I awoke early on the morning of Friday the 6th of
May 2011 with terrible pains pulsating from my lower back and a throbbing head
from the excesses of the previous night. It took me a couple of attempts before
I could stand up and with the stiffness which accompanies a night’s sleep, I
crept down the stairs like a person who needed a stair-lift for such things. I
made myself a strong coffee, and sat down looking at my box of notes which I
had accumulated during the months my story had been building within my mind.
It was at this point I knew instinctively I would need some
help, not with the physical writing of my manuscript, but help from somebody
who could give me not only their critique on my story as it progressed, but who
would help me keep to a routine of writing.
Dangerous John sprang into my thoughts.
I knew I would have to keep myself disciplined or not I
would settle into the kind of holiday mood you can get into when; say you take
a couple of weeks leave to complete some decorating. You have good intentions
of painting at least three rooms, but only get one finished because you wake up
in the morning, saying to yourself ‘I will make a start tomorrow, I am on
holiday after all!’ No this was going to be my new career and like all jobs you
need to put in a minimum of forty hours a week to make it pay.
I knew dangerous John always finished work early on a Friday
and would head to my local for a couple of refreshing drinks, so after popping
a hand full of pain killers for my back and then more for my head, I finished
my coffee and went for a shower. I normally like to a have bath, but since my
spine gave way It had been painfully impossible to get in or out, so as I
hobbled up the stairs I contemplated how much it would cost to install a
stair-lift.
Dangerous John got his nick-name because he is as placid as
a Rastafarian on a reefer and as harmless as a puppy. He has a neat cropped
silver beard that matches his silver hair which makes him look like a younger
(and slimmer version of Father Christmas). He also had one very admirable
trait, his ferocious love of books which he reads for hours every day, and he’s
not happy unless he has at least three more in a row waiting to be read. He
was also the one who rekindled my love of reading fiction.
I was first introduced to him down my local pub some years
previous and one day we got talking about our favourite books. The next week he
brought in one of his for me to read, and when I had finished it he replaced it
with another, then another and the friendship arose from there. I also started to
re-read some of my past favourites, especially George Orwell’s Animal Farm, Big
Brother and other classics of his.
Dangerous John would be the perfect person for the job and I
could get his knowledge of literature for the price of a warm pint. I would
always recommend anyone who is starting to write, or has already been there, to
have someone like John who can be honest in their views. It will save a lot of
time in the future, and anyway the things we do in life are always much more fun
when you have somebody to share them with.
It was half past four and a lovely sunny Friday afternoon. I
had the rare luxury (up to that point) of being able to take a lunch time
siesta and after popping another fist-full of painkillers I hobbled into my
local, and there sitting on a high stool, next to the bar, was dangerous John.
He gave me a welcoming smile and was already rising to his feet, offering to
buy me a drink. I kindly accepted his offer and pulled up another stool to join
him and divulge my plan for the manuscript.
‘Lovely idea,’ came dangerous Johns reply (it was the first
time I hadn’t been called mad.) He gladly welcomed my request to him for his
help and a plan was hatched. We would meet every Friday afternoon in the pub, I
would hand over that week’s scribbling’s for him to review, and he would then
hand back the previous week’s work which we would go through, and debate any
changes over a pint or two. What a glorious way to spend a Friday afternoon
much better than when I was employed and would work like a mad-man, from seven
in the morning to ten a night, trying to clear my work load so I could at least
try and relax on the Saturday.
The conversation flowed and so did the beer and John told me
about some of the stories he had started but never quite got around to
finishing. He explained about how he
looked forward to retiring so he could take up writing more seriously and it
was this sentence which hit me like a glass bottle over the head.
Cancer is a nasty word; it’s the one thing that comedians
never make a joke about. Cancer is the one universal word which brings dread to
every person on this planet, no matter their colour, religion, sex, politics,
class or caste it brings fear into our hearts like the Black Death brought
terror to the people of the medieval age.
John’s words about finally having the time to complete his
dreams when he retired brought back to me that fatal day when the doorbell rang.
I answered it and there stood my father and mother-in-law. It was a
surprise, ‘sorry to disturb you but we have something to tell you,’ they stated
in a calm voice, but as they entered my mother-in-law broke down and started to
weep. My father-in-law sat down and looked at us, still calm, he said, ‘I have
cancer, it was confirmed today, I have six months to live.’ We buried him three
months later.
I’m remember my mother-in-laws words which she kept
tearfully repeating, ‘it’s so unfair, we have worked hard all our lives, hurt no one, and
now we’ve just retired, and it’s all being taken away.’
For anybody that has experienced that moment I don’t think
even Shakespeare could describe the numbness (if you know otherwise then please
leave a comment). I’m surprised that after a hundred years and the billions
spent on research along with the tens of thousands of people employed in one
way or another that humanity hasn’t achieved more. Every decade there is a
promise of some new break through just around the corner (it always seems to be
when some research body needs more funding) and ten years later nothing has
changed. At this present moment I have a friend who is in his thirties with cancer and is looking death in the eye as he sees out his last few weeks
on this planet. The cancer industry is the great untouchable; no one is allowed
to question if maybe after this great endeavour by humanity why we aren’t
seeing more of a return? It reminds in a way of the finance industry, all that
money invested by ordinary people, and governments alike, and what has it
achieved?
The cancer industry likes to boast that because of it people
are living longer when diagnosed with the disease, ‘they now live for three
years instead of two,’ but I think it’s because of better education. People are
more aware and thus seek help earlier but generally the outcome is no different
to what it was thirty years ago, fifty years ago, or even seventy.
John’s remark about retiring just reminded me of the one big
positive I learned from the death of my father-in-law. Life is precious, follow
your dream today for tomorrow may never come, and be thankful for everything
you have.
His death was one of the factors which had been building up
inside of me, and which would eventually burst out like seeds in a pod, in my determination
to give up what I had and risk all to publish a book.
Strong views but in a way i have to agree. I have lost people close to me and in the end it seemd just a futile fight to survive nothing changed.
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ReplyDeleteI would just like to say Mr Jones, I hope you never need to use the services provided by all the people you claim are working in the cancer industry.
ReplyDeleteYou should keep your thoughts to yourself on this subject. Most people will be touched in someway by cancer, so can get very emotional about the subject, no matter how hard the truth may be.
ReplyDeleteI would like to join in this conversation about your comments on what you call the cancer industry. I have lost three family members and various friends over the years to Cancer and like you said,they all ended up going the sameway, to their death bed. I know death comes to us all but all the promises made over the last seven decades and we seem no closer to beating this horrible thing. Keep up with telling the truth.
ReplyDeleteI think everone is loosing the point. Daniel's advice on having someone to help with guidence as your story progresses is very good advice. I wish I had thought of it.I waited to after I had finsihed and then spent the next twelve month's changing it to suit my friends taste. I still haven't finished it.
ReplyDeletejumping into this, I think what you need are honest points about the manuscript. All my friends and family gussed at how good my story was, but the people who matter thought differently because all I keep getting from agents and publishers are rejection letters. Keep plodding along, regards American friend.
ReplyDeleteTo American friend,I know how you feel. I feel that always hanging around is all I ever do. I get upset like all new authors when you recieve a rejection letter, but what I find very hard is when you hear nothing, and you spend weeks agonising on should you get in contact and ask what's happening. Do you think it is wise to make follow up calls?
ReplyDeleteI wouldn't bother, if an agent or publisher wanted you they would get in contact. I used to and all that happened was I was left disapointed for the day when your phone call was given a polite, no thank you.
DeleteSo what do you do when you keep getting rejected by agents and publshers? I've lost heart trying to get anyone to take an interest in my manuscript. It's just gathering dust.
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ReplyDeleteThank you for all you comments, all I can say and it may sound corny, is to never give up, be it with your health or your dream.
ReplyDeleteRegards Daniel Jones.
Thank you Daniel for you advice on having someone to guide you through the early stages of your manuscript. I'm half way through my one but it's never too late. I have just asked a friend to review the early stages and then she will carry on chapter by chapter. Thanks once again.
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