The Writer and The Woods
by James Messer
If you go down into the woods
today you’ll . . . wait! What are you doing? . . . I’m writing the start of my
story . . . yeah but you can’t start it like that . . . why not? . . . well because
that’s teddy bears picnic, isn’t it? . . . what? . . . if you go down into the
woods today you’ll be sure of a big surprise because every teddy bear that ever
there was blah blah blah . . . oh ok, well how about this, The
Gruffalo . . . what? . . . what’s wrong now? . . . that’s just the Gruffalo, isn’t
it? . . . well, alright then, I’d like to see you do any better . . . fine, ok just
give me a moment, alright, here we go, Once upon a time Hansel and
Gretel . . . what? . . . joking, joking, I’m joking, ha, ok seriously, here we go,
The woods had always held a tremendous sense of mystery for the writer of this
story . . . it’s a little Woody Allen but whatever . . . do you mind? . . . fine,
carry on . . . thank you,
The woods had always held a tremendous sense of mystery for the writer of this story, his childhood had been full of wonderings and imaginative musings as to what manner of fantastical and terrible creatures may dwell within the dark confines of its treed walls . . . there’s no walls in a wood . . . well not in a physical sense, no, but you know, I’m trying to give it a sort of contained feel, you’re thinking too literally . . . fine, continue . . . right, but soon the sickness of adulthood set in, his imagination clammy with the fever of maturity, the sinuses of his creative spark holes plugged indefinitely. And so the fantastical and terrible creatures that may have dwelled in dark confines of the woods treed WALLS . . . alright . . . decidedly died . . . oh . . . wait there’s more,
The writer grew in social stature to the towering heights of a hack; from the Hollywood clan. His sold soul was squeezed empty and the resulting creative jams and marmalades spread thinly across the breaded sequels, prequels, remakes and reboots that the Hollywood clan leaders so loved the taste of . . . that just doesn't make sense . . . it does make sense, you’ve just got to open your mind a little . . . fine, carry on . . . at the command of the clan leaders the hacks would hack their way through tropical dinosaur infested jungles, ancient underwater cities and gritty kitchens sinks until their sharp bladed pens were dry and rusty, so much so they’d have to regurgitate old bits of words they’d swallowed many tea times ago . . . this is actually pretty good . . . oh why thank you, I’m rather pleased with it . . . alright don’t get ahead of yourself . . . sorry, after many years of hacking the writer became despondent and disillusioned, the old words he had to keep regurgitating kept clogging in his throat causing him to choke, only deep gulps of thick sludge would clear his speak-hole and then his brain was all too dizzy to remember anymore words. Worried for his health and determined to change he put his head on a platter; for this was the only way the clan leaders would hear what he had to say, and carried it to the clan for their council. He told them the tale of his woes, about all the regurgitating and the thick sludge and the dizziness it caused, they listened intently, for his head was well placed on the platter with apples an all, eventually he came to describe his early wonderings and imaginative musings that lay way back when he was smaller and once he’d finished telling them his tale the clan crammed together to whisper and squeak. After much whispering and a seasoning of squeaking the clan broke apart to unanimously cry “Hack the forest my boy!!” . . . you mean woods? . . . oh yeah, woods, “hack the woods my boy! We’ll have all the hacks hack it, see if we can’t find those fantastical and terrible creatures”
No! Cried the writer, hack the woods and the creatures might die. The writer ran to the woods whilst the other hacks sharpened their cut-throat pens, he ran and ran till his lungs were sore, till his legs would carry his body no more and then with one final charge he crashed through the treed walls of the woods, a moment he stood peacefully, but only long enough to the see shadowed creatures peeping from tree tops before, exhausted, he collapsed . . . oh lord . . . you’re on board now? . . . I certainly am . . . meanwhile, back in the land of the Hollywood clan the hacks had boarded the gravy train and were steaming towards the woods . . . what about the writer? and the fantastical and terrible creatures? . . . I’m getting to that, the creatures dragged the writers body to their secret hideout where no writer had ever gone before. Feeding him on hot piping creative jams and marmalades they cured him of his adulthood sickness, his mature fever passed and the sinuses of his creative plug holes were definitely unplugged. Revitalized, the writer sprung from his bed and drew his bladed pen, the creatures growled and the more effeminate ones gasped “You’re a hack! You liar, you’ve come to hack down our woods”, no, no I haven’t cried the writer, “but without hacking down the woods you can’t make money, you can’t fool us you crafty beast”, I don’t to want to make money, I don’t care about sequels, prequels, remakes and reboots, I don’t whistle to the tune of the Hollywood clan any more, I don’t care if I don’t make myself or anyone else another dime in my life, I just want to write.
The creatures jumped and some of the more effeminate ones skipped for joy, but a battle approaches, the writer in fierce fashion informed his informants, the Hollywood clan and their hacking minions are steaming towards us on their gravy train as we speak. At that very moment the whistled war-cry of the Hollywood clan blared from the precipice of the forest, “they're here” wolfed the creatures, naturally the more effeminate ones screeched, “what are we to do” . . . what are they to do? . . . will you stop interrupting, people understand concept and it’s getting annoying now . . . sorry . . . it’s cool, so to the precipice! Where the clan leader and their hacks were about to attack when the writer and all manner of fantastical and terrible creatures sprang forward. “HALT” they collectively cried, “what is the meaning of this” the clan leaders rudely retorted, one of the smaller, weaker, weedier creatures tottered forward, in his tiny hands he held a number of legal documents titled ‘Copyright Laws' . . . wait, who’s he? . . . Oh he’s the creatures lawyer, he’s got a Monsters in Law from Cambridge . . . like a Masters . . . exactly . . . very good . . . “According to the creative protection act of 1934, should you or any of employees attempt to creatively hack any of these here woods you would liable for copyright infringement” squawked the creatures’ lawyer. “And whose copyright would we be infringing” the Hollywooders replied, “Well this gentlemen's” he responded, pointing to the writer. “What? He hasn’t written a damn thing about these here woods”
“Well he has, he’s written this story” “what story?” “this story you’re in now” “what?” “haven’t you noticed everything that’s been happening has been narrated by a commanding masculine voice” . . . Oh please . . .
So the Hollywood clan and the Hollywood hacks reversed their gravy train and continued to inquisitively surf the inter-web on their drawing boards for new places and people to hack, whilst the hero/writer of our tale, well he wrote the tale didn’t he, and then he wrote some more tales all fuelled by those wonderings and imaginative musings of the fantastical and terrible creatures that lay in those mysterious woods.
The End
Marvellous . . . why thank you . . . no, thank you.
The woods had always held a tremendous sense of mystery for the writer of this story, his childhood had been full of wonderings and imaginative musings as to what manner of fantastical and terrible creatures may dwell within the dark confines of its treed walls . . . there’s no walls in a wood . . . well not in a physical sense, no, but you know, I’m trying to give it a sort of contained feel, you’re thinking too literally . . . fine, continue . . . right, but soon the sickness of adulthood set in, his imagination clammy with the fever of maturity, the sinuses of his creative spark holes plugged indefinitely. And so the fantastical and terrible creatures that may have dwelled in dark confines of the woods treed WALLS . . . alright . . . decidedly died . . . oh . . . wait there’s more,
The writer grew in social stature to the towering heights of a hack; from the Hollywood clan. His sold soul was squeezed empty and the resulting creative jams and marmalades spread thinly across the breaded sequels, prequels, remakes and reboots that the Hollywood clan leaders so loved the taste of . . . that just doesn't make sense . . . it does make sense, you’ve just got to open your mind a little . . . fine, carry on . . . at the command of the clan leaders the hacks would hack their way through tropical dinosaur infested jungles, ancient underwater cities and gritty kitchens sinks until their sharp bladed pens were dry and rusty, so much so they’d have to regurgitate old bits of words they’d swallowed many tea times ago . . . this is actually pretty good . . . oh why thank you, I’m rather pleased with it . . . alright don’t get ahead of yourself . . . sorry, after many years of hacking the writer became despondent and disillusioned, the old words he had to keep regurgitating kept clogging in his throat causing him to choke, only deep gulps of thick sludge would clear his speak-hole and then his brain was all too dizzy to remember anymore words. Worried for his health and determined to change he put his head on a platter; for this was the only way the clan leaders would hear what he had to say, and carried it to the clan for their council. He told them the tale of his woes, about all the regurgitating and the thick sludge and the dizziness it caused, they listened intently, for his head was well placed on the platter with apples an all, eventually he came to describe his early wonderings and imaginative musings that lay way back when he was smaller and once he’d finished telling them his tale the clan crammed together to whisper and squeak. After much whispering and a seasoning of squeaking the clan broke apart to unanimously cry “Hack the forest my boy!!” . . . you mean woods? . . . oh yeah, woods, “hack the woods my boy! We’ll have all the hacks hack it, see if we can’t find those fantastical and terrible creatures”
No! Cried the writer, hack the woods and the creatures might die. The writer ran to the woods whilst the other hacks sharpened their cut-throat pens, he ran and ran till his lungs were sore, till his legs would carry his body no more and then with one final charge he crashed through the treed walls of the woods, a moment he stood peacefully, but only long enough to the see shadowed creatures peeping from tree tops before, exhausted, he collapsed . . . oh lord . . . you’re on board now? . . . I certainly am . . . meanwhile, back in the land of the Hollywood clan the hacks had boarded the gravy train and were steaming towards the woods . . . what about the writer? and the fantastical and terrible creatures? . . . I’m getting to that, the creatures dragged the writers body to their secret hideout where no writer had ever gone before. Feeding him on hot piping creative jams and marmalades they cured him of his adulthood sickness, his mature fever passed and the sinuses of his creative plug holes were definitely unplugged. Revitalized, the writer sprung from his bed and drew his bladed pen, the creatures growled and the more effeminate ones gasped “You’re a hack! You liar, you’ve come to hack down our woods”, no, no I haven’t cried the writer, “but without hacking down the woods you can’t make money, you can’t fool us you crafty beast”, I don’t to want to make money, I don’t care about sequels, prequels, remakes and reboots, I don’t whistle to the tune of the Hollywood clan any more, I don’t care if I don’t make myself or anyone else another dime in my life, I just want to write.
The creatures jumped and some of the more effeminate ones skipped for joy, but a battle approaches, the writer in fierce fashion informed his informants, the Hollywood clan and their hacking minions are steaming towards us on their gravy train as we speak. At that very moment the whistled war-cry of the Hollywood clan blared from the precipice of the forest, “they're here” wolfed the creatures, naturally the more effeminate ones screeched, “what are we to do” . . . what are they to do? . . . will you stop interrupting, people understand concept and it’s getting annoying now . . . sorry . . . it’s cool, so to the precipice! Where the clan leader and their hacks were about to attack when the writer and all manner of fantastical and terrible creatures sprang forward. “HALT” they collectively cried, “what is the meaning of this” the clan leaders rudely retorted, one of the smaller, weaker, weedier creatures tottered forward, in his tiny hands he held a number of legal documents titled ‘Copyright Laws' . . . wait, who’s he? . . . Oh he’s the creatures lawyer, he’s got a Monsters in Law from Cambridge . . . like a Masters . . . exactly . . . very good . . . “According to the creative protection act of 1934, should you or any of employees attempt to creatively hack any of these here woods you would liable for copyright infringement” squawked the creatures’ lawyer. “And whose copyright would we be infringing” the Hollywooders replied, “Well this gentlemen's” he responded, pointing to the writer. “What? He hasn’t written a damn thing about these here woods”
“Well he has, he’s written this story” “what story?” “this story you’re in now” “what?” “haven’t you noticed everything that’s been happening has been narrated by a commanding masculine voice” . . . Oh please . . .
So the Hollywood clan and the Hollywood hacks reversed their gravy train and continued to inquisitively surf the inter-web on their drawing boards for new places and people to hack, whilst the hero/writer of our tale, well he wrote the tale didn’t he, and then he wrote some more tales all fuelled by those wonderings and imaginative musings of the fantastical and terrible creatures that lay in those mysterious woods.
The End
Marvellous . . . why thank you . . . no, thank you.
Photography by James Messer.
©' The Treacle Well 2013