Friday Flash: His Uncle's Advice

His hand hovered over the doorknob, the dark wooden panelling of the door sucked the light from the hallway. He could hear the creak of his uncle's chair, the clattering of keys. Jamie's mouth was dry.

"Come in for God's sake!" his uncle's voice blasted through the wood.

Jamie opened the door.

"Uncle…"

"Wait."

Jamie stepped inside and closed the door behind him quietly. His uncle was hunched over a keyboard. The huge desk was side-on to the door, so that his uncle could gaze out over the estate's gardens when he chose to look away from his screen. Jamie could see one of his feet twitching under his chair, but not the words on the screen angled away from the door.

A fire chewed its way through logs in the huge fireplace, the room smelt of wood and books and smoke. A comforting, warm smell, as if the study were going out of its way to disassociate itself from his uncle. Jamie scanned the shelves of books, all leather bound, making his fingers twitch with the desire to explore them. But he stayed still, remembering the one and only time he'd been in this room before.

His uncle muttered beneath his breath as he typed and he tried to listen in. "There, you little git," his uncle muttered. "You got your own way, but I bet she won't like it." He swivelled around in his chair to face Jamie.

"Hello uncle."

"Jamie m'boy," his uncle said, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers in front of him. "I've heard something from your mother that we need to talk about."

Jamie felt a cramp in his stomach. "She shouldn't have been going through my-"

"I'm not talking about the filth she found under your mattress, you idiot," his uncle cut in. "Perfectly natural if you ask me, I'm just disappointed you didn't find a more creative hiding place. Foolish boy. And don't worry about your mother, she thinks it's her job to make out she's outraged, when in fact she's relieved that you're not batting for the other team and that she's likely to get grandchildren one day. No, I want to talk to you about the thing she saw you doing the other day."

Jamie was still processing the monologue. "You mean," he said finally, "when I was writing?"

"That's the one, yes."

Jamie frowned. "Mum didn't have a problem with that."

"It's not all about your mother boy." His uncle shifted his bulk, frowned. "Actually, you'll find out in therapy that it is all about your mother, but that's not the point. The point is, she told me you were writing a story and it wasn't for homework."

"So what?"

"So I told your mother that if she saw any sign of it in you, she was to send you to me straight away."

"But-"

"Be quiet and listen. This is the only time I will talk to you about this, so pay attention. This house," he waved a hand at the room, "wasn't inherited, as you may have been led to believe. I bought it."

Jamie shrugged. "So?"

"I bought it after my third novel became a bestseller. It sold millions and made me rich. Since then, I've written just over thirty more under my pen name: Henry Hattingsall."

"You're Henry Hattingsall?" Jamie exclaimed. "That's so cool! Will you read my story?"

"No."

Jamie blinked. "Why not?"

"Because it will be crap," his uncle said, not harshly. He hauled himself out of his chair and crossed the room to an antique dresser nestled in the far corner. "The first hundred thousand words I wrote were utter toss," he said as he unlocked one of its cupboards. "The only thing I got right as a beginner was hiding everything I wrote until I knew it was any good."

"How did you know?"

"I could read it three months later without needing to vomit or drink myself into oblivion." He pulled out a large box and carried it to the desk. "Here's everything you need to know about being a writer."

Jamie peeled back the cardboard flaps. He was hoping for a small library of writing advice, or an address book filled with private numbers to the best agents with a stack of personal introduction letters from his uncle.

Instead, he found a cushion.

"No-one, nothing will teach you how to write a book," his uncle said, nodding at the paisley covered foam. "Don't waste your time looking; you're just avoiding the simple, painful truth: to learn how to write a book, sit in front of an empty page and write. That cushion will help your backside."

"But… there has to be something! What about plot structures… or how to write convincing characters?"

His uncle shook his head and pointed at the cushion. "Arse, keyboard, page. That's it. It's hard and most of the time you feel wretched, but it's all good work. Even writing crap is flushing out the pipes for the better stuff to come. Read widely, write a lot, one day you'll churn out something worth reading."

"But won't you help me? Introduce me to someone?"

"Come back after you've written a hundred – no, two hundred thousand words and I'll think about it," his uncle replied, reluctantly. "Now bugger off, I have a scene to finish, and if I don't write it soon I swear this character is going to drive me mad."

"Too late," Jamie muttered, stuffed the cushion under his arm and sloped off towards the door.

"And Jamie," his uncle called, making him stop. "Don't give up. I didn't. That's how I can afford to write all day instead of being a bloody banker, and what gives me the privilege of pissing off young bloods like you. One day you'll thank me."

He turned back to the screen, Jamie scowled at him. "Not today," he whispered, and left his uncle to his muttering.