Writing About A Writer Writing

A short story on writing. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

The setting was a busy bar. The customers are all old men, sat drinking pints of beer. Only one person is working behind the bar. He is a portly man with the remains of poorly shaved stubble on his chin and a few tired and sick huddled masses of hair clinging onto what is essentially a bald head. At a table in the corner, a man sits with an empty glass, a black pen and a blue notebook.

 

‘The bar was empty apart from me and the bartender.’

 

“Hey, where the hell did my customers just go?!” the bartender asked with an interabang and a crackly smoker’s voice.

“I’m writing this scene,” said the man in the corner. “I made them disappear.”

The bartender shook his head dismissively, as if to say “Yeah, right, screwball.”

“Don’t believe me? Watch.”

‘My glass was full to the top…’

He read aloud what he had just written. The man’s beer was down the dregs, but it rose with the sound of a slide whistle, and a frothy head appeared with a pop when it reached the top of the glass.

‘…with chocolate milk.’

And the beer turned into chocolate milk.

“Cheap trick.”

“Ok buddy, you asked for it.”

 

He read over his first sentence and crossed out

‘bartender’

and wrote

‘barmaid. She was a blonde woman dressed as a cheerleader.’

With another popping sound, the man behind the bar became a plain looking blonde woman in a grey jumper that said ‘Go School’. The woman looked herself up and down.

“Is this supposed to be funny?”

She still had the man’s gruff voice. The writer shuddered and decided to edit.

‘The barmaid had a sweet, melodic voice and sexy, happy attitude. Her face was soft china that held her big eyes, subtle nose, warm lips and high cheekbones in place.’

 

After another, smaller pop, the woman was beautiful. She smiled and winked at the writer from inside her baggy grey jumper.

‘Her cheerleader outfit was blue and gold. Her tube top stopped way above her stomach which was flat, and dropped well into her cleavage, which was not.’

With this, her outfit changed and her chest inflated.

‘The waistband of her black thong was visible above her golden mini skirt.’

And then it was.

 

The woman looked surprised and happy with her new clothes. The writer wrote again.

‘Her hair is tied up in two French plait pigtails. She chews on pink bubblegum that she blows up into big bubbles.’

Her hair changed, but she screwed her face up into a sour shape and she spat out the bubblegum.

“I hate bubblegum,” she said.

“No you don’t. You like it. You’re my character, you like what I say you like.”

“Characters always develop on their own. And I’ve developed to hate bubblegum.”

“Fine. What do you like?

“Breadsticks.”

“Breadsticks?”

“Breadsticks.”

“But bubblegum gives you a sexy lipsmack. Breadsticks are crunchy and dry and-”

“I like breadsticks. I want breadsticks.”

He crossed the last sentence and wrote

‘She was eating a breadstick.’

With a quiet pop, a breadstick appeared in her hand, and she nibbled on it delicately, like a hamster.

“Ok, I did you a favour, now you do one for me,” the writer said quietly enough to not be heard.

‘The cheerleader jumped over the bar, her toned bottom polishing the countertop as she slid. She walked up to the man in the corner and kissed him passionately.’

He smiled to himself. The woman did jump over the bar, leaving a shine as she squeaked across the bar. She walked like a supermodel, her legs crossing in perfect symmetry. When she reached the man, she took his pen, spun his notebook around and scribbled something in it. Then she continued her supermodel sashay right out the door. The man looked down at the scrawl in his notebook.

 

‘Always make your characters believable. THE END.’