The Cantankerous Mr Monkey

V1.2 Leipzig Apr 2024

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‘So, Mr...er... Monkey. I assume you've read the proposal we sent you.’

His tone has that nasal British pretentious quality I despise.

‘There’s another copy here as well, if you need it.’

The aristocratic flair was meant to hide the condescending smugness but it failed miserably.

He sits across from me, all inflated and self assured. Master of his own little domain.

A long white wisp of hair is slung over his crown in a desperate attempt to hide the glaring bald patch. It’s failure spectacular.

‘Now, we expect a book a year. A large story every two months for... syndication and some smaller works for... random publication. To attract... exposure.’

His pauses are selective and deliberate but the only seem to emphasise his inflated ego as a form of... I dunno.... compensation.

‘In return we will provide the rather... generous offer already disclosed and you will have the full support of Camden House's marketing and promotional apparatus. Which is well known for its reach and... penetration.’

I shuddered. Of all the words Rodgers could have chosen.

Worst still, neither he nor anyone else seamed to grasp how inauspicious it was.

Staggering!

‘We do note, however, Mr...Er...Monkey that you have... yet to sign. But ,no matter. We're confident by the end of this little... presentation that you will be welcomed into the fold as... one of the family.

I was surprised that he hadn’t somehow inserted the word bosom, unnoticed.

‘This is Clive, who is the head of our famous marketing team.’

Clive stood from the other end of the long table populated by exclusively white, fat, middle aged men. Most sporting the same wisp of grey hair in the same desperate game of pretence.

He made a small head bow and walked to an easel which was covered.

Clearing his throat, ‘Our team has spent weeks looking through your work and were very excited to show you what we've come up with.’

I couldn't believe it. How would it be possible for Clive to be more obviously pompous? Was there some bizarre competition going on in the background? Perhaps it was the only way to get a job here or get a.... head?

‘We feel we've... zeroed in on the appeal of your... style and represented it in these... vignettes.’

He rolled the cover back to reveal a pixelated photo of a monkey at a typewriter.

The caption across it read;

Take a voyage inside the curious mind of the eccentric Monkey

Armed with a typewriter and a quick wit he delves into life’s oddities

Fearlessly he swings from branch to branch, illuminating all as he goes

A journey of perils and delights, all through a uniquely colourful lens

‘Wow!’ It slipped out of my mouth unintended.

It was truly awful. Hideous in fact.

‘Yes, yes' Rodgers interjected. ‘We're all... very pleased with it.’

The look of surprise on my face hid the horror beneath it. I could feel a burning in the pit of my stomach. A rumbling of the monster that lay in wait, groaning for release.

I didn't have time to process it all before Clive moved on.

‘This next one is the... favourite of our team.’

He rolled the page back to reveal a shaded caricature of a monkey wearing a bow tie.

The caption was in all capitals;

Embark on kaleidoscopic voyages into the Monkey’s mind.

Exploring diverse facets of existence.

Laugh at the real life antics of the foolish Monkey.

Dive into the unknown, uncovering pearls of wisdom.

In the pursuit of novelty, freshness, entertainment and bananas.

I blinked furiously as the table of sycophants laughed in unison.

‘That’s... that's really something, hey.’ A deep groan of discontent made it way up into my chest. A balloon of heat, expanding to an uncomfortable pressure. It took a lot of energy to suppress.

‘Yes, yes... indeed’ Clive managed through a suppressed chuckle.

‘We had such a good time with this one.’

‘Young Smith came up with it. The banana line really seals it.’ His delight irrepressible.

I looked around for the candid cameras. Surely the host of some TV show would arrive to confess this was all a charade. To get a laugh for the audience at home. No cameras though, no rescue from this spiralling idiocy.

I squirmed in my seat. These people are imbeciles.

The beast below pressed against the cage as it shook.

After the excitement died down, Clive went for the next one.

I cringed in trepidation.

A stylised drawing of a money in a tuxedo wearing sun glasses.

The whole thing in absurdly bright colours.

The caption read;

Come hang out with the cool Monkey

Were art imitates life.

Be dazzled by stories so bizarre they will melt your mind.

Unfathomable, unpredictable, unmistakably Monkey

The murmur of approval was unanimous.

I sat with my mouth open.

‘Clive. Did you pay someone to make these?’

’Yes, of course. Quite handsomely in fact.’ Pride in his voice.

‘And this is what you think of me? Entertainment? Unfathomable?’

‘Well, well your stories are quite...... strange.’ He tried hard not to sound patronising. He failed.

The monster could no longer be denied.

‘Clive, I suggest you chase down these fuckwits you paid the money to and beat it back out of them.’ Gasps ensued.

‘Now, now, Mr...Monkey. There's no need to use profane language here.’ Rodgers was offended.

‘This is all pathetic. It’s absolute rubbish. I could go to a primary school and find more original ideas, in far less time. And for less money too!’

I ran my fingers through my hair as the anger burnt its way up my throat.

‘Listen you bunch of pretentious dinosaurs. You clearly don't understand what I do and yet you claim to want to represent me. Why?’ I roared in indignation. ‘For fuck sake why?’

‘If you want mediocre dribble then get your AI algorithms to write it for you.’

‘Everything I've sent you has been sent back butchered.’

‘Your editors are crushing the life out of everything they touch and that's because YOU want it that way.’

‘You claim to want originality but then moment you don't understand it you want to change it. You dumb it down. You imagine people want meaning served up on a plate and explained to them? Is it possible, just possible, that people actually want to interpret the narrative themselves? That a bit of mystery and a lack of clarity might just make it all the more fascinating and exciting?

I felt a pull on my arm but I'm so wound up I don't really pay it much attention.

“You know Penguin offered me more money than you pricks but I told them to shove it up their tightly clenched arseholes.’

‘Never in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that your marketing could suck more than theirs. That your editing could be more draconian than theirs. That your attitude could be more pompous, condescending and grandiose than theirs.’

The pull on my arm was stronger. “Are you ok?’ The voice was distant and echoed.

I stood to deliver my final words. ‘But hey, you win Camden House, you beat them. You suck more than any publishing company on the planet. Where the fuck do I sign?!’

I grabbed a pen and drew a giant penis on the front page of their contract.

The tug was much harder. Everything faded to darkness. I woke in my bed sweating. My girlfriend sitting over me. ‘Are you ok honey? Did you have a bad dream?’

I wiped my soaking brow. ‘Oh thank god, Oh fuck that was awful, just... horrible.’

I sunk back onto the pillow, heart thumping. ‘What a fuckin' nightmare!’ I sighed long and slow.

‘You know you were yelling, right?’ She was so concerned.

‘Yeah. I know. But it's over now. Just a weird, strange dream. That's all.’

She sunk down beside my and snuggled in.

We lay in silence for a while as my pulse slowed.

Her head on my shoulder listening to the more relaxed beat.

‘Try and get some sleep Hon. You have a big day tomorrow.’

“What?’,

‘You know, the meeting with the publishers. I think you said Camden House.’

I'm ushered into the boardroom of the actual Camden House, looking slightly dishevelled.

Sleep did not come easy.

Rodgers rose to give me a warm handshake.

His salt and pepper hair stylishly framed by sleek glasses.

We were the only ones in the large, bleak room.

He waited for me to settle.

‘Thanks for coming, EndorphinMonkey. It's a great pen name. We actually like it.

Can I ask why though?’ His voice was calm, relaxed and genuinely curious.

I rolled out the usual explanation of the far more famous writer that shares my exact name, including middle name. ‘Search for me and for twenty pages you'll find him. He's a great writer, I could only hope to be that good.’

‘Well, it does make sense, but there are a few legal complications. We can get into that some other time. Now, about the work you've submitted.’ He paused trying to find a way to deliver the next lines delicately.

‘We do like what you've done. And we do think you have great potential. But... you really just need more time. I don't want to dissuade you, as I'm quite serious about your potential, but there are so many areas that need attention and... growth.’

His voice dripped with empathy and concern. I leaned back to process the perceived rejection as best I could. I think it showed on my face as it sunk.

‘We're quite keen to publish some of your smaller works but you'd have to work with one of our... up and coming editors. We're sure they can bring out the best in your work and assist in developing your wonderful style.’

I ran my fingers through my hair. The blow to my ego came as long, slow tidal wave.

‘This would entail some of your percentage going to the editor but in the long run you would be able to rise to a higher level of competence and proficiency. I'm hopeful you can see the value in that?’

He could not possibly be more kind and charming in delivering the sledgehammer to my self confidence.

I cleared my throat to speak hoarsely. ‘Can I ask what areas I need to improve on?’

‘It's a great question and our editors will be able to go through this in fine detail for you. If I can use an analogy; the difference between an average tennis play, a great player and a pro is mostly time and technique. Given enough time, perseverance and coaching you can go on to become a really successful writer. We're keen to support you through that process. You just need the dedication to continue.’

The sledgehammer was replaced by a giant wrecking ball. It hit me between the eyes to send me reeling backward. Average... really?!

I don't think any of us really see ourselves that way. Perhaps I'm an average guitar player. Likely I'm an average singer. But no one thinks they're an average driver. Certainly no one believes themselves an average lover. There are limits to what we can stomach.

A fifteen minutes later we shake hands and I thank him profusely or his support and faith in me. Even though he dissolved mine. I walk out into the brisk morning sunshine dazed and confused. Why did I ever believe I could do this. The trip home a blur. I dread the evening conversation with my girlfriend.

I click on my laptop to pay a bill and contemplate finding a real job.

As I’m logging into banking an email notification arrives.

It from a friend, its a reply to a story I sent a month earlier.

Test driving unfinished work helps with feedback and motivation.

My dearest little Monkey,

I read your story ‘The Ocean Floor'.

This line hit me particularly hard.

‘No tears come, shamed out of their healing power in a childhood I'd rather forget.’

It’s very nice to hear writing coming from someone who has had a troubling childhood too!

It's heart-warming to know that I'm not alone.

Also I love the way you write, it's very stirring and it reminds me to be present.

Taking the journey in ‘the Irrepressible Sun' was so calming.

All of my insecurities vanish in an instant. I suddenly remember the trickle of positive feedback that has come in dribs and drabs over time.

I scroll back a month to find one.

The ocean floor – Wow. Every time I finish one of your pieces, I always stare at the screen for a few minutes. It is difficult to explain because I am not as good with words as you are. This piece comes with perfect timing because I feel it fully.

"We never know the power that resides inside until the time comes to test its mettle.

I've learned to open up and love again but never allowed to be taken for granted again. The silent promise of the ocean floor to protect my heart no matter the price, to be free to love but never lose myself again."

How difficult is it to reach this maturity? How much pain does it take? How beautiful is it to look back and see how far you've come with your self-worth and awareness?

You describe it incredibly well.

The Irrepressible Sun - I loved this piece. Reminds me that no matter how much my head is spinning or plummeting down the rabbit hole, breathing and calm are available at all times, as you wrote. Just need to practice.

I love your descriptions and use of adjectives in general. They make the images sound very real, easy to picture in one's mind and the concepts closer and easier to understand.

Grazie for sharing

I close my laptop and sit for a while thinking.

I flipped out my phone and scrolled through my messages searching back further and further. Finally I found it.

Hello cheeky Monkey,

How are you? I've had a rough hurdle & been in and out of hospital. I had a big cry because life is so unbearable at times.

I woke up today feeling like me again. Thanks for your kind words. When I was in hospital feeling at my lowest, I just read your messages and stories over and over. Every time, your writing lifted my spirits more & more. Your words give me strength when I feel I have none. How can I possibly thank you?

‘So Hon, how was the meeting?’ Her tone light, and hopeful.

‘Did they offer you a fat, juicy book contract?

I sighed easily having had time to digest it all and find some perspective.

‘No, no book deal. They... um... say I need more time... to grow as a writer.’ I managed to keep the disappointment from creeping in.

Oh, hon. Come here.’ She gave me a long soothing hug. ‘Don't let them steal your dreams. Don't let them put you in a box. You know you have something rare and unique inside. That shines so brightly sometimes. I see it, you know that.’

Her compassion and empathy so delicate and beautiful, I’m moved to tears. I wait to let the wave of love wash over me.

‘Your right. I know that. But so are they.’ She pulled back in surprise. One eyebrow raised.

I poured a glass of wine and we sit on the couch. I rolled out my conclusions from the morning reckoning with reality and the small successes I've managed to rack up.

Sure I may not have made it as far along the road of being the ‘great writer’ I'd like to imagine myself to be. I still have so much to learn, about technique and story structure, about all the intricate nuances of writing.

But there is one thing I'm completely certain of. That I have something to say. I have a pocket full of unique, weird, wonderful lenses. I can take the worst and the best of my experiences and touch other people in a beautiful way.

So, I'm happy to be average. To write twenty stories and find out that one of them is actually good. Given enough time it will become one in ten and eventually one in five. I suspect every other writer that I admire trod this same path. Perhaps I can learn to enjoy being average. A badge of honour. An honest appraisal of my accomplishments.

If there is anything I can hold onto it's the belief that somewhere inside me is the flux of what I have to say and something deeper that belongs to more than just me.

Every now and then I write a line and later gaze in wonder.

There are times, when the flow is thick as liquid honey. There are words cascading from my fingertips, streaming onto the page, from where I cannot say.