Why? and How
When people do out-of-character things, sometimes they say, the devil made me do it. In this instance it was not the devil, it was my brother with his drunk self, perhaps he is the devil, I cannot tell. The jury's still out on that one.
I had an idea for a book, a story, I'm sure everybody does, but we don't all actually write it do we? Well I was just trying to tell him my idea, you know, the general plot. I wasn't actually going to write anything!
“This guy goes to America,” I started.
“Why?” he interrupted me.
“His wife left him.”
“Why?”
“She had a termination, didn't tell him, felt guilty.”
“Why?”
“She didn't think she could cope.”
“Oh, right”
“Anyway, so while he's in America visiting his cousin, he gets shot and dies.”
“Why?” he took another swig of his drink.
“His cousin's a drug dealer, it's mistaken identity thing!”
“I see,” he said.
“So he takes the dead cousin's passport, assumes his identity and comes to England.”
“Why did he do that?”
“Because, he got revenge for his cousin's death by killing the dealers that shot him.”
“But why would he come to England.”
“He's murdered three people, maybe the police are after him?”
“Okay,” he muttered.
“Where was I? Oh yes, right, he meets up with his other cousin, the dead guy's brother. The brother loses his job as a barrister.”
“Why did that happen?”
“Because, they think he's on drugs but he's not. His girlfriend gives him alcohol while he's on medication.”
“She's not a very nice girlfriend then is she?”
“It was an accident! She didn't realise!” I was losing my patience.
It took me three hours to explain the simple outline of the plot. However, in the cold light of day I realised I had learned my first lesson. His persistent childish questioning combined with my stubbornness created the basis for a solid plot. I refused to answer any of his questions with 'I don't know.' If I didn't know, I made something up. I also learned not to put random elements into my work, somebody would always ask, why? So that was how it was going to work. Just to tell my simple story, I was going have to do an awful lot of explaining. When I'd finally finished it and typed THE END.
It was then that it had dawned on me, that's the source of my current rage. I thought that I had told a story from beginning to the end. I hadn't, all I had done was written 414 pages explaining why the events or event on page 415 occurred.
I am not a man that likes to explain myself. Don't ask me why? - EVER!
