Mr Lynch’s Holiday

24

In the first few months he’d spent his afternoons making notes about his novel. Some days he thought he had too many ideas and other days not enough. Some days the scale was too ambitious, other days too narrow. One week he was convinced it would be first person, present tense, the next week it was multiple viewpoint, past historical. In the densely packed document entitled ‘Scope’ there were twenty-eight different themes he thought the novel would touch upon. The main character was a hospital porter called Wayne, or possibly a banker called Justin, or a child detective called Pip, or maybe all of them and more in a literary maelstrom of fragments and traces that would be far greater than the sum of its parts. And throughout all these vital, preliminary considerations and crucial decision-making stages came the steady tap-tap-tap of Laura’s keyboard.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘OK, I guess.’

‘You seem to be writing a lot. You’re like Ernie Wise bashing out a play a night.’

‘Ha ha.’

‘I thought you’d be doing research first.’

‘Well, I do a bit of both each day. I think if I spend too long thinking about it, I won’t ever actually write it.’

He said nothing.

As the weeks passed, his notes folder expanded.

She asked him eagerly: ‘Is there anything you can read to me?’

‘No, not yet.’

‘But it’s going OK?’

‘It’s OK.’

‘I mean, you have actually started and everything?’

‘It depends what you mean by “started”. I mean, how do we define “the start”? I’m not sure that we can.’

After a while he stopped adding to his notes and shortly after that he stopped opening the folder. He found the contents unsettling. A tangled knot of half-ideas and desires with no discernible beginning or end. A list of resolutions and ambitions. He sat and stared at the folder icon on his desktop and listened to Laura’s tap-tap-tap day after day until he finally realized his mistake.

‘Laura!’

‘What?’

‘I’ve had a breakthrough.’

‘Amazing.’

‘I haven’t been writing a novel.’

‘No?’

‘No. I’ve been writing about a novel.’

‘Isn’t that a start?’

‘No. It turns out that was the work I was engaged upon. I’ve written thirty thousand words about a novel. Now I’ve finished.’

‘Aren’t you going to write the novel itself?’

‘What? And spoil it?’

‘Eamonn. Come on. Don’t do this.’

‘Do what?’

‘You’re attacking yourself. Giving yourself a hard time. What you’re trying to do is insanely hard. It’d be crazy if you didn’t get stuck sometimes.’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I’m not doing the same thing. You’re doing something more ambitious.’

‘No. That’s not it. I’m not cut out for this.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I’m not the literary type, am I? I mean, look at us. Your father has written books, your mother has papers published in journals. You grew up with this kind of stuff. What the fuck do I know? I’m not from that background.’

She stared at him for a long time. ‘Please tell me you’re not turning this into a class issue.’

‘I’m not turning this into a class issue. I’m just saying you have a confidence and I suppose a sense of entitlement. Why shouldn’t you write a book? You know you can do it. I know I can’t.’

‘Why does this feel as if you’re attacking me?’

‘I’m not attacking you.’

‘All I’ve ever done is encourage you.’

‘I know, just as your parents encouraged you all through your life.’

‘Will you stop talking about my fucking parents! It’s not their fault that you’re not writing your book.’

‘No, I know, it’s mine. I’m useless.’

‘Jesus. Do you know how tiring this is?’

‘I’m sorry if I make you tired.’

‘It’s fine that you show no interest in what I’m writing. I never expected you to.’

‘I do show an interest, I’m always asking you how it’s going.’

‘Only so you can gnash your teeth and beat yourself up. You’re not actually interested. After all, historical fiction isn’t your “cup of tea”, remember? But that’s fine, I’m OK with that. And it’s even fine that you can’t be happy for me that I’m getting on OK, that I’m finding it interesting and rewarding. But yes I find it tiring, wearing, deadening that I have to constantly reassure you, to prevent you mentally self-harming. And I find it more than tiring, I find it pathetic, predictable and ultimately repellent that everything always comes back to the ridiculous, enormous chip on your shoulder.’

‘“Repellent”,’ he repeated.

She looked into his eyes. ‘Why are you fucking everything up?’