Directory of Lost Causes (By Quentin S. Crisp)

'The Man' (A Sequel)

Time was when I felt that, if I ever wanted to keep a secret from my family and friends, I could do no better than to write a story about it and get it published somewhere. However, time passes, and of late evidence accumulates that forces me to accept the fact that some people out there are actually reading what I write.

I encountered more evidence of this kind last night, when I attended an open night of the British Fantasy Society at Ye Olde Cock Tavern. This evidence was not merely the fact that someone asked me to sign a copy of Rule Dementia!, or the talk I had with the publisher who has recently accepted a novella of mine. No, it was specifically a chat I had with someone who was previously mentioned on this blog. The entry in question is my account of a previous BFS open night, at which the man to whom I am referring told me he had read one of my stories and that (he liked it despite(?) the fact) it was old-fashioned. I went to great lengths in that blog entry to defend myself against the accusation of being old-fashioned, before finally concluding that I actually was. It has been suggested to me since that my work is not really old-fashioned, but I think I was being at least partially tongue-in-cheek in what I wrote on the subject.

Anyway, the man was once again in attendance. I noticed him before we spoke, and it did cross my mind that somehow he might have read the entry. Sure enough, later on in the evening, he approached me and it was revealed that he had, indeed, read it. I have to say, I felt a bit embarrassed. The original blog entry hadn't been written in any spirit of animosity, but, nonetheless, the fact I had taken issue at such length with the man's pronouncement could, I supposed, have been taken 'the wrong way'. Not only that, I think there is a certain embarrassment simply in being 'found out' as a writer. Writers do take things from their own experience quite as if simply dipping their brush into the colours of a palette. In other words, anyone who comes into contact with a writer might find themselves, in some form, appearing in a piece of writing later, and might wonder to themselves, "Was he thinking about using me for his story the whole time? He didn't mention a thing about it. Is it all just grist to his mill?"

Anyway, the man seemed to have taken it in good part, simply expressing that he was surprised (I think he said "shocked") to have made such an impression. Perhaps it was just my alcohol-lubricated imagination, but I also seem to remember him saying the piece was well-written, and it was quite nice to be 'The Man' in the story. I spoke a little about how blogs are strange things, and laughed nervously. Since the whole subject seemed to put a kind of artificial constraint or sense of self-consciousness on the conversation, I rather felt like changing it to something else, but couldn't really think of anything. I explained what must have been my fairly obvious embarrassment by saying that I'm socially awkward, to which he replied, "Who isn't?"

He asked me, too, whether I would write a piece about this meeting. I said I probably would. I expect I'll see him again at another of these gatherings. So, until then, hello to The Man.