Sunday Whatever – Authorship Down by Michael Bloor

Michael Bloor is a regular contributor and commentator on the site. When we received this piece we were amused and entertained. It’s clever and witty. However, we do realise that stories about writers can have limited appeal and so we thought a Sunday Whatever was the place to put it. Too good to miss so here we go:

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Authorship Down by Michael Bloor

I awoke, sprawled on the beach like a dead starfish in the morning sun. A hand gently raised my head and an old-fashioned enamel cup with a black-lined rim was laid beside my lips. My tongue was swollen and my throat was dry as cat litter. I drank and squinted up at my benefactor, a shimmering shadow haloed by the sun: ‘Who are you? Where am I?’

The shadow took the cup away: ‘It is dangerous to drink too much, too fast. I am Brother John Friday, the Hospitaller, and this land is called Authorship Down.’ He helped me to my feet. I was aware of John’s strength, in contrast to my own weakness. I told him my name, Adam Reader. We began to move up the beach. I stopped and looked about me:

‘Am I the only survivor?’

The Hospitaller looked grave: ‘I live a mile away at the other end of Fifty Shades Bay. I have seen no one else on the whole length of the beach, and very little wreckage.’

I pointed to a large tent erected above the high water mark: ‘Could someone be in that tent?’

‘I don’t think so: I see no footprints near it. That is the marquee where we hold our Weekly Literary Festival every Sunday. Every Sunday except tomorrow, that is.’

‘Why not tomorrow?’

‘It is October 9^th tomorrow. The anniversary of the death of Professor Derrida. On October 9^th, as always, there will be a solemn procession in the capital.’

I allowed myself to be led further up the beach. We passed a pair of fake-fur handcuffs and also a bleached rubber truncheon. A wooden walkway marked a path through the dunes and, following it, we arrived at a cabin beside a pond. John paused a moment reverently on the threshold, glancing up at the inscription over the door: ‘The Mass of Authors Lead Lives of Quiet Desperation.’ We went inside.

The cabin’s stove was lit. On the table was bread, honey, a pitcher of water and a bottle of wine. John gestured towards the table and the bed in the corner: ‘Please eat and rest here. Tomorrow morning I will call for you and take you on the train to the capital.’ He picked up the wine bottle with its torn and yellowed label: ‘I’m afraid it’s the new wine.’ He turned back towards me on the threshold, raised both arms, swayed rhythmically from side-to-side, chanted ‘Ooo Aahh Derrida, Ooo Aahh Derrida,’ and left.

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The next morning John greeted me with the same Derrida Chant. I repeated it and was rewarded with a smile. Together, we sat down to finish the bread and honey and then set off for the station, which proved to be nearby, behind a scattering of large, brown barns. John said they were the Julian Barns: it was best not to walk through them, as it could be quite difficult to find the exit. Other men and women were also making for the train. I noticed that the men all looked rather like John, dressed in jeans, with beards, shaved heads and glasses; the women also all wore jeans, with smocks and long scarves.

The train had old-fashioned carriages and we had a compartment to ourselves. I asked John what would follow when the Derrida Anniversary Procession finished. John looked surprised: ‘In Authorship Down, we believe different audiences prefer different endings. So there will be several to choose from. As a stranger, you might prefer one of our traditional endings – The Agent Hunt.’

‘Does it involve hunting down a real agent?’

John was shocked: ‘No, no. literary agents became extinct a long time ago. I believe the last one was accidentally smothered under a pile of stamped addressed envelopes. If you chose to join The Agent Hunt, I would be happy to accompany you: as it happens, I’ve already put my name down for the Post-Colonial Guilt Trip, but I’ve been on that one five times previously.’

Needing time to absorb this information, I smiled at John and turned to look out of the window. We were passing through a countryside of oddly-shaped hills. Each one had a rounded top at one end, with a long narrow, curving ridge tapering away from it. They seemed to be scattered haphazardly across the landscape. John followed my gaze:

‘Strange hills, are they not? They are called The Wayward Apostrophe’s. Writers of promotional literature live there, including my cousin, Sebastian. He has become very grand. I believe he invented Whats’ It Called – Cumbernauld.

The unexpected mention of my home town caused my eyes to water.  John tactfully passed me a recycled paper hankie; I gave my nose a dolorous blow. We were silent for a few minutes. When next I looked out the window, I saw we had entered a built-up area – an industrial suburb of the capital, John said. He pointed out some low brick buildings: ‘They are Writers’ Workshops; they are normally very busy at weekends.’

I asked about the graffiti visible on some of the brickwork: ‘NLF?’

John scowled: ‘The Narrative Liberation Front, a terrorist group. Their leader calls himself Steven Louis Robertson, a renegade who wishes to turn the clock back to the Pre-Derrida Era. But he will never succeed: he has not got a single memorable female heroine.’ John then kindly began to explain to me modern (or perhaps it was ‘post-modern’, or maybe it was ‘late-modern’) Theories of the Novel.

Still fatigued from yesterday’s ordeal, I failed to follow all the details of the Hospitaller’s explanation. One thing I did get clear was that the reader of today has now been empowered, liberated from authorial intention (a matter for celebration – John stressed this, most intently). By the time we had reached the terminus and began to struggle through the press of authors to the subway, John had moved onto a seemingly important distinction between ‘signifier’ and ‘signified’.

As we shuffled down the thirty-nine steps, I slipped away, momentarily unnoticed, into the crowd, on my way to find and join the Narrative Liberation Front.   

Michael Bloor

Image: Picabay.com – Old fashioned manual typewriter