So you want to be a writer, eh?

The charges are read.

‘You are charged with aspiring to be a writer despite having no qualifications and no likelihood of success. How do you plead?’

The defendant hesitates, but the ‘no likelihood of success’ phrase makes him resolute.

‘Not Guilty’.

The male prosecutor now stands.

He is wearing an immaculately fitted dark pin striped suit. His hair is unnaturally black and oiled. His shirt is white and crisp. He reveals gold cufflinks as he shuffles some papers in front of him. He takes his time before looking up, around the courtroom and then directly at the defendant.

The words are slightly different this time around, but the sentiment is the same.

‘Mr. H.’, he starts, licking his wet bottom lip. ‘Is it correct to assume that you want to be writer?’

‘Ah, yes, yes, that is true,’ the aspiring writer responds tentatively. ‘Although I did go through a phase where I actually wanted to be a teacher …’.

‘Just answer the question, Mr. H. I’m not asking you whether you have always wanted to be a writer, just whether you want to be a writer at this point’, interjects the lawyer. ‘So, I’ll repeat the question – do you want to be a writer?’

‘Umm, yes. Yes, I do’.

‘Good. Thank you for clearing that up for the court, Mr. H. Now, would you like to outline to those of us gathered here today what your qualifications are to be (pauses and theatrically checks his notes) … what was it? Ah, yes. A writer?’

‘Certainly. I was an English teacher for over 35 years at secondary school level’, he starts, fading as he senses a trap. ‘And I’ve always read a lot…’.

The prosecutor’s head snaps up from his notes, seemingly incredulous.

‘You’ve read a lot??’

He turns to the jury and the public gallery and gesticulates.

‘He’s read a lot, ladies and gentlemen, ergo, he must be a writer!’

Polite chuckles follow, before the lawyer turns back and glares at the defendant.

‘But, Mr. H., I asked you for your qualifications to be writer! You’re not suggesting, surely, that teaching English to adolescents– and reading “a lot”, as you put it – qualifies you to be categorized with, say, Proust or Tolstoy?

‘Well, no, of course not. I’m not saying that I’m ever going to be in that category. It is possible to be a writer without attaining that stature. All I’m saying is that …’.

‘Yes, yes. But the question was about your qualifications. You do have qualifications, don’t you? I’ll try again. Perhaps you could start with your university qualifications to be …ah, a writer? You did study English, at University, did you not?’

‘Well, no, actually’, he starts. ‘I studies Politics, History and Geography. No English or writing, not directly, that is …’.

‘He studied Politics, History and Geography in his degree, Ladies and Gentlemen! Of course! Mr. H., you did not study English at a tertiary level. Dear, oh, dear. Yet you have the temerity to believe that you can miraculously become a published writer. Mr. H., I would like to run 100 meters in less than ten seconds. Does it logically follow that I am able to? …

‘Objection, your Honor’, the Defense Counsel quietly interjects. ‘Relevance?’

‘I’m coming to that, your Worship’, the Prosecutor hurries on before the judge reacts. ‘My point is, Mr. H., there is a difference between wanting and being trained, surely?’

‘Well, yes, but…’

‘Good. We’ll let that pass for the time being. Let us go to the writing awards you have won so far. Would you please list for the court the awards you have so far received in your quest to be a writer?’

‘Umm, I’ve yet to seriously try to be published. I have been focusing on just establishing the habit of writing. Without that …’

His voice has become mouse-like.

‘Ah, of course. ‘Establishing the habit of writing’,’ the lawyer chuckles. ‘But presumably people read your little masterpieces and give you feedback? Mmm?’

‘Well, no. I don’t feel like it is fair to force my writing on friends or family. It puts them in the uncomfortable position where they have to sugar coat their responses to me if my writing does not appeal …’.

‘So … no feedback about your … ah, efforts … at all, Mr. H.?’

The lawyer appears perplexed. His demeanor now oozes pity for the unfortunate wretch who stands before him.

‘Well, I have had some feedback on the few pieces of writing that I have submitted for competitions’.

‘Excellent, Mr. H.! This is more like it. And the feedback has encouraged you in your quest, naturally?’

‘No, I can’t honestly say that. I’m yet to win any of these. And where I have paid for feedback, … well … I guess you would call much of the feedback negative’.

The aspiring writer shuffles awkwardly. His voice tails off.

The courtroom is dead silent. The jury looks at the floor. The spectators in the public gallery appear embarrassed. Even his own lawyer is avoiding eye contact and pretending to check through his paperwork.

The judge, a tired-looking older man with grey hair straight out of ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’, taps his pipe. He is so obviously irritated at having his time wasted.

After all, the evidence speaks for itself. There is no evidence to suggest that the defendant could ever write successfully and much evidence to suggest that he cannot.

‘But at least you have established the habit of writing?’, the prosecutor queries, seemingly subdued. ‘That is something to admire at least, Mr. H. On average, how many hours per week would you devote to your … ah … writing? 35? 40?’

The defendant squirms. How does he admit that he might spend just 5 to 10 hours per week writing? And that is only when he is being extremely disciplined.

A lengthy silence follows.

‘I have no further questions, your Honor’ says the lawyer quietly, slipping back into his seat.

The mongrel acts as if he has taken no pleasure in bringing to the court’s attention that which should have been obvious without a trial.

The defendant is found guilty as charged but, given that nobody but himself has been harmed by his endeavors, no conviction is recorded. He is allowed to leave immediately, presumably on the basis that he has already suffered enough through public humiliation.

It is only as he files out of the courtroom, dazed and despondent, that other arguments which he should have raised in his defense start to swirl in his mind.

His anger builds as he reaches the doorway.

Did any of the great writers have official qualifications to write those canonical works? Did Tolstoy have a degree in how to write a classic, for instance?

And bloody Proust! Was Proust that good anyway??

This aspiring writer has read Proust, ‘Swann’s Way’ in fact, the complete novel. He is possibly one of the few people on the planet who can honestly say that he has. He persisted only because he did not want to be the only one in his Reading Group who did not finish. Ironically, when he attended the Reading Group’s meeting, he discovered that nobody else had persevered.

Not one of them!

‘Life is too short’, the group leader had shrugged and grinned.

Reading Proust had its moments for him, but they were few and far between.

As he stumbles blindly down the grand steps of the courthouse, he considers that most people cannot start writing successfully without devoting time to it, an apprenticeship of sorts where failure and rejection is common. Writing regularly without the pressure of constant feedback seems to make some sense to him.

He wakes with a start to the cacophony of early morning cockatoos from the nearby forest.

He lies completely still for another minute or two, not daring to move in case the details of the dream fade quickly before he can lock them in for later reflection.

It felt so real, but he should have known that it was just that – a dream. What sort of charge was ‘aspiring to be a writer without qualifications or a likelihood of success’, for heaven’s sake? His nation had not yet reached a point where citizens wanting to write (or writing of poor-quality) was a crime. A lot of aspiring writers, both online and in paperback, would be guilty if that was the case.

And where were all the witnesses one would expect at a trial?

He is calmer now so amuses himself for a few minutes, lying there, thinking of people from various stages of his life who could have been witnesses in his make-believe trial.

The weathered old pig farmer in muddy boots who he’d worked for in his teenage years during school holidays. That old bloke leaning on his shovel, regarding him shrewdly, a hint of amusement in the clear blue eyes twinkling from the weathered nut-brown face after he’d told him that he wanted to write one day.

The farmer had even repeated his question several times, slowly, as if he could scarcely believe it. He’d said it gently, in the sympathetic tone one reserves for harmless simpletons.

‘So, you want to be a writer, eh?’

No nastiness, no judgement, but disbelief, nevertheless.

His hirsute brother was more obvious in his scorn.

The humorless School Principal at one of the schools he taught at, who he had made the mistake of confiding in once. Just the once. Never again.

The buxom psychologist.

Now it would have been fun to have remained in the dream long enough to see what she had to say about him!

And there was the oily lawyer with the badly dyed hair from the dream as well. Not a real person, but certainly a montage of certain types.

Until now, it has felt like they’ve all known something about him that he has yet to work out for himself: that he is crap writer and that his efforts are laughable.

That he should stick to what he can do – teaching.

But something has shifted inside him. He feels a new resolve.

Did any of his critics (real and imaginary) have a monopoly on happiness? Or had they just settled for paths of least resistance in their choices? Do they really know more about him than he does, or have they just not been bold enough to try something different? Would there have been a Tolstoy (or even a Proust, heaven help us) if everybody played it safe? If Tolstoy had finished his Law studies and practiced being a lawyer of some sort, instead of writing?

He then rises carefully from the bed he shares with his wife. He stumbles bleary eyed to the dining room table where his laptop sits, an old friend patiently waiting for his return.

A non-judgmental old friend who does a lot of waiting.

He turns it on, sits, waits as it loads, thinking.

Will anybody die if he writes? What does it matter if he tries and fails?

Stuff them all.

He starts typing the words he always imagines hearing, the words which prevent him from writing.

The words dripping in derision that give him further excuses to procrastinate (as if he needs more excuses).

'So, you want to be a writer, eh?'

Yep. He does.