ThursdayNext : www.jasperfforde.com
A discussion of all things Thursday !
Jumping In
Posted by: Jon (---.proxy.aol.com)
Date: October 27, 2002 02:52PM
<HTML>JUMPING IN
Jon knew he was taking a big risk writing himself into his own story. But he had no choice; they were after him and this was the only escape. And it wasn’t just the usual suspects, either (Goliath, Inland Revenue, Bronte Society, Anti-Plagiarism League); there was Ben. Ben was younger and fitter; that motor racing skit had been pretty good. Something dramatic was needed to stay ahead. This was it.
He knew the dangers; writing himself laid him open to the constant temptation of improving himself; such as describing himself as six feet tall, well-muscled and with hair that was in no way thinning. Jon took a deep breath; he must retain complete control if he was to get through this in one piece. He resisted the urge to give himself a wild sex scene with the two Norwegian girls at the next table (for one thing, his wife might be reading), and stood up, an enigmatic smile playing around his handsome – no, incredibly handsome – features. Tossing a 50 euro tip onto the table, he stepped outside into the sunshine of the Rue de Remarques and slid into his gunmetal grey Aston Martin DB5. He headed for the chateau, pausing only to select a CD; he chose the first album he’d made after replacing Jimmy Page in Led Zeppelin. As he listened to that first blistering guitar solo, he was about to call his agent to finalise the details on the multi-million pound five book deal with Hodder when he stopped, sweating and shaking.
That had been close. Frightened, he swung too far the other way and wrote himself into a grim bedsit in Salford. “Hey up, chuck,” he said, “happen I’ll drink meself senseless after fourteen hours in t’mill, and then mebbe get t’landlady’s lass in trouble, so she’d have to have a backstreet abortion.”
This was no good. Jon made an effort to write himself into something better, but he couldn’t make it to proper literature and had to settle for Len Deighton, where the wind blew cold down the Unter den Linden. Jon sipped his beer thoughtfully. Was it true that all his kind betrayed themselves in the end? Was that what Klein had meant, that night in Prague when Vlasov had shot Melanie and all moral certainties seemed over? So many questions, and so few people with answers. Jon felt the cold comfort of the Walther PPK in his shoulder holster. Was that the only certainty there was? One thing Jon knew for sure; this was almost as depressing as Salford. If he was taking these sort of risks, he at least ought to try and enjoy himself.
It was a lovely sunny day, with only the hint of a cool breeze, as Jon walked along the riverbank. He breathed in gratefully. This was better. As he turned a corner he came upon a moored boat, and by it, on the bank, three young men in blazers and straw boaters, lounging around on rugs. A small dog barked at his approach, and the men looked up.
“I say,” cried one, “here’s old Jon. You wouldn’t happen to have a tin-opener about your person, would you?”
Jon produced one from his blazer pocket, and gave it to Harris. He then cursed himself twice, once for arriving after the picnic had been eaten, and then again for ruining one of the funniest scenes in the book. He sloped off guiltily, leaving the three men gorging themselves on pineapple.
Once out of sight, he tried again, and this time found himself transposed to a clearing in a wood. On the opposite side of the clearing was what appeared to be a rather badly stuffed donkey.
“Ah,” the donkey said. “Irony. Metafiction. Intertextuality and all that Post Modern nonsense. No good will come of it, you know. Would you care for a thistle?” There was a rustle in the undergrowth. “Is that you, Rabbit?”
“Let’s pretend it isn’t, and see what happens,” a voice said. Jon coughed, and was about to explain that it was only a biscuit cough when he realised this was doing nothing for his intellectual credibility and sharply wrote himself elsewhere.
To be faced with a large and florid woman in a flouncy dress showing an improbable amount of cleavage. “Where am I?” he asked.
“Fie, fir, are you fo fimple you cannot fee at once?” Lady Lustgarter (for it was she) replied. “You are in a Reftoration comedy, fir.” Jon winced. “Which one?”, he asked cautiously. Lady Lustgarter frowned. “I’m not fure,” she admitted; “I think it may be one of Mr. Congreve’s, or poffibly Mr. Wycherley’s. It does not matter. They are all the fame. I am always the unacknowledg’d mother of the hero, and he if always the unknown heir to a fortune, and I always end up marrying the father of the heroine. It if all very boring.” Indeed it was, and Jon moved on before he came down with a permanent dose of 17th century spelling.
Jon wrote rapidly; he made several very witty remarks, gave some impressive quotes to show how clever he was, and threw in a knob gag for the groundlings, before falling head first into the snotgreen sea at Sandycove, where he was rescued by a young man who asked him what he thought of the ineluctable modality of the invisible, and did he think this might be an epiphany, at all, at all?
It was all going out of control; much more of this and he’d end up in Finnegan’s Wake, and then there’d be no escape. He needed an ending, and if you were going to have an ending you might as well have the best there is. Jon made a mighty effort, and lunged for the place he wanted….and here he was, sat in a motor-boat heading out to sea, dressed in a cocktail dress and a blonde wig. Beside him was an old man in yachting cap. Jon groaned, and turned to look at the back seat, where Tony Curtis was swarming all over Marilyn Monroe. Damn. Missed by inches. Still, he thought, I got pretty close. And in the end, nobody’s perfect.</HTML>
Jon knew he was taking a big risk writing himself into his own story. But he had no choice; they were after him and this was the only escape. And it wasn’t just the usual suspects, either (Goliath, Inland Revenue, Bronte Society, Anti-Plagiarism League); there was Ben. Ben was younger and fitter; that motor racing skit had been pretty good. Something dramatic was needed to stay ahead. This was it.
He knew the dangers; writing himself laid him open to the constant temptation of improving himself; such as describing himself as six feet tall, well-muscled and with hair that was in no way thinning. Jon took a deep breath; he must retain complete control if he was to get through this in one piece. He resisted the urge to give himself a wild sex scene with the two Norwegian girls at the next table (for one thing, his wife might be reading), and stood up, an enigmatic smile playing around his handsome – no, incredibly handsome – features. Tossing a 50 euro tip onto the table, he stepped outside into the sunshine of the Rue de Remarques and slid into his gunmetal grey Aston Martin DB5. He headed for the chateau, pausing only to select a CD; he chose the first album he’d made after replacing Jimmy Page in Led Zeppelin. As he listened to that first blistering guitar solo, he was about to call his agent to finalise the details on the multi-million pound five book deal with Hodder when he stopped, sweating and shaking.
That had been close. Frightened, he swung too far the other way and wrote himself into a grim bedsit in Salford. “Hey up, chuck,” he said, “happen I’ll drink meself senseless after fourteen hours in t’mill, and then mebbe get t’landlady’s lass in trouble, so she’d have to have a backstreet abortion.”
This was no good. Jon made an effort to write himself into something better, but he couldn’t make it to proper literature and had to settle for Len Deighton, where the wind blew cold down the Unter den Linden. Jon sipped his beer thoughtfully. Was it true that all his kind betrayed themselves in the end? Was that what Klein had meant, that night in Prague when Vlasov had shot Melanie and all moral certainties seemed over? So many questions, and so few people with answers. Jon felt the cold comfort of the Walther PPK in his shoulder holster. Was that the only certainty there was? One thing Jon knew for sure; this was almost as depressing as Salford. If he was taking these sort of risks, he at least ought to try and enjoy himself.
It was a lovely sunny day, with only the hint of a cool breeze, as Jon walked along the riverbank. He breathed in gratefully. This was better. As he turned a corner he came upon a moored boat, and by it, on the bank, three young men in blazers and straw boaters, lounging around on rugs. A small dog barked at his approach, and the men looked up.
“I say,” cried one, “here’s old Jon. You wouldn’t happen to have a tin-opener about your person, would you?”
Jon produced one from his blazer pocket, and gave it to Harris. He then cursed himself twice, once for arriving after the picnic had been eaten, and then again for ruining one of the funniest scenes in the book. He sloped off guiltily, leaving the three men gorging themselves on pineapple.
Once out of sight, he tried again, and this time found himself transposed to a clearing in a wood. On the opposite side of the clearing was what appeared to be a rather badly stuffed donkey.
“Ah,” the donkey said. “Irony. Metafiction. Intertextuality and all that Post Modern nonsense. No good will come of it, you know. Would you care for a thistle?” There was a rustle in the undergrowth. “Is that you, Rabbit?”
“Let’s pretend it isn’t, and see what happens,” a voice said. Jon coughed, and was about to explain that it was only a biscuit cough when he realised this was doing nothing for his intellectual credibility and sharply wrote himself elsewhere.
To be faced with a large and florid woman in a flouncy dress showing an improbable amount of cleavage. “Where am I?” he asked.
“Fie, fir, are you fo fimple you cannot fee at once?” Lady Lustgarter (for it was she) replied. “You are in a Reftoration comedy, fir.” Jon winced. “Which one?”, he asked cautiously. Lady Lustgarter frowned. “I’m not fure,” she admitted; “I think it may be one of Mr. Congreve’s, or poffibly Mr. Wycherley’s. It does not matter. They are all the fame. I am always the unacknowledg’d mother of the hero, and he if always the unknown heir to a fortune, and I always end up marrying the father of the heroine. It if all very boring.” Indeed it was, and Jon moved on before he came down with a permanent dose of 17th century spelling.
Jon wrote rapidly; he made several very witty remarks, gave some impressive quotes to show how clever he was, and threw in a knob gag for the groundlings, before falling head first into the snotgreen sea at Sandycove, where he was rescued by a young man who asked him what he thought of the ineluctable modality of the invisible, and did he think this might be an epiphany, at all, at all?
It was all going out of control; much more of this and he’d end up in Finnegan’s Wake, and then there’d be no escape. He needed an ending, and if you were going to have an ending you might as well have the best there is. Jon made a mighty effort, and lunged for the place he wanted….and here he was, sat in a motor-boat heading out to sea, dressed in a cocktail dress and a blonde wig. Beside him was an old man in yachting cap. Jon groaned, and turned to look at the back seat, where Tony Curtis was swarming all over Marilyn Monroe. Damn. Missed by inches. Still, he thought, I got pretty close. And in the end, nobody’s perfect.</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: all-american-cutie (---.dalect01.va.comcast.net)
Date: October 27, 2002 03:39PM
<HTML>Jon, I feel I know you so well now! LOL</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: poetscientistdrinker (---.cache.pol.co.uk)
Date: October 27, 2002 09:11PM
<HTML>Younger, accepted. Fitter? No way - I couldn't keep up with that many books... I just wish I could stop laughing at your stuff and write some more of my own!</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: ScarletBea (148.177.129.---)
Date: October 28, 2002 09:27AM
<HTML>I LOVE IT!!!!!!!!!
*claps more*
*runs to Ben's now*</HTML>
*claps more*
*runs to Ben's now*</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: ScarletBea (148.177.129.---)
Date: October 28, 2002 09:50AM
<HTML>By the way Jon, how old are you?</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: October 28, 2002 10:22AM
<HTML>erm....well let's say I'm not as young as I was...you know, mature...oh, all right I'm 42. But not in my head, OK?</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: Ooktavia (---.nv.iinet.net.au)
Date: October 28, 2002 11:32AM
<HTML>This has all been muchly brilliant!! Not only have I laughed a lot, I have been comforted my the thought that there are people older than me who still possess senses of humour. (I'm just depressed because I will be 26 on Friday Next)
More from boith of ye! PLEASE???</HTML>
More from boith of ye! PLEASE???</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: jon (---.abel.net.uk)
Date: October 28, 2002 11:38AM
<HTML>26!! Past your bedtime innit?</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: ScarletBea (148.177.129.---)
Date: October 28, 2002 11:48AM
<HTML>Oh Octavia, don't worry, I'm 32 :D and from my experience, from 26 onwards it only gets better :)))))
Jon, thanks, as I said, age has got nothing to do with stuff. Btw, Ben's 21 (did I get the number right, Ben?)
And I second Octavia, «More from boith of ye! PLEASE???» :D</HTML>
Jon, thanks, as I said, age has got nothing to do with stuff. Btw, Ben's 21 (did I get the number right, Ben?)
And I second Octavia, «More from boith of ye! PLEASE???» :D</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: poetscientistdrinker (---.cache.pol.co.uk)
Date: October 29, 2002 12:06AM
<HTML>Yes, I'm 21.
But I'm a lot older and a lot younger - it depends on what you want to measure...
PS Is Friday Next any relation? We demand to be told! Happy birthday for Friday, Ooktavia (I'll only forget on the day itself).</HTML>
But I'm a lot older and a lot younger - it depends on what you want to measure...
PS Is Friday Next any relation? We demand to be told! Happy birthday for Friday, Ooktavia (I'll only forget on the day itself).</HTML>
Re: Jumping In
Posted by: ScarletBea (148.177.129.---)
Date: October 29, 2002 08:27AM
<HTML>You shouldn't really say happy birthday before.... but then I won't be anywhere near a comp on friday (or saturday and sunday, for that matter), so I suppose I could say it too already, ehehe
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
(can someone do a special thread for her on friday, please? I'm usually responsible for that on the forum I go to, lol, but this time I can't... - and I'd like one back on Dec 23 lol)</HTML>
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!
(can someone do a special thread for her on friday, please? I'm usually responsible for that on the forum I go to, lol, but this time I can't... - and I'd like one back on Dec 23 lol)</HTML>
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