Sunday morning, we rise early, down yet another Italian breakfast from Cafe Del Mundo (hey, when we find a good thing, we stick with it), and catch the Bakerloo line out to Kilburn Park, where we meet up with friends Bruce and Holly.
My friendship with Bruce is a testimony to the power of the Internet age. Long ago, I picked up a copy of WordWork, Bruce’s great book of essays on the writer’s life. After reading some of his other work and subscribing to his Short Short Short service (three very short stories per month for US$10 per year — a literary bargain if there ever was one), I dropped him a line to let him know how much his work meant to me.
Long story short: we exchanged a few notes, he wound up with (and loved!) a copy of my Bright Idea Deck, he invited me to participate on a panel on story invention devices, and we hit it off. Since then, he’s attended some of my London Tarot workshops … and I’ve had now had the pleasure of taking two of his delightful, insightful walking tours of the city.
He’s a great writer … and a great guy.
Sunday morning, then, we find ourselves walking along Kilburn High Road, a venue that’s been a thoroughfare since Roman times. After debates about the authenticity of the old Abbey ruins near Abbey Road (yep, that Abbey Road), we pop into the Black Lion Pub for burgers, chips, and my first taste of Guinness Extra Cold. A nice touch: the beers arrive with a little shamrock stamped into the head of foam.
I’m a big fan of Guinness — though I usually don’t drink it unless I’m in the UK — and Guinness Extra Cold takes a good thing and makes it even better. Imagine drinking an icy (38 degrees Fahrenheit), creamy draught of the best liquid bread you’ve ever tasted, and you’ll have a general idea of what drinking a Guinness Extra Cold is like. It’s the perfect complement to the toasty burger and hot, crisp chips.
Later, we pop into the old Gaumont State Cinema, now converted to a Mecca Bingo Parlor, to get a glimpse of what used to be the world’s largest single-screen showplace. The building’s well-preserved, and we’re stunned by the mammoth lobby and pristine fixtures. After taking in a Wurlitzer organ concert, we defy the very clear signage forbidding independent exploration of the top floor … and are quickly intercepted by a dismayed employee who politely but firmly ushers us back to the entrance.
Elated by my first time to be tossed out of a public place (Clyde’s an old hand at it, having been thrown out of the Astrodome for similar reasons), we follow Bruce on to a nearby park, where we explore several winding trails through acres of inner-city greenspace. Along the way, we talk some about my writing career. What will a return to full-time work mean for my plans to publish more fiction? How does my embracing a 9-5 job impact my dream of being a writer?
Out of the blue, Bruce asks, “If I were Uber Agent, and could make any deal you wanted to make … what would you want your writing career to look like in five years?”
The question catches me off guard. I manage an answer, but — even to me — it sounds weak and unfocused. Listening to my own words, I realize I’m confusing what I want out of writing (recognition, etc.) with what I want to do as a writer (what kinds of books and stories I want to create) and the business of writing (how much I need to earn per year, etc.). The confusion frustrates me … but it points out an important truth: I’ve some thinking to do about where I want writing to take me over the next five years, no matter what my day job might be.
We go on to visit Bruce and Holly’s home and share a savory meal at a local Indian restaurant … but for the rest of the night — and, indeed, every day since Bruce asked me Uber Agent question — my thoughts turn again and again to his eye-opening question.
Over the next five years — regardless of whatever else happens — what I do want to achieve as a writer?
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