When writing
a story, writers receive inspiration in many forms. We have dreams, we see
something unusual, we read an article; the list is endless. We then take this to a unique conclusion.
But what
inspires writers to become writers in the first place? What makes a person
decide to undertake the art of writing and spend agonizing years fighting
crisis in confidence trying to create a novel complete strangers will want to
read? I imagine we all have that “a-ha” moment.
In the Kite Runner, Amir has his moment when
reading to Hassan, under their tree, when he substituted the story in the book
with his own. Hassan loved it.
Well, here
is my story.
The night I passed out on Peter’s
bathroom floor
I haven’t
always been a writer. Fifteen years ago, I thought writers were magical
creatures born with predetermined genetic coding. Their parents looked down
upon their child in the crib and brushed the soft locks from the child’s
forehead to reveal a birth mark in the shape of a pen. I believed you were either
born a writer or a normal person—not both.
This had
been my thinking until one fateful night in London. I got invited to a birthday
party by Jen, a friend from work. She threw the birthday party for her
boyfriend, an unemployed writer; as yet unpublished. All I heard was “bum”, a rogue
living off his hard working girlfriend.
They lived
in the lower two floors of a suburban brick house with a nice garden. The party
started outside with the BBQ smoking away in the evening sun. I knew a few
Kiwi’s from work and ended up with them in the kitchen—as all good parties
do—and there I met “the boyfriend”, Peter. As bad as it may sound, I have to
admit, I may have been predisposed not to like him. To make matters worse, he presented
like the scruffy scoundrel I expected.
I mumbled a
happy birthday and reluctantly accepted a glass of black rum and coke. Unfortunately,
Peter proved to be difficult to dislike. I found his ability to weave a funny tale
instantly endearing, reminded me of a saying my best mate, Cameron, lived by,
“never let the truth get in the way of a good story”.
Black Rum & Rollerblades
So that
evening, I drank black rum with Peter—the first and last time I drank black
rum—and listened to his outrageous stories. I found myself sat, drunk as a
skunk, on his sofa talking about roller-blades. Peter wanted roller-blade but he didn’t want to
ask Jen because she had spent enough money on him already. I told him I had a
pair—I had already spent some time in Vancouver—and I made him a proposal. I’d
give him my roller-blades and in return I asked for a draft of his book when a publisher
accepted it. By this time, even though Peter seemed a normal person, I was
convinced he would be published.
We shuck
hands on the deal, I drank more black rum, and passed out in his bathroom.
Four years later
The next
morning, my girlfriend dragged me back across London to our home in Golders
Green. Time passed, I married, moved from London to West Vancouver, and become
a father to a beautiful daughter, Milan.
One day, a
parcel arrived at my door. Inside, I found a typed manuscript of a novel with a
message written inside the cover, “I hope
this novel hurts your arse as much as your roller-blades hurt mine, Peter”.
Peter’s novel was to be published, and he was a normal person—he didn’t have a
pen birthmark on his head, I know because I looked.
I read the
novel that night, the next night I started writing. I no longer believed you
had to be special, you just needed to want to write, and, oh god, I wanted to
write.
Every year,
I get better and one day someone will publish my work.
Peter’s book?
Veron God Little by DBC Pierre, aka Peter Finlay. It won the 2003 Man
Booker prize.
What was your inspiration to become a
writer?
