Day 35

5.04: Imagine you’re an important personage, a captain of industry. Your name is Schnarph or Hunff or Fneugh. You’re busy, day in day out, running a courier firm from the box room in your semi-detached cave. The business is expanding fast – it’s growing too big for the box room, and your customers need stuff shoved about the prehistoric neighbourhood faster than your fleets of horny-handed sons of haulage can carry them. What you need is more staff, but you can’t take on more staff unless you bring in more cave money, and you can’t bring in more cave money without making more deliveries. It’s a Catch 22. Oh bum.

The situation begins to depress you, and you seek comfort in dinosaur brandy quaffed by the flagon alone in your box room. The business starts to suffer, which drives you deeper into your fug of depression, and you drink only more heavily to numb the sense of stinging personal failure. The cycle deepens. You wish you’d gone into retail like Grunch the mastodon butcher, or property like Thrump the estate agent. If only you’d listened to your entrepreneurial father, Len the Ice Cream Man.

Lucky for you, though, you got a friend. Jemph, who you’ve known since primary school, comes to call on you one day. He says, “why don’t you come out with me for a round of neolithic golf?” You’ve always liked Jemph, and you think “Why not?” So you sober up and strike out with your mammoth-tusk irons and your petrified drivers. Jemph tees off first, whipping his T-Rex tooth ball breezily from the cannibal’s finger tee. He’s a large man, a stevedore by trade, and the ball flies way past the snow-lynx-tail pin, and lodges in a grassy hill somewhere behind. Now it’s your turn to tee off and, this being the time when men were men, you’re a big guy too. You belt your ball, made of a Brachiosaurus’ fossilised eyeball, even harder and further than Jemph’s and it strikes the hill higher up.

You’re both dispirited, but before your very eyes, your ball begins to move. It trundles down the hill, past Jemph’s wedged tooth-shapen ball, and gathers speed, racing towards the hole. Triumph is yours. Not only have you scored a hole in one, but you, Schnarph or Hunff or Fneugh, have just invented the wheel. Your business is saved, and you can publish your findings in the Journal of Serendipitous and Unexpected Results.

6.56: Another light day on the word count, but a decent bit of writing stammered out even so. I might be getting the hang of this, but the more I feel like I’m doing better description and characterisation, the harder it is to make any meaningful progress towards getting the damned thing finished. And of course, then I’ll have to rewrite all the earlier bits from before I’d figured out how to do it properly. Therebeforelight could be here for the long haul folks.

~ by David Thorley on January 27, 2010.

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