Slasher's Back

Have you ever wondered how long it takes for your brain to forget how stupid you are? It’s about a month. How do I know this? I’ll tell you.

You might recall I recently told you about Slasher the Editor pouring me into my train after an eight-hour lunch that involved very little in the way of solids.

I met him again last Friday. It started innocuously enough.

‘Book, coming on nicely Slash, just under 40,000 words, I’m in China now.

‘Drink?’

Something tugged at my brain when he said this, a brief flash of alcoholic carnage, a tiny niggle, but nothing I could form into a proper thought.

‘OK. So do you think I should take, say, the first 10,000 words and polish it to see if we can get a publisher interested?

‘Another?’

An alarm bell started ringing, but in the distance, like it was coming from somewhere down the street.

‘What I thought was, I’d get them over to you, and you could give them the once over.’

‘Wine I think now, beer’s a little gassy,’ he said.

More alarm bells, closer this time, perhaps next door.

‘Then I could do any re-writes before I go to Libya.’

‘Another bottle? Shall we go onto red?’

It was at this point I had a distinct feeling of deja vue.

Slash, being a wily journalist of the old school, recognised in my face the dawning of a very nasty memory, and quickly asked a question to distract me.

‘Do you like Rioja? Shall we order a bottle of that now?

The rest, as they say, is a blur.

The time between each encounter was about a month…

At least, in the intervening period I’ve been quite productive. My book is edging towards 45,000 words, which may not mean much to you, but represents hours of work for me.

And I’m just about to get to the gobbing restaurant. As the name suggests it is a combination of eating and hoiking, and I’ve written it so many times in my head, I can’t wait to get it down on paper.

The experience of writing a book is strange. It’s like doing the trip all over again. When I read my notes I am transported back and it triggers even more memories I haven’t committed to paper. It makes for a vivid recollection, and I recommend you keep a journal whenever you travel. Its more fun than looking at photos. And you make note of the weirdest things. My notes are littered with record of my digestive transit, or lack of it, but I don’t remember making a conscious effort to record it. Also you pick up on your mood, in a way that photos rarely convey.

This is reflected in my writing. On reading back the last 40,000 words I can see that Russia was like a death march compared to China’s quick step. That’s not to say I didn’t see the funny side in Russia. I mean who wouldn’t find something to laugh at in a death march, they always look so bloody daft, all that leg lifting and morose timing.

But listen, now I’m waffling, which is a literary sin. I better get back to work. Which is just as well, because my brain only has about a month before it forgets how stupid I am…