The official sat behind an oak desk. "Take a seat," he said, motioning to a chair.
I accepted the offer and read his name plate. 'Clive Tweedy'. His appearance made me think of a 1970's TV newsreader.
"Go ahead," Tweedy said, without looking up from an enormous, leather-bound book that was lying open on the desk. The writing on the yellowed pages was too small for me to read, especially from the wrong way round.
I cleared my throat. "Well, my idea is that a man finds a pair of crutches that have been dumped at a recycling centre. Something compels him to try and trace the previous owner. As the story progresses, the crutches become a metaphor for the protagonist's life. The book will be called Dependency."
"Tell me more."
I expanded on my idea as Tweedy scoured the pages of the book, tracing his progress with his index finger. Wafts of air brushed my face as he turned the pages, bringing with them a faint musty smell. Whenever I paused he said, "Uh hmm", to prompt me to continue.
When Tweedy had finished scanning the last page he said, "No, can't see that idea registered. You're free to proceed."
***
A couple of years later, having reached the final editing stage of my novel, I took an afternoon off to look round a book store. I was browsing the new release shelves when I froze. There, staring back at me, was a brand new hardcover: Dependency by Clive Tweedy.
I accepted the offer and read his name plate. 'Clive Tweedy'. His appearance made me think of a 1970's TV newsreader.
"Go ahead," Tweedy said, without looking up from an enormous, leather-bound book that was lying open on the desk. The writing on the yellowed pages was too small for me to read, especially from the wrong way round.
I cleared my throat. "Well, my idea is that a man finds a pair of crutches that have been dumped at a recycling centre. Something compels him to try and trace the previous owner. As the story progresses, the crutches become a metaphor for the protagonist's life. The book will be called Dependency."
"Tell me more."
I expanded on my idea as Tweedy scoured the pages of the book, tracing his progress with his index finger. Wafts of air brushed my face as he turned the pages, bringing with them a faint musty smell. Whenever I paused he said, "Uh hmm", to prompt me to continue.
When Tweedy had finished scanning the last page he said, "No, can't see that idea registered. You're free to proceed."
***
A couple of years later, having reached the final editing stage of my novel, I took an afternoon off to look round a book store. I was browsing the new release shelves when I froze. There, staring back at me, was a brand new hardcover: Dependency by Clive Tweedy.
