My very own Man Booker Prize
I shall write about writing this week. Because while in Eason (they’ve dropped the S), I noticed the mega-selling writer, Dan Brown, has a new book out: The Secret of Secrets. Intrigued, I picked it up and read the prologue, which really grabbed me and made me want to read more. But I didn’t take it to the cash-desk, I put it back on the shelf – I’ll wait for it to arrive at the library, because I’m a Cavan man.
Later on I read the reviews and was astounded to discover that Dan Brown is derided in literary circles. He’s literally framed as the world’s worst writer: ungrammatical, clumsy prose, repetitive, laughable metaphors.
One prominent reviewer wrote, “Dan Brown still can’t write, but he deserves some respect.” Alas, he doesn’t get it; his literary-derision is relentless.
I love his books, I can still feel the thrill of reading ‘The Da Vinci Code’ back in 2003 – pure page-turning entertainment. And I’m not alone, his books have sold over 250M copies and have been translated into 56 languages.
I got to thinking: if I enjoy reading what the literati considers rubbish writing, then it follows that I too, am a rubbish writer. To add further to that theory, during a recent heated exchange of words between an adversary and myself, I was derided with a scathing aplomb, “You’re a minor Cavan celebrity and a SH**E WRITER!”
I’ve owned that review, and now use it across all my social media bios.
Literary-fiction is an elite world full of snobbery; and I’m going to commit literary-sacrilege now: I’d rather read Dan Brown than James Joyce.
I once met a literary super star. A writer who has won the world’s leading literary award: The Man Booker Prize, not once, but twice. She is Hilary Mantel, author of ‘Wolf Hall’ and other highly-acclaimed tomes in the world of literature. I was a creative working in the pharmaceutical sector when I was tasked with creating an awareness campaign for the medical condition: Endometriosis. Hilary suffered from the chronic disease and had written a memoir in which she wrote searingly about living with the debilitating condition, which can often go undiagnosed.
In retrospect, to say I met her would be a stretch, we literally acknowledged each other with a polite, “Hello,” before I was taken into a boardroom to be briefed, and Hilary no doubt returned home to continue work on her literary-cannon.
Anyway, Hilary’s memoir was given to me so the creative team and I could gain insights into endometriosis from a personal perspective, and thus be better versed to create an empathetic awareness campaign. As the client handed me the book, she looked me square in the eye and said with emphatic force, “Gerard, do not lose this as it’s been personally signed for me, and Hilary’s a writer on the ascendent.”
I put it in my bag and assured her with something cringey like, “I’ll look after it like the treasure it is.”
Then off I went and lost the book. I was reading it on the underground, and left it on the train. When I got home, I had that thumping panic as I grappled through my bag and realised it wasn’t there. The following morning I raced to London-Underground-Lost-Property, it wasn’t there. Nor was it the next day. Or the next. I confided in a colleague; who was nonchalant, “Go to Foyles and buy another copy,” she said.
I relaxed and off I trotted; before being hit with a heavy dread as I remembered – it was a personally signed copy, and I’d freaking lost it!
In a moment of madness I thought about forging her signature. But no, I had to come clean and call the client. My voice shook as I delivered the confession; and if there was a prize for grovelling I’d have won it hands down. She was initially annoyed, but eventually forgave me and told me to keep the new copy; while she’d ask Hilary for a newly signed one (which she received, thankfully). And more, she didn’t tell my boss; for which I was grateful.
Now, back to writing. Personally, I have no literary pretensions or ambitious literary aspirations. I write to make readers laugh a little, cry a little, and reflect a lot. And when I do that, then I’ve won my very own Man Booker Prize.
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