My Protagonist; an inflictor of sorrow.

*** Warning...desperately needed profanity, just a little. ***

My Protagonist; an inflictor of sorrow.

His names John; John Wilson. Professor Wilson to his adoring students, especially Alondra. To me he’s simply a fuck pot, an agitator, a lone saboteur of my work in progress.

He is becoming the bane of my existence. Its simply not working out, he’s changed so much from chapter one…we’re just too different. He’s also the main character in my ongoing novel, “The Reasoning,” though I’m thinking of changing it to... “The life and slow death of a failed protagonist.”

It would be fair to say our relationship is strained, to say the least, that’s for sure. He just won’t shut up, creates drama outta nothing. I believe he is simply insecure, needy in fact, horrified of me reaching those immortal words — The End.

One day he was no one, a nobody… literally, he didn’t exist. I got an idea for a book and pow! John was born. He danced onto my page like Fred Astaire carrying the suave of Denzel Washington.

It all started so well; words flowed with ease. He was funny, smart and was well on the way to meeting a new woman that could rock his boat, I might just sink that possibility, it’s not a romance novel. In a nutshell, he has no intention of bringing this book to a conclusion, yeah, my first novel. Everything he sees turns into another page, the page into another chapter. I was blind for the first 100,000 words or so, but not anymore. As a novelist in progress, I see him, his plan to create the never fucking ever, ever ending story.

I honestly believe he’s an infiltrator, probably sponsored by an unknown vanity press. He’s a gifted manipulator of words who deliberately side tracks me towards digression, procrastination, neurosis, psychotic episodes and ultimately, neglect of my novel, the never ending one.

         Tuesday 10th of Jan

My main protagonist, John, is getting on my nerves, always getting side-tracked, dragging things on and on and on and on and on. Anyway, I think he is looking for a commitment from me that a sequel is in the pipeline, no chance. I have resigned my-self to the fact that my novel is never going to end. My function now is malicious payback. Got an opportunity earlier to get a few things of my chest, as below.

“So how many words till we finish?” John asked, the main character in my WIP.

“Well John, glad you asked,” I said. “If you remember. At 86,000 words I said to my daughter Aoife I reckon 110,000 should finish my book.” She said. “Oh right.” Almost turning her head.

“Yeah, I remember that, I was really excited,” he replied.

“Seriously—you were really excited!” I said, shaking my head.

“Yep, the end was in sight.” He smiled, his smug face pissing me off as I paused for a moment, dumbfounded by his response.

I looked at him curiously. “John. How many words are we up to at the minute do you think?”

“Hold on Joe, two seconds,” he said.

“Take your time, no rush,” I replied. “Not going anywhere fast.”

Excitedly he returned, his eyes widened.

“Wow, 131,799 words.”

“Ya-think that’s good?” I said lowering my brows.

“Fan-dabby-dozy,” he replied.

“Fan-dabby-fucking-dozy!” I responded curtly.

“What?” he said, almost exasperated.

I stared at my flickering curser for what seemed eternity but was actually just about the best part of a moment. “John,” I said calmly, without malice.

“Yes Joe.”

“Is there any chance you could shut the fuck up before I kill you off and go back to writing poetry. Seriously John! You see your reflection in a shop window, and it turns into six fucking pages…remember Macys? You say hello to a girl, and it turns into a complicated chapter that I have to edit, re-write, profusely apologise several times and listen to your same old sob story chat-up lines that never work,” I said, frustrated that he couldn’t see me vigorously flipping him off.

“You know, I hate to admit this John, but I was going to give you a chocolate doughnut a few pages ago, but decided not to, just in case you choked on it or worse, developed a peanut allergy and added three more fucking chapters.…and you know I don’t curse.”

“Wow. Just wow,” he said, swear I could sense his lip quiver. “Sorry Joe.”

“Seriously John! Just shut the fuck up and let me finish the book,” I said.

It all went eerily quiet for a moment.

“Joe.”

“What.”

“Can I get the doughnut in the next chapter?”

“Fuck off.”

         Sunday 15th of Jan

So, as some of you seen a few days ago, I had a forthright chat with my main character John, in my WIP. Seems he didn’t take it too well. I just received a letter from his lawyer accusing me of harassment, unwanted sarcasm and quelling his creative voice! He is also insisting I rewrite the novel in first person not third…says I’m suppressing his civil rights! Seriously! Anyway, we had another heart-to-heart conversation today about it.

“Good morning, John, “I said to no response. “Gotta doughnut for you?” I paused.        “Hello John.” I repeated. “I know you can hear me, I’m your omniscient author,” I said sensing he was huffing.

“What ya-want,” John replied, real gruff like.

“The lawyer’s letter.”

He chuckled like a girl-guide. “Got you worried then?”

My words oozed with delicate mockery. “Yeah, petrified!”

“Sorry Joe, you gave me no option. I reported your abusive language to the Writers Guild of Coney Island, and they done Fud all, I mean Fud, Fud all…! See, you won’t even let me say proper cursing words!” he said exasperated.

I laughed. “Well Ashley, I was really annoyed.”

“Who the fud is Ashley? he said, clearly agitated.

“Fud,” I sniggered to myself. “You. I Just changed your name.”

“No way, you can’t do that, that’s a girl’s name, my names John, John Wilson, I’m a man.” He snarled, inadvertently braking wind.

“It’s actually gender neutral; but I know what you mean, sweetheart, sorry I mean Ashley.”

“Wow, you are stooping very low,” said Ashley, their eyes all glazing over. “And I didn’t break wind, you are clearly once again abusing your ‘so called’ Author position Joe,” he said.

“Okay, just messing with you John,” I chuckled. “Now, getting back to your lawyer,” I said opening a window.

“Boy, are you in trouble,” said John. “And thanks for the double-chocolate rainbow sprinkled doughnut.”

I heard him munch with gusto. I smiled a lot. “You’re welcome…John, hope you enjoy it!” My smile continued.

“Yeah, my lawyers young, dynamic, she’s magic.”

My eyes widened. “Magic? She does some tricks then. What’s her name? I asked, unable to curb my inquisitiveness.

“Queen Hahandy,” he grinned.

I raised my eyebrows so fast they almost caused permanent crease damage to my forehead. “Yeah, I know Queen Hahandy, not personally, incidentally introduced her on page 77, inch long eye lashes, pink hair, used to be called Jeff,” I recalled. “You sat two seats up from her on the subway on your way to the clinic in Brooklyn.”

“Yeah, that’s her.”

“Clinic got you all cleared up, right? I winked.

John shook his head. “Not even responding to that!” he said, in a venereal tone.

“Why do you think she’s a lawyer? I asked, crossing my arms non-defensively.

“Cos, she looks like one,” he said.

“Fair point,” I agreed.

“So, Joe, I was also speaking with my psychiatrist in midtown, Tony ‘no-fixed-abode’ Morelli. I’m a bit worried about your writing denigrating into this…!”

“This talking with you, you mean?” I said very curiously caressing my chin several times until my wife noticed and I suddenly stopped.

“Yes,” replied John. “It’s not natural — and you’re using a lot of adverbs not to mention the excessive amount of dialogue tags; could even be a few old clichés in there.”

“John, you know Tony no-fixed-abode is a hot dog seller.”

“Seriously! Fud off. Told me I was imagining his vending kiosk. He fudden knows everything about me!”

“Not everything John, but I do, remember, I’m your omniscient creator,” I said, my eyes increasingly narrowing to thin lightless lines.

“Yeah – blah, blah, blah. Golly, my tummy hurts.” Groaned John. “And could you please give me some proper cursing words, I’m from Harlem remember; we don’t say tummy!”

I deliberately sat expressionless. “Must have been something you ate!” I said, ever so slowly, smiling like the Joker.

John looked at me, shaking his head profusely as rainbow sprinkles dropped of his lips. “Mudderfudder.”

****

Well guess what, I received a text message from John’s ‘Lawyer’ this morning!’

‘Hello Mister Lynch. This is Queen Hahandy, Johns legal adviser. I hope you don’t mind me massaging you.’

I blushed. ‘Okay,’ I replied. ‘I have been feeling a bit stressed lately.’

‘Opps, I mean messaging. I need two meat,’ she replied.

‘I have a ham and chicken sandwich in the fridge?”

‘No. I mean meet. I need to meet u.’

‘Oh right, Sure; where’s your office?’

‘Downtown, 34th to 39th street, but it’s getting work done ATM. Temp workin outta ‘Peggy’s Purple Gel Nail Bar’, opposite Charlie’s chop-chop shop, u no-it?’

‘Can’t say I do. I’ll Google it.’

‘Good. 2 today this afternoon. Come alone!’

‘No problem,’ I said looking at my watch, it had just turned 11:00 am.

‘PS. Can you bring the sandwich, xx.’

I would be exaggerating for dramatic prompt reasons if I said I was disturbed, for I wasn’t, but definitely was surprised. This distraction, again from my work in progress was getting out of hand, I thought as I opened my laptop to inform John of this unsolicited text message from Queeny.

“Good morning, John,” I typed, real casual-like.

“Ah, hello Joe!” he said, his tone distinctly upbeat. “Thought you had writers block? Anyway, what has you up at this ungodly hour?”

“John, Its 11:02 am.”

“Right. So, what’s new?” He posed trying to act all innocent.

“Nothing much. Planning on getting maybe 1000 words this morning, if that’s okay,” I said, leaving him hanging.

It all went silent for a moment. “Ah, well Joseph. I was advised by my legal advisor not to cooperate with you until you stop misrepresenting me,” said John, very stern-like.

“Joseph,” I echoed. “Only my mother called me that, god rest her soul.”

“So, maybe I’m your mother now.” He smirked.

Taken aback I squinted. “Perish the thought,” I said. “She was laid to rest in a nice blue floral dress, satin…bit tight for you perhaps, you know with the extra twenty pounds you’ve gained, from yesterday!” I smiled, then almost vomited at the conjured image of him wearing my late mother’s dress.

“See. That’s what I’m talking about,” said John, shaking his head profusely as two buttons burst from his shirt. “Total abuse of your power. I’m a serious actor.” He snapped.

“But John, you’re not an actor, you are a character in my book…you know, the book that was to be finished in February 2022!”

“And some-how your procrastination is my fault,” he said.

“Good, acknowledging your problem is the first step in recovery,” I said.

“There you go again. You were supposed to put a question mark after fault not a comma.” He fumed. “But thanks, I’ll just add it to my lawyer’s case against you.”

(We waited for a moment to allow for those readers who went back to check the comma after fault…some debated it should be an exclamation mark!)

“Old Queeny,” I giggled. “Tell me John…have you ever been to her office?”

“Huh —" He scoffed loudly. “Yes Joe, as a matter of fact, I’ve almost been there on several occasions potentially having talks about very important meetings we planned to explore.”

Once again, so far, almost two thousand words filtered away from my ongoing novel to appease Johns delusional insecurities.

“Well, I’m meeting your lawyer at 2pm. Hopefully we can come to some agreement,” I said. “Might even let you curse shortly as a sign of good-will.”

“Sounds good. I’ll meet you there,” said John.

I shook my head real slow. “Sorry, you can’t come.”

“She’s my lawyer,” he said falling back into his default girlie voice.

“Sorry…you can’t,” I said, sniggering as discreetly as possible.

“Why not,” he said, sitting upright.

“Because.”

“Because why?”

I chuckled, my eyes almost watering. “Because your tummies so sore,” I said, biting my hand.

“My tummy-wummy is as hard as nails, I’m from Harlem, I’m six-foot-two,” replied John.

“Yeah, I know…but what about your explosive diarrhea…!”

 I ducked.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake…bastard!” he groaned, gripping his ass like it was a winning lottery ticket as he skipped his way, unsuccessfully to the bathroom.

UPDATE:

Unfortunately, John’s explosiveness landed him in hospital for over three weeks, he needed several stitches and an intensive course of focused callanetics.

One hundred and seventy-six student nurses and thirty-seven junior doctors from eleven different states and several leading investigators from ‘The Amateur Proctologist society of Texas,’ viewed his ass over the three weeks stay.

 A hospital spokesperson said-

“We are truly grateful to Mr. Wilson for his openness, literally. The students stitched, unstitched, probed, and plastered his most delicate place, with his blessing, several dozen selfies were made and at least three TikTok videos are gaining viral momentum. A permanent statue of Mr. Wilsons behind has been commissioned by the board of directors.

“Ms Simmons, medical director said John was the most unusually agreeable patient she ever encountered, insisting via his psychiatrist, Mr. Morelli that his buttocks be openly shared with all our learning students, car park attendants, receptionists, ground maintenance staff and curious visitors. As an amateur spelunker, Mr. Wilsons buttocks will be forever engrained in my thoughts.

She added. “It remains a complete mystery why Mr. Wilson has lost his voice, our best guess is the shock wave from his buttocks somehow reverberated around his larynx causing temporary paralysis.”

“Mr. Wilson was released to the care of his good friend, Mr. Lynch who had nothing but praise for his acquaintance, saying-

“I’m not surprised that Mr. Wilson; John, has opened his ass to the world so vigorously, he’s that kind of guy…will do anything to help the advancement of science. I just want to see him back in his own home once the decontamination has been completed, where he can give some deep thought on how he ended up in such a predicament. I’m confident he will make an almost complete recovery, though I am worried he may never speak again.”