Death of the Author

Sylvia Plath commited suicide, Agatha Christie once dissapeared for a week and no one is really sure what happened to Edgar Allan Poe.

I am sitting in a coffee shop drinking my third cup of tea when I overhear a snippet of conversation which intruiges me. A balding man carrying a red clipboard which clashes with the colour of his tie announces:

"BRITISH AUTHOR DIES IN CRASH!"

Suprisingly this is met by a roar of laughter by the other three people who are happily sharing his wine. "Probably the best thing a writer can do for his publisher" Says the man who is lucky enough to have hair, even if it is receeding. "Sometimes I think I should write all the poems that God has given me, leave them on my publishers desk and then go and drive a car into a lampost!" Again more laughter follows, and I am now listening much more intently than your avarege evesdroper. I find myself sidling along my seat so that I can be closer to the group.


"So. You're poems Sam? Is there a collection yet?"


"I'd say so."


"And are they ready?"


"Are they ever?" More laughter. I want to talk to them, show them some of my own poetry even though I know it has it's limitations. Maybe I should ask them if they are looking to publish any short fiction. Unknown by anyone else in the room, Mrs Yettman sits down next to me. She feels very strongly about what I should ask the group. She assures me that talking to this random group of people may indeed jeopordise my integrity as a writer, because all I am going to do is throw myself at them, in much the same way that a married middle aged woman might throw herself at an also married, but nonetheless slightly happier Garry Barlow in fresh veg aisle in Morrisons.



I know from her constant badgering that she wants these stories to be a success more than anyone. They are, after all, her road to the acknowledgement which she so desperatley wants. her presence only causes me momentary distraction and pretty soon I am already deep in thought, wondering if perhaps if it might benefit my bank balance (in which I am knee deep in overdraft) if I was to die?

"AUTHOR KILLED BY WEAK BOOK SHELF!"

"AUTHOR FOUND DEAD SURROUNDED BY MANUSCRIPT"

"AUTHOR SUFFERS SAME FATE AS NOW INFAMOUS CHARACTER!"

No. Somehow none of these seem quite right. Mrs Yettman nods in agreement. I should probably keep on living at least as long as it takes to finish the collection.