On the nature of friends and fiction

clay picClayton Truscott, in a field, preparing for the coming of the Great Pumpkin…

All my life, I had conspired to be a writer… Whether it was reworked versions of fairytales I knew and loved… Or short stories about my pet snails or my dog, Bojangles… Writing was all I’d ever wanted to do… . So when the day arrived to finally study English Literature, I was ready. In spite of early morning setbacks, like trying to get my friends out of bed, I was there on time, front row, pen ready. I was normally that irritating girl shushing other students who wasted the valuable time I had to learn and absorb, by philosophising endlessly with the lecturer on some remotely related topic or another. I would have none of it.

And yet, class after class, I grew ever more intrigued by a particular individual who seemed the very antithesis of me. Seldom on time for a lecture and usually in slippers and what appeared, to the outsider, to closely resemble pyjama bottoms, here was a young man never without an expression of earnestness on his face. Curiouser and curiouser… I inevtiably arrived at the conclusion that the morning swell came before any other considerations, and those hours he’d spent catching waves were followed by vicious days of playing catch-up from one lecture hall to the next.

But in the end, I had been right to find myself so very intrigued. This young man wasn’t an aspiring writer, like myself. He already was one. A magically introspective writer, who had the ability to bring truly human characters to life, characters that would, quite plainly, break your heart. The editor in me couldn’t help but get stuck into his work, and many afternoons were spent, after classes, with laptops out and a six pack of ice-cold Labels, ruminating over themes, over characters, polishing stories and fleshing them out until we felt they were ready for the public.  These will always be some of my fondest memories.

I am glad to say that today, he continues to surpass my expectations of him… He can be so unassuming, in person, that sometimes I forget the talent he is. I forget that ink runs through his veins as naturally – and as much a life source – as blood. And then I turn to this latest short story, and I’m reminded of  the one thing I’ve always known since the day we made our introductions. This man was born to write.

That said, enough of my own reminiscing and rambling… Here is an honest and refreshing piece of writing by an equally honest and refreshing human being. So make a cup of tea… Or if the time is right, crack open that inviting brewski… And settle in for a good read.

3 thoughts on “On the nature of friends and fiction

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *