The Hero Dream

If Bill Clinton had managed to win a $10 million publishing deal for his memoirs, surely mine will be worth a meagre $ 1 million. I’m trying hard not to be greedy. Just pragmatic.

So I sit back and try to organise my thoughts and memories. Going back to my childhood which made me what I am. As I go down memory lane, I’m unable to think of traumatic experiences, which have scarred me for life. No evil step mother or abusive father. So, where do I begin?

The best bet would be to make up as I go along. So I sit down at my computer and wait for inspiration to strike. Ten minutes of gazing at the screen makes me nothing, but cross-eyed. It’s always difficult to make a start. Especially when one considers how important the beginning is. You have to rivet your reader with that first line. Make them stay for more. Hunger to read on.

Okay, I tell myself, just get on with it. As I sift through my memory, my mind digresses. A certain incident comes to mind. Of a sibling who made life miserable for me. Wonder how can I use this to my benefit. Shall I paint this person in colors so dark that the reader will be compelled to go on, wanting to know how this villain ruined my life and how I overcame adversity?

Even as the thought start free flow and my fingers dance across the keyboard, an inner voice starts its monologue. It says, come on, you know that never really happened. Don’t exaggerate, don’t be melodramatic. That’s the fastest way to lose an audience.

I continue hammering on the keyboard trying to shut out this voice. Who cares about fidelity to life’s experiences when you know the imagination can do so much better.

Soon you are on page 50 and stop for a breath. That voice has been successfully stifled. You never thought it would be so easy. Making up isn’t hard to do. As the words trip from your fingers you marvel at your inventiveness.

Imagining people reading your work and marveling at your creativity, the simple yet effective style, the pain underlying the suffering, the poetry of prose. You can see yourself picking up the phone to be told this to New Books Publishing House. We heard you have been writing this amazing novel about your life and times. We want first option. Will you promise not to approach any other publisher? We are willing to give you an advance ….. the figure mentioned enough to make you gasp.

Then there are newspaper reviews. The critics just love it. Reams of praises showered on your first literary effort. There’s talk of it being made into a movie. You wonder if you can get your favourite actors and actresses to take the leading roles. Publicity blitz and the glare of fame become blinding.

The harsh ring of the telephone jolts you back to reality. You look around in a daze, the transition from dream to dreary present so hard to bear.

You pick up the phone, grunt a distinctly unwelcome hello. Only to be greeted by the voice of your sibling. The very one who is to figure prominently in your Booker Prize-winning novel. Asked, what are you up to, you come out with the truth. The ominous pause is an answer enough.

With the words if you dare write about me ringing in your ears, you come to the sad conclusion that some people just aren’t made of hero material.