that the Apple Macintosh is the modern equivalent of the silkscreen printing process. A technology that makes for the rapid reproduction and alteration of the basic creative idea.’
Back in the 1980s – and following the famous Ridley Scott
1984
television commercial – every writer coveted a Macintosh computer. John actually owned one; whereas I was making do with a cheaper and certainly inferior Amstrad; but even that seemed a vast improvement on the IBM Selectric typewriter which is what they gave us to use at work.
‘How much would you want? To do what you’ve just described.’
‘Let’s see now.’ I shook my head. ‘Naturally, I’d have to give up work. I mean, to write a whole book in six months – I couldn’t do that and continue to be a copywriter. I mean, we’re talking nine to five here to produce that many words in that amount of time. So it would have to be enough money to allow that to happen.’
‘You were on twenty grand a year when I left.’
‘Twenty-five, now. They gave me an extra five to make up your workload after you left. I’d be taking a risk, of course. Giving up work like that. To do something as chancy asthis. If it doesn’t work out then I’m out of a job without the means to pay the mortgage.’
‘You’d really give it up? Come on, Don. You love it. All those nice dolly birds to shag. I sometimes think that’s why you came into advertising, old sport. For the birds.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s bollocks and you know it. I’m fed up with it. Just like you were, John. If I have to write another telly commercial for Brooke Bond Red Mountain coffee I think I will scream. Besides I’ve already shagged all the birds I’m ever going to shag at Masius. They’re wise to my act. I need to move on. But no one at another agency is ever going to take on a copywriter from Masius. We’re like lepers. So, this might just be my ticket out of St James’s Square. I can subsidize my own novel with what I make from writing yours.’
‘I’d have to see a few specimen chapters.’
‘You mean my novel?’
‘I don’t mean your advertising copy. I know how crap you are writing that. David Abbott you’re not, old sport.’
I shrugged. ‘As if I ever gave a damn about writing copy. Look, you don’t need to see my novel. You know I can fucking write. I had that story in
Granta
, remember?’
‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Unless that is you’re not serious. Because I am.’
‘Of course I’m serious. Writing all day and every day like Henry fucking James is a royal pain in the ass, Don. No wonder authors all look like swots. Did you see that picture of those Best of Young British Novelists? Christ, if that’s what the young ones look like … No, it’s putting the plot together that I enjoy, not typing all day and night like some tragic bespectacled cunt.’
‘I really don’t mind it at all,’ I confessed. ‘I feel like my life has some meaning when I’m in front of the keyboard.’
‘I don’t know how you have the patience.’
‘That’s what Northern Ireland teaches you, John: patience and an appreciation for the quiet life. Whenever I sit down at the typewriter I tell myself, “Count yourself lucky; it’s not the Falls Road.”’
‘So, how much?’ he repeated. ‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Or not, since I’m not about to pay you anything like that.’
‘Twenty-five grand.’
‘Fuck off. Ten.’
‘I can’t do it for ten. I can’t take the risk. Twenty.’
‘Twelve and a half.’
I shook my head. ‘Fifteen. And with a bonus if the book is a bestseller.’
I could see John doing the maths in his head. ‘Agreed.’
We shook on it and then continued with the minutiae of further negotiations for a while – delivery dates, penalties for failing to meet John’s deadline, bonus payments; then John said, ‘You know if I can make this arrangement with you, Don, there’s no reason I couldn’t make it
Back in the 1980s – and following the famous Ridley Scott
1984
television commercial – every writer coveted a Macintosh computer. John actually owned one; whereas I was making do with a cheaper and certainly inferior Amstrad; but even that seemed a vast improvement on the IBM Selectric typewriter which is what they gave us to use at work.
‘How much would you want? To do what you’ve just described.’
‘Let’s see now.’ I shook my head. ‘Naturally, I’d have to give up work. I mean, to write a whole book in six months – I couldn’t do that and continue to be a copywriter. I mean, we’re talking nine to five here to produce that many words in that amount of time. So it would have to be enough money to allow that to happen.’
‘You were on twenty grand a year when I left.’
‘Twenty-five, now. They gave me an extra five to make up your workload after you left. I’d be taking a risk, of course. Giving up work like that. To do something as chancy asthis. If it doesn’t work out then I’m out of a job without the means to pay the mortgage.’
‘You’d really give it up? Come on, Don. You love it. All those nice dolly birds to shag. I sometimes think that’s why you came into advertising, old sport. For the birds.’
I shook my head. ‘That’s bollocks and you know it. I’m fed up with it. Just like you were, John. If I have to write another telly commercial for Brooke Bond Red Mountain coffee I think I will scream. Besides I’ve already shagged all the birds I’m ever going to shag at Masius. They’re wise to my act. I need to move on. But no one at another agency is ever going to take on a copywriter from Masius. We’re like lepers. So, this might just be my ticket out of St James’s Square. I can subsidize my own novel with what I make from writing yours.’
‘I’d have to see a few specimen chapters.’
‘You mean my novel?’
‘I don’t mean your advertising copy. I know how crap you are writing that. David Abbott you’re not, old sport.’
I shrugged. ‘As if I ever gave a damn about writing copy. Look, you don’t need to see my novel. You know I can fucking write. I had that story in
Granta
, remember?’
‘Oh, yes. I’d forgotten about that.’
‘Unless that is you’re not serious. Because I am.’
‘Of course I’m serious. Writing all day and every day like Henry fucking James is a royal pain in the ass, Don. No wonder authors all look like swots. Did you see that picture of those Best of Young British Novelists? Christ, if that’s what the young ones look like … No, it’s putting the plot together that I enjoy, not typing all day and night like some tragic bespectacled cunt.’
‘I really don’t mind it at all,’ I confessed. ‘I feel like my life has some meaning when I’m in front of the keyboard.’
‘I don’t know how you have the patience.’
‘That’s what Northern Ireland teaches you, John: patience and an appreciation for the quiet life. Whenever I sit down at the typewriter I tell myself, “Count yourself lucky; it’s not the Falls Road.”’
‘So, how much?’ he repeated. ‘That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. Or not, since I’m not about to pay you anything like that.’
‘Twenty-five grand.’
‘Fuck off. Ten.’
‘I can’t do it for ten. I can’t take the risk. Twenty.’
‘Twelve and a half.’
I shook my head. ‘Fifteen. And with a bonus if the book is a bestseller.’
I could see John doing the maths in his head. ‘Agreed.’
We shook on it and then continued with the minutiae of further negotiations for a while – delivery dates, penalties for failing to meet John’s deadline, bonus payments; then John said, ‘You know if I can make this arrangement with you, Don, there’s no reason I couldn’t make it
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