Is it true that an entertainer is one who writes to amuse, disturb or divert while an artist often writes for himself; sometimes because he feels he has no choice. Is being an artist the last hope of the socially awkward who, on land shuffle around in an ungainly manner, only to move in a smooth and direct style once they enter the uncharted seas of the written word or some other means of expression.
Many of the best known artists and authors where “discovered” after their deaths, and thus left this earth secure in the knowledge that their efforts had passed largely unrecognised and rewarded. Are they now sitting on clouds, equipped with angelic wings and saying, with a voice filled with frustration, of the new reviewers and readers, “Oh Yes, you love my work now, but where were you when I needed the money to buy a fresh supply of potted plants and sausages.”
Not many people, and I agree with them, have any wish to live on crusts in an attic while the landlord demands the back-rent. Many, myself included, dream of a short period of whimsical penmanship, followed by a surprise discovery by a major publishing house. A few pleasant mornings on the sofa’s of various television shows before a long alcohol fueled lunch with Steven Spielberg, discussing the film script and the benefits of various off-shore bank accounts. Needless to say, some guy with luminous spectacle frames would interview me in the lobby of a posh hotel before inviting me for a month’s snorkeling holiday in the Virgin Islands.
I rather fancy the lightly grilled Dover sole if that’s on the menu for my lunch with Steven and if he is up for it. Oh sorry. I haven’t been discovered yet so there might be some delay before these delightful imaginings come to pass .
Still back to my dreaming. He would compliment me on the novel’s accessibility and its sharply drawn characters.In essence the plot centres round a man-eating blancmange with hidden powers, about to eat the diners during a Christmas dinner but suddenly discovering the concept of mercy after falling in love with the double cream and ginger sauce thus saving it’s intended victim’s, whose minds meanwhile, are softened by a bottle or so of haunted wine, from a fate worse than vacuuming.Without warning a small choir of garden peas , holed up on a fancy dish at the edge of the table would start singing carols. The harmonies are almost faultless.
Obviously after a period of seasoned and profound reflection, where his sense of balance between the frontiers of artistic conceptual art and the brilliantly commercial edge-play are bought into focus,and apart from his admiration for the idea of a lime flavoured Blancmange psychopath, the plotline grips his imagination. There are a couple of teething problems. Starting the novel seems to be harder than I thought but I have made decent headway on Steven’s favourite foods and have researched the restaurants he might enjoy the most. Planning is everything.