Here I am, tapping away at my computer. I need a good story. But I can’t write post-modern.
His submission is due in less than ten hours, and I don’t have a clue what he wants. I wish this guy could write more efficiently. Why put me in this predicament? I mean, he’s the one under pressure. Yet, I’ve got to tap out a 500-word post-modernist passage so he can score big time with the tutor. Maybe if he treated her a bit nicer or gave her flowers, then I wouldn’t have to be here on a Sunday afternoon trying to save his arse?
Only a single page he says. Fine, but I’ve still got to produce the ideas. Hey, maybe I could do a story about an author who has writer’s block and relies on his characters to pull him out of the rut that he is in? Now, the protagonist is a writer who always meets his deadlines, never once late. Okay, he will also need to be proficient at grammar and editing, because our student really doesn’t have the time to edit and rewrite. Why? Because he needs to go for his Sunday exercise along the Brisbane River with his gorgeous partner Bronwen.
I wouldn’t be the only one to think she is too good for him. Snappy dresser and a tight figure. If I was not stuck here in his imaginings, I’d soon turn her head. She’d ditch that sucker in no time. I would be able to write her into a romantic adventure set in France. We’d drive down the wide boulevards of the French Riviera in a navy and white Rolls Royce Dawn with the drophead down. Gift her diamonds to match her new navy and white Yves Saint Laurent outfit and elusive Louis Vuitton handbag. I can see her spending hours in Laurance Dacade, or Roger Viver shoe emporiums just to make sure they have the correct heel height. I’d sit dutifully because you know she’s worth the wait. After a week in Paris, we’d spend warm afternoons visiting vineries in Bordeaux and Burgundy, lastly spending the weekend in Champagne – I mean that literally. Nothing would be too good for that girl.
Okay, okay, boy don’t be so grumpy. Geez, he gets jealous quick. Just remember I’m not the one who left this journal entry to the last minute. Romance is obviously not his forte. He’d probably like adventure where he is the hero. Yeah, a real lady’s man. Yeah, buddy, we know. Women find authors about as exciting as a wet blanket. Besides, I’d make sure he’d fall on his face just when the moment is right, as a payback for the pressure he gives me like today. How about you are cruising Hastings Street in Noosa Heads on a classic Norton and there is a group of foreign female students huddled around the back of a Kombi? It’s not going anywhere. Of course, buddy, this is your big chance to shine. You pull up, unzip your jacket, and they all turn and laugh at you, you stupid old prick. Act your age. Ha-ha. I’m going now.
Wait, you can’t leave now. I need a story to submit.
Tough, I’m gone. Exit stage right.