The death of Terrence Oblong

Terrence Oblong is Dead.

 

Terrence Oblong died.

 

I died.

A stark reminder to any writer – you may seek immortality with your words, but you’re body’s got no chance mate.

 

I shall spare you the details of my illness and death. I want you to think of me in my prime, sitting at my computer, swearing in frustration at the blank screen, waiting for ideas to fall on me, occasionally typing in a furious burst of energy, Mrs Oblong dutifully supplying me with mug after mug of tea, each of which I allow to grow cold, as if it the presence of tea I desire, not the tea itself.  Then, just as bedtime appears, so does inspiration, and I write late into the night, spoiling my sleep, so that I am dead to the world at work the next day.

 

Dead to the world.

 

I shall spare you the details of those last few months, of how my body slowly ceased to control its functions, how my mind gradually descended from the highs of eccentricity to the low of unchecked irrationality, as mad as an all-llama can-can troop in Percy Thrower’s erogenous zone.

 

And now I am dead.

 

Death is in the room with me, in classic skeletal form, complete with dark hood and empty eye-holes, which convey the burden or removing life from the entirety of existence. He carries not a scythe, but a blank notebook.

 

“I wrote a story like this one once,” I said to him, for my mother brought me up to talk to anyone and I made no exception for Death. “A story with you in it, where a writer traded his best stories for an extra month of life. Is that the offer you’re making me? If so you’re in luck, I’ve got an entire cabinet of unpublished stories.”

 

But Death slowly shook his head. “I see all the stories I need, thousands every day.”

 

“Then why the empty notebook?”

 

“Because you are an atheist. Your afterlife is an unknown, a blank page. I thought that as you were a writer you might like to create your own afterlife.”

 

I took the notebook from him.

 

“Funnily enough I’ve often thought that the journey to the afterworld in mythology was always far too easy. You know, a quick ferry trip across the River Styx, or a potter through the Tomb of One Direction. With Christianity it’s just a stroll through the pearly gates, no effort at all as long as St Peter’s got you on his guest list – the clipboard of heaven and hell.

 

“No, I think the journey to the afterworld should be the ultimate journey, a challenge, a long, arduous trek, over mountains, through rivers, forests and valleys. Something momentous, something … something like that.”

 

We were no longer in my room. We were in a mythical place, at the start of a great journey, ahead of me lay mountains, forests, rivers and valleys.

 

“What do you believe awaits you at the end of this journey?” Death asked.

 

“Well, I don’t know, I live in a Christian culture, so let’s say the pearly gates.”

 

“In which case, let us call this the Pearly Path.”

 

“Yeah, you’re not bad at this you know. Right, what do I need for my journey?”

 

“I have everything prepared for you.” He passed me a small pack, not much bigger than the rucksack I used to take to work everyday.

 

“What about supplies?” I asked. “Food, drink. I’ve never been on a walk without water, Mars bars and dried fruit, and this is quite a walk.”

 

“You have no need of food now. You are dead. And neither will you need to sleep.”

 

“It’s not much of a challenge though, is it? I mean that’s half the fun of the great adventures, the perils of running out of food and water. Half the fun is in the risk.”

 

“Look inside the pack.”

 

I looked inside the pack.

 

“Two pairs of underpants? They’ve got to last me all that way?”

 

“You said you wanted a challenge.”

 

I gulped. “Not that much of a challenge,” I said.

 

However, Death is not a man to haggle with over pant supplies, so I made ready to start, hastily consulting a map.

 

“Where do I start from?” I asked.

“This road here.”

 

I looked ahead of me. At least I tried. The road was thick with fog, I could make out nothing but the seeping smoke. I could see nothing.

 

Ignoring the fog, and keen to begin my journey, I took the first step.

 

Except I didn’t. My legs froze.  My whole body was immobile, as rigid as my corpse.

 

“I can’t move,” I said. “What’s happening?”

 

“Of course you can’t move,” Death said. “This is the Fog of Uncertainty. Every writer faces it at the start of a journey.”

 

“But if I can’t move I can never begin, let alone finish.”

 

“No writer can ever make the first step alone. But there is always help available.” As he spoke, bodies appeared around me. I recognised them, how could I not: Joseph Heller, Albert Camus, Plato, Roberto Bolano, RD Wingfield, Stieg Larsson, Mark Twain, HG Wells, Seething Wells, Spike Milligan.

 

“Every writer needs help with the first step,” Death explained. “Simply follow where they go.”

 

I watched my literary heroes disappear into the fog in front of me. Dostoyevsky stomping forward, recognisable by the beard, Keats, Buchan, Agatha Christie, John Mortimer, Robert Lois Stevenson, a pack of the greatest writers that ever died.

 

 

 

 

In no time at all there were thousands of writers marching ahead of me. I followed the noise, trudging on, just following where they led me.

 

I walked for hours in this way, still blind to all around me, just following the furrow carved up for me, following their voices, just sensing their souls and going with the flow.

 

Slowly, very slowly, the fog started to lift. I could make out the shadows of the writers, as they marched on. I must have walked for days in this way, and as we walked the fog lifted until the writers faces became visible, until I could make out trees and cows around me.

 

There were less writers now, I realised. Only a precious few that I followed this far: Dickens, Shakespeare, Conan-Doyle, Daniel Defoe, John Wyndham, Douglas Adams, Paul Makin.

 

Eventually the writers left one by one, until there was just me and my spirit guide left: Jules Verne.

 

“You don’t sound very French,” I said, as we walked on, basking in the sunshine.

 

“I’m the English translation,” he said.

 

“If only all Frenchmen were available in that format,” I replied.

 

With the blackness of fog past, it was a pleasant walk in the sunshine, just me and my mentor, cutting a swathe through the literary landscape.

 

For a few miles at least. Until we came to a valley. I say valley, it was more like a quarry, an unpleasant dip into a mass grey stones, bleak and empty, like Wales devoid of sheep.

 

“I can’t lead you through this,” Verne said.

“Why not? What is this place?”

“This is the Valley of Rejection. Every writer must pass through it, it is long, treacherous and inhospitable, but there is a way through. You need a special guide though, even I can’t help you through this.”

 

A new spirit appeared. My guide. It was not a writer I recognised.

 

“This is John Kennedy Toole,” Verne said, noticing my blank stares.

 

“John Kennedy Toole! Author of The Confederacy of Dunces! I love that book.”

 

“Pleased to meet you,” JK Toole said, but without speaking further he turned and led on down into the valley.

 

I hastily followed, not wishing to lose him. When I turned to call a final farewell to Jules Verne he was already gone, as if whisked away by a time machine.

 

Toole marched quickly through the valley and I followed as closely as I could. We made good progress, not stopping, he was clearly not a man for idle chatter. I was, however, keen to ask him something.

 

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” I said, trying to find the most tactful way of posing a question that was, quite frankly, extremely rude, “but why are you the best person to lead me through the Valley of Rejection? You killed yourself after a publisher turned down your novel.”

 

Toole strolled on for a long distance without answering. I would have repeated the question but I was left out of breath by my dash to keep up, and eventually he gave an answer to my question. Well, in fact he didn’t, he asked me a question. “How do you know me?”

“Well, I’m a fan of your work. Confederacy of Dunces was published posthumously. It’s been a major influence on my writing.”

 

“So I got through my valley of rejection,” he said, without breaking stride for an instant.

 

“I suppose you did,” I had to agree. Writers seek immortality for their work, their own death in dejection and rejection is irrelevant. Toole had been through the ultimate level of rejection, right down to the very depth of the valley floor, and he had emerged successfully on the other side, Pulitzer Prize award-winning and rightly regarded as author of the greatest ever American comedy novel.

 

We walked for miles and miles, for days, possibly weeks, in all that time Toole’s pace never slackened and by the time we reached the end of the valley I was thoroughly exhausted, incorporeal soul though I was. Even bodyless spirits need to rest their feet once in a while.

 

No sooner had I said goobye to John Kennedy Toole than Jules Verne returned, to guide me for the rest of my journey. The next challenge was hard to ignore, for a few miles ahead of us stood a mountain, the largest, biggest, hugest, massivest mountain I have ever seen.

 

“That’s some mountain,” I said. I wasn’t exaggerating, it stood so high the snow wasn’t just on its peak but started on its metaphorical ankles. “What is it?”

 

“That,” said Jules, seemingly contented with his role as tour guide, “is the mountain every writer must pass over if they wish to become a better writer.”

 

“What is it? The mountain of good ideas, the mound of inspiration?”

 

“The mountain is called: Just Fucking Write.”

 

“Just Fucking Write Mountain. It’s a long way up.”

 

“A very long way.”

 

There was no putting it off. The only way to get over Just Fucking Write mountain is to get your head down and go forward, never wavering from your goal.

 

It was a steep, hard climb, taking untold days, weeks, months of effort and pain. I shall spare you the detail, the reader doesn’t need to know these things.

 

Eventually I reached the summit. The peak of Just Fucking Write mountain is the highest point in the known universe.

 

“Now that I’ve reach the top have I become a better writer?” I asked Jules Verne.

 

“No, you’ve simply climbed a long way. But the view is terrific.”

 

“No it isn’t, the view ahead is obscured by fog.”

 

“Turn around.”

 

I turned around. Verne was right, the view was wonderful. I looked back over all the piles of crap I’d written over all these years, and I was warmed by the knowledge that I can only get better.”

 

We stayed at the top of the mountain for a picnic lunch, before, inevitably, it was time to begin the descent. The Slope of Having Finished a Story and Realising That Your Creative Impulses Are Still Unsatisfied is the steepest descent in the known world. Down, down, down, the only way is down.

 

At the bottom, I hit the bottom, drawn, exhausted, lacking in energy, but even though I had passed over the mountain, my journey was barely half completed.  Very soon we came to a forest, so dense with trees and general forestation that we had to hack our way through every single step. “What forest is this?” I asked my guide and mentor.

 

“It’s the Forest of Writers Block.”

 

“This is impossible,” I said. “We’ll never get through. Why we’ve been hacking our way through for a day now and we’ve barely advanced the length of a football field.”

 

“It may seem impenetrable now,” he said, “but keep the faith, persevere, we will get to the end of it.”

 

I had little choice, anyway, but my faith was at an all-time low. I would never pass through this forest, I would never complete my journey. All my effort would be wasted.   

 

But once again Verne’s wisdom proved true. Though the way through got neither easier nor quicker, through sheer determination we progressed, and eventually we reached the end of the forest. For the next few days and weeks we virtually skipped along, so easy was the path, enjoying the sunshine that had remained hidden throughout our forest struggle.

 

“This is the last part of our journey,” Verne said, as we reached a river, the waters of which were literally crashing and banging, such was the furious pace at which the river flowed.

 

“There’s a boat here,” I said, somewhat surprised. We climbed in and in no time we were speeding along, as if on a fairground ride.

“What river is this?” I asked.

 

“This is the Flow of Inspiration River,” he said.

 

“We’re travelling at quite a pace, aren’t we?” I said, stating the obvious.

 

“Faster than Concorde, faster than a moon rocket, faster than any manmade machine,” Verne explained, the flow of inspiration travels at a phenomenal rate, why we’ve only just set off and we’ve already travelled hundreds of miles.”

 

I was about to dispute this absurd claim when, looking round at the now-distant Just Fucking Write mountain, I realised that he was right.

 

Travelling as fast as we were we covered the last stage of the journey in next to no time. In fact we were travelling too fast, and I had fears that we would be unable to stop and would eventually whizz off the very end of the world itself.

 

Luckily, with over 200 books to his name, Verne was exceptionally experienced at navigating the flow of inspiration, and safely steered our boat into shore. Other, less experienced writers, have been carried on and on by the flow, seemingly ignorant of the world around them, churning out novels thousands of pages in length, rich in inspiration but little else.

 

“Well, that’s it,” Verne said, as we stood on the shore.

 

“I can’t believe my journey’s over,” I said. “Thank you for everything.” We shook hands in a formal manner, like characters at the end of a Jules Verne novel, and with that he was gone. I was alone, a writer sans mentor, sans guide, sans so much as a sandwich.

 

I looked about me. I had reached the end of my journey. The gates of heaven. The pearly gates.  They looked old, rotten and abandoned. There was a sign nailed carelessly to the gates. ‘Closed’, it read, in bright read lettering.

 

‘Heaven is closed’ I said to myself.

 

“Of course it’s closed,” said a voice behind me. I turned, recognising the voice of Death.

 

“Heaven is closed to you,” he explained, “you are an atheist.”

 

“So I have travelled all of this way for nothing.”

 

“That was your choice. You have reached the end of your journey now. Your time is done, spent.”

 

So this was it. Not only was I dead, but this was the end of my afterlife. The end of the end.

 

But then I had an idea.

“The end of my journey?” I said, as incredulously as I could manage. “Why that was just the first stage. I’m merely at the beginning of the next stage, the Valley of the Giant Stoats.”

 

Death smiled, a deadly, toothy grin. “Oh go on then,” and with a miracle of Death the gates of heaven we transformed into a new set of gates. ‘Valley of the Giant Stoats’ the sign read, ‘Enter with Care’.

 

“Thank you,” I said.

 

“Oh, think nothing of it. My job can get rather samey. Giant stoats is new, and there’s not been much new these last 30 millenia.”

 

“I will need a guide,” I said.

 

“You have a new guide,” Death said, and sure enough, there beside me was the figure of Mollie Sugden, the perfect choice to lead an expedition through the valley of the giant stoats.

 

“I will see you soon,” Death said, because Death is always waiting at the end of every journey.