One midsummer day I was leaning into an involved conversation with an abstract artist (of moderate fame) who, for no apparent reason, said to me in an intriguing manner…
“…you should write a book…”
The conversation was slightly fuelled by a prelunch intake of cold refreshing cider in an ancient, smoke filled country pub. So I completely ignored him and continued to pursue my line of questioning about how many pounds (sterling) per square meter he earned for his ‘artwork’. The answer (ascertained after some dubious bar napkin mathematics) was quite impressive even at that early stage of his career.
This conversation was held over 20 years ago and I’ve often returned to it in my mind. Not because I have a burning desire to communicate with the universe through the medium of the written word but because a man who hardly knew me felt he could judge my ability to put pen to paper after a few moments of listening to me rant about random nothingnesses.
He was (and still is) completely mad. But he was right about one thing; I should have written a book.
And as it happens – I have…
I didn’t surf today. I was too busy reading my new book.
(Film rights are still negotiable at this point)