Rhetorical Questions Round a Rectangular Dining Table
Vol.15 Does anyone buy books anymore? Anyone want to buy my book? And what am I going to do with myself?
Vol.15 Does anyone buy books anymore? Anyone want to buy my book? And what am I going to do with myself?
I was a fan of The White Stripes long before the guitar riff of “Seven Nation Army” became synonymous with sports and big event crowds the world over. A goal is scored and before you can pick yourself up from the baying and celebratory crowd around you the PA system is already cranking out the tune in question and abracadabra, organised fun. Brilliant. That’s exactly what this crazily upside down world needs right now, a little more organised fun. Here in the UK we’re being ordered (ordered? Politics Editor) to sing “Sweet Caroline” in celebration of the Queen’s Jubilee and frankly I believe this to be fantastic news. Leaving aside the political arguments and societal benefits of abolishing such an antiquated relic of the 15th Century, what we get in return is organised fun, street parties, bunting and an organised celebration of our own enslavement (freedom, surely? Politics Editor). I know you haven’t ventured here for a lecture into the ludicrous state of The Empire, but I just don’t know what to do with myself.
And this perturbs me.
I never know where these flights of finger tapping fancy or, to attempt to put that sentence in a more professional way: a stream of consciousness, will travel, and that’s no different here. It’s exciting isn’t it? A fresh page, an idea, a question, a few more questions and lo and behold, before I’ve even posited my frankly absurd idea of writing a book, questioning why anyone would even want to read a book I’ve written and why I’m yet again “stuck” in that existential angst in which I seem to so cleverly mire myself in, I’ve already alienated most of the audience with my anti-Establishment rhetoric and disdain for authoritarian organised fun that I wrongly believed was only reserved for the USSR of the 1970’s and 1980's.
I’m my own worst enemy but at least I recognise the infiltrator staring at me from the bathroom mirror. Or do I? I was wistfully thinking today that I’m two adult generations away from being that tall and gangly wannabe professional cricketer and just as far away from the accountant I desired to be when sporting sense and reason kicked in. It’s also been over a decade now since I stopped being the corporate man desperately clinging to the last vestiges of any possible long term career. I didn’t exactly see “attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion” but I did see a Blade Runner in all of it’s 21st Century Corporatised mundanity.
But I don’t know what to do with myself, and this perturbs me.
Luckily not as much as it seems to perturb other people! One of the numerous lessons I’ve learned in the past decade is not to say to anyone (and especially so any prospective female love interests) that you have absolutely no idea what you want to do or be when you finally succumb to growing up. You don’t know what you want to be doing in five years time? Well you’re obviously a heretic and unworthy of my love for the human being stood before me, right here, right now, and not in 1,825 days time. Get away from me foul creature!
Or maybe that’s just me?
I have questions and this is very definitely reflective of my personality and a human being that simply hasn’t grown up. And why not? Have you seen the state of the world whilst I’ve been contemplating exactly what I want to be before I lose the mental capability to remember exactly what that was in the first place? I’ve never really known what I’ve wanted to do with myself aside from two periods of my life and two periods in which the demon on my shoulder got the better of me. It would seem that a summer rose does indeed need both the sun and the rain? Who knew?
So the book idea? Well quite frankly it’s genius, and a for a number of reasons:
(1) It’s already written!
(2) It’s about arguably one of the top five popularly known sporting teams in the entire world and known throughout all of modern sporting history.
(3) It’s contemporary.
(4) With additional chapters (again already written) it’ll be unique.
(5) It’s written by a genuine fan and even though I occasionally get high on my own supply, it’s sure to be a damn fine read!
But the rub and obvious question is do people buy books any more? All I see are tweets and social media posts from authors giving their books away but, in this Matrix world, a digitised and pdf giveaway. Commissioning editors? Someone willing to read the raw material before considering the bigger whole? Self publish? And who’s going to take a chance on a first time author with a book collated of blog articles written about a football team and their stupendous, record breaking season?
Would you buy that book?
The biggest rub of all perhaps is that writing, even this throwaway bundle of vowels and consonants, gives me great pleasure as well as a rare and pertinent insight into what I actually want to do with myself. I started longer form writing over a decade ago and even then it was, as so quaintly expressed in the oldest of English, “old hat”. But here I am, ten years later, still no nearer to knowing what to do with myself and instead compiling digital post-it notes of questions about writing a book no-one will read.
My time is up! I gave myself an hour for this particular stream of consciousness article and not the days of contemplation I gave the others linked below.
So should you be a commissioning editor of sports books and can see a unique opportunity when they see one, I’ll be over here watching beams glittering in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate and probably watching sad movies and dreaming of Meg White and that enormous sound she made with her beautiful drums.
Send word.
Rhetorical Questions Round a Rectangular Dining Table
Vol.14 Friday 13th, a stroll in the sun and an over dependency on bread and circusmedium.com
Rhetorical Questions Round a Rectangular Dining Table
Vol.13 Existential narcissistic solipsism and other ramblings from deep within The Matrixmedium.com