A Writer’s Revenge

Dear You

I’m making a complaint about you. Not the company you work for. Not their policy of cold-calling on the off-chance someone will buy their product. You. It’s you, I’m angry with.

You protest, this isn’t fair, you were just doing your job. But I hate that you do that job with your breezy, unlistening tones and I want bad things to happen to you.

You need the money, you squawk. We all need the money. Why is your need greater than mine? You, doing your job, stopped me doing mine.

Did you know this wasn’t the first time you’ve called? You’ve tried that trick before. You say, “It won’t take long.” (The first lie). “I’m not trying to sell you anything.” (The second lie).  And then you ask questions like “Are you the homeowner?” and because I was  brought up to be polite, I answer a few of your questions. But they just keep coming and you don’t answer mine, because you don’t have a script for that. So, something inside of me snaps and I curtly hang up, throwing the phone, so hard that the back falls off. I curse you for making me be rude, and for the scrabble underneath the sofa to repair my phone.

I have this crisis that I’ve become a bad person, and that’s your fault. You.

The second time you called, I was rude from the beginning. You do not get to ask me about damp-proofing. I hate you for making me angry. Do you have any idea how hard I’ve worked not to be angry? All that money on therapy and you undo it with your “just a few minutes of your time.” I hate you for making sure there is no polite way to get rid of you.

That last time you called, I had worked so hard to find the bubble of my work, to make space away from chores, to get into the world of my characters. Everyday has been a battle for focus against the enshittification of modern life. I had made a cup of tea. I had settled the cat away from my notebooks. I had tidied all the notifications on the various screens, and I had put a pen to some paper. Then you called. You took away all that preparation with your unnecessary, badly worded script about homeowning and future risk. And I hated you. You think you’re taking a few moments, (even though actually you hoped to take more, so you could earn your commission). But you hadn’t just stolen a sliver of my time, you stole the portal to the world that I have been struggling to create.

Now, that world needs a villain, and I’ve decided it’s going to be you. I’m not going to give you a name, or any features, because then you might be able to shrug it off. Pretend it isn’t you, because that isn’t your name, or your eyes aren’t that colour. But know this, it is you. Next year, there is going to be a best-selling novel about a middle-aged woman taking revenge on the cold-caller that made her crack. A breakdown of epic proportions.

All your friends are going to be talking about that holiday beach read that turns sour, when a writer kidnaps a cold-caller and places her in a cellar. You are going to read about a woman who is forced to eat the mushrooms that grow in a cellar of a house, where the owner refused to buy your damp-proofing. And you will be grateful for those mushrooms and rue the day that you ever suggested damp-proofing. That fungus is the only thing keeping you alive. You will read the words and smell that mould, the decay and neglect. You will feel the ties that bind you to a chair. Can you feel it now, the rope that burns your wrists? There’s a mouse that scampers across your feet. Its squeak is your only company. But even the mouse eats better than you, because the writer leaves it a small lump of cheese just outside the reach of your harness.

You’re thinking as you read this, that there will be some escape. But there won’t be. Because you are the villain. Everybody thinks the writer is the hero. People will be glad when you die.

You will think you can hear real life beyond the cellar. But you can’t – those sounds are your brain getting mixed up with hunger and fear. No, the writer’s cellar is not damp-proofed, but it is sound-proofed. No one is coming.

You see my fantasy of revenge has gone too far now. I can’t let you go. You’ll tell people that the writer tortured you and then what would happen to her and the inspiring words she can write. No, if there is to be a choice between your whining and her lyrical sentences, you don’t stand a chance. You will whimper for justice, for compassion and the writer will talk over you, with banalities. How are you today? Is everything good? How are you coping with the heat of the summer? Are you prepared for the winter? Are you the homeowner? Do you have damp-proofing?

Then one day, your whimpering will stop. The writer will take out her pen, settle in with a cup of peppermint tea, a blank screen and a new notebook ready to write the sequel about a haunted basement.

I am not usually one for complaining, so I would like to thank you, in advance, for taking your time to address this matter. Never ever call here again and I expect compensation for my loss of earnings and sanity. Or I may have to take more drastic action.

You have been warned.

Yours sincerely,

The Writer