterbox. He studied what would arrive and when it
would arrive well in advance, letting him get up in the morning with a
smile on his face. This smile eventually leading on to good writing
later in the day. You try writing a novel with your mind on other
things.
Living his life like this meant to unwanted stress, leaving his mind
free to concentrate on making him some money.
Unexpectedly, on the 14th of June, all of this came crashing down
around him.

He awoke on the morning of the 14th to birds signing sweetly outside
his bedroom window. He sat up straight in bed and rubbed his brown,
bloodshot eyes open. Today was a very important day; he had a meeting
with his agent Peter Hagen in the afternoon. No doubt he was checking
up on the progress of his new book. His writing hadn't made much sense
in the last couple of weeks, probably due to the continuous re-runs of
The Sopranos that were showing on one of the cable channels. Something
that Thom had a soft spot for. There hadn't been much progress at all
since their last meeting. His agent would demand a draft of his latest
chapter to look over, which was a draft that not even Thom had.
Without moving from his bed, he opened his bedside drawer and took out
a packet of cigarettes, swiping his Zippo of the floor he lit his first
smoke of the morning and lay back.
He thought of his writing, his books and the fact that he was never
going to get this novel finished, hadn't come up with a title yet. It
was difficult, this was his fourth novel and the one which would make
or break him. A huge proverbial weight on Thom's shoulders and one he
could not shake off. His debut novel was a considerable success - a
tale of drugs and guns in urban Scotland. Add a heroic policeman and
enough swear words to offend a tramp and he had a hit on his hands.
Caught up in the hype, Thom then penned a sequel. To do this he had to
bring a character back from the dead, a hard task but one done with
much dignity. He had checked the Internet to find out what the fans
thought of his first book, which characters they adored and what they
wanted to see more of and then gave it to them. Another success ensued,
selling more copies then the original, finally making him a force to be
reckoned with in the hard world of the writer.
As the money came rolling in, Thom made a formal decision that he would
follow this triumph with up a completely new novel. This becoming one
of the most anticipated novels Scotland had ever seen. He wanted to
show that he was not a one-hit wonder that he didn't have to re-use old
ideas to sell copies. He bought himself a new word processor and penned
a novel that was completely different to anything he had ever written
before. Moving the setting from the familiar terrain of Scotland, he
set his latest book in America, a place he had never been to. Replacing
Edinburgh with New York, he shunned his loyal fan base and the book
flopped. Thom could not for the life of him understand why the book did
so badly. He had spent longer on it then his other two put together, it
was bigger, better and even the cover art was an improvement.
He can still remember his agent coming to see him, a cold winter
morning exactly a month after the book was published. He came with a
stern face and even sterner words. Beads to rain dripping from what
little hair he had onto his jacket. He blamed drugs, knowing well fine
that Thom had been experimental with his writing since he started
smoking dope. "You're not Tarentino, you are definitely not Scorsese so
stop trying to write like them!" was the message. He said this with a
tear in his eye, Peter liked Thom, liked the kid so damn much that he'd
contacted the best editor he knew and paid for him out of his own
pocket. This editor took Thom's first book and transformed it into the
success it is today. He also gave Thom some advice on writing and was
responsible for making him a better writer. Peter made a point of
reading all of Thom's books before the publishers got their hands on
them and made his own little changes, all for the better. As far as he
was concerned it was because of him that Thom even has a contract and
this he made Thom aware of every time he saw him.
Now Thom was on his own, Mr. Know-it-all Hagen had other plans with new
talent. A couple of young guys from down south had submitted first
drafts which showed promise. Might even get the books out before summer
reading period started, might even become the next big thing?
What Thom had gotten out of this conversation was that Thom's fourth
novel had to be a hit or he runs the chance of getting dropped from his
contract. It had to be set in Edinburgh, that goes without saying. It
had to have a complete cast of new characters and personalities and not
ones ripped of from other novels or films. These characters had to be
lovable, people had to actually care about what happened to them. So
far no television companies had come to him asking to make his books
into films or drama. That, according to Peter Hagen, was what made a
good author a great author. Before he left he dumped a carrier bag of
old worn novels onto Thom's lap. He looked Thom directly in the eye and
told him to read these as quickly as he could. These books were to
start the creative process for his next book and make them both a lot
of money. There was no emotion on Hagen's face, no sympathy or
understanding. He had seen this a million times or more, authors
falling of the wagon, careers going down the pan. Unless Thom was
making serious money he was just another name on the payroll. One that
could be dropped at any time.
To this day those books have sat in the carrier bag untouched. Most
were written by horror novelists such as Stephen King and Clive Barker.
A couple of light comedy romps lay amongst the gore, authors never
named. It was obvious Hagen was hinting at a horror or comic twist in
his new novel. It was a well-known fact that horror writers were given
the most opportunity to get their books made into films and British
directors were always on the prowl for new comedy ideas. Give them the
rights and the make the biggest fuck ups, hell he'd seen names being
misspelled and characters changing gender when given to a film company
and that was definitely not for him.

Stubbing his cigarette out into his ashtray, Thom swung his legs out of
bed and sat up. He ran his fingers through his long scruffy hair and
got the last of the sleep out of his eyes. Opting for casual dress he
changed quickly and dashed downstairs. His meeting with Hagen was at
half twelve, plenty of time but it would mean that he would miss the
postman. No big deal, he wasn't expecting anything exciting anyway. The
start of the month was the best time for Thom, that was when the
payments came through. A cheque usually but on some occasions he had
received cash and lots of it. This hadn't happened for a while though;
the only time any of his books sold was when they were jacked together
with some bookshop offer. He still got full price though, roll on the
summer sales.
He grabbed a couple of rolls from the bread bin as he waited for his
coffee to grind and opened his living room curtains. The sun shone
brightly through the window, blinding Thom. He hated where he lived, no
shade, and no seclusion. Every morning he went through the same
agonising glare as he opened these curtains. Waiting a couple of
seconds he closed them shut.
He poured his coffee and slumped himself onto the couch. He was worried
about Hagen; he didn't have a decent word to give him never mind a
draft. The hot coffee scolded his lips but he drunk on regardless,
switching the TV on via the remote in his other hand. Not too worried
then?

Thom had not lived in this house for long. He wasn't meant to be living
here at all. He had bought the house outright when the money was coming
in, it was an investment, another one of Hagen's ideas. The plan was to
do a little DIY around the house, get the place looking presentable and
then rent it out, making a little extra pocket money for himself. The
DIY had been done: new coving surrounded the top of the living room,
the upstairs bedrooms had been painted a tranquil blue and sleek wooden
flooring covered the whole bottom floor. But eventually slept in it a
couple of nights a week and has never left the house since. This was
home, he thought. The glass-framed Terminator poster staring at him
from the top of the stairs, in a funny way reminded him of that. The
Internet and Cable TV was quickly installed and it was settled, this
was where he was going to stay, this was where his novels would be
conceived.
Thom lived alone, he always had. His greasy hair and adolescent skin
was never a hit with the ladies, his occupation even more so. He had no
interest in finding a partner, that could wait; besides he liked life
the way it was. Bringing other people into his life would complicate
things and would certainly affect his writing. He did have his female
fans, every writer did, Hagen would pass on his E-mails (although he
would read them first) and females actually sent most of them. Thom
could never understand why. His books were full of gut wrenching
details about murder, rape and corruption. He aspired to writing gory
scenes that shock the system, one horrific word at a time. Maybe the
ladies had a thicker skin these days; he can remember when Jane Austin
and Charlotte Bronte were the pick of the day among the opposite
gender. But now he was just being sexist.
He drained his coffee and crammed the rest of his roll into his mouth,
wiping the flakes of flour off his t-shirt. Lighting yet another
cigarette, he switched on the T.V via the remote and flicked through
the channels. T.V was shit this time in the morning, channels making
attempts to include kids into their viewing figures. Can you believe
it: STV, a channel reserved for American sitcoms and dramas was showing
early learning shows. This is the same channel that, 12 hours from now,
will illustrate brutal murders by fictional killers. Who was Thom
kidding? He loved this channel. Most of his characters that have
appeared in his novels were stolen from the screen, even down to their
accent and dress sense. 220 000 people went out and bought his first
book and not one person noticed that the main character was on his own
show every Wednesday at nine.
By now he had a solution to the Hagen problem.
Hagen would ask him for his last four (or so) days of writing. He would
also request a report illustrating how far he is through the novel,
what still has to be done etc. Thom planned that he would give Hagen a
manuscript he had written three years ago when he was writing for that
shitty magazine. The short piece was about a Scottish man who, when his
wife had cheated on him, took a shotgun to himself. Thom would then
include this character into the novel, dedicate a few pages to him, a
sub-plot if you will and everyone's happy. The report was the hard
part.

After an hour or so of mind-crushing kids TV and some more coffee, Thom
started the long walk to Hagen's office. He did not own a car, did not
believe in them. Cars made you unfit, his job involved sitting on his
arse with a pen in his hand, he had to get his exercise from
somewhere.
The air had gotten a little cooler since he opened his curtains this
morning; it was a pleasure to be out in it. Hagen's office was situated
just outside the town, between a tenement block and a dumping ground.
Shopping trolleys littered the front of the building and everyday a new
author would spray-paint their initials or obscenities on the office
wall. Thom smiled at this ironic thought, if only they could write a
little more they could probably get a job inside the building.
As he walked he did a mental check to make sure he had everything: he
had retrieved the old story about the shotgun man from his archives,
using tip ex to cover the date at the top of the page. Although
distracted by the kids learning the alphabet on TV he had managed to
write a quick report telling Hagen about his progress. He was surprised
that he didn't have to lie too much on this. The book was about three
quarters finished, albeit half of it safely stored on his computer and
the rest scattered around his house on loose sheets of paper. He had
stuck both into see-through pocket and clipped it into his folder,
which he now carried under his arm.
Before long he approached the house of Hagen. He stood outside and lit
a final cigarette before he went in. Smoking was prohibited anywhere in
the building, although he was sure that Hagen smoked at his desk, the
electric fan carefully positioned on his desk was bought for that
purpose. He just hadn't been caught yet.

End of Chapter One

By Michael Keenan , UK