Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
Based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand.
His son is working for the Daily Mail,
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few,
I'll be writing more in a week or two.
I can make it longer if you like the style,
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
If you really like it you can have the rights,
It could make a million for you overnight.
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer,
Paperback writer.
Paperback writer
Paperback writer - paperback writer
Paperback writer - paperback writer
He had looked in the mirror that morning and had half-expected to see a round, green apple covering most of his face, standing there in his black suit and overcoat, derby hat in hand as he prepared to breeze out the door with his ever-present black brolly tilted against his shoulder in a present-arms. It was a damn good umbrella, too, as black as the bloody feathers he unheedingly trod underfoot on his way to the publishing offices of Werd and Lyne, Inc. It kept the rain off, and there wasn’t a gale in the world strong enough to turn that bumbershoot inside-out. That was good for him. Banker by day, novelist by night.
The parcel under his arm was wrapped in brown butcher’s paper and bound with four or five rubber bands that were near their snapping point. It was crap, all of it, no passion, no vim, not even a dash of inspiration. The real goods were scribbled on a stack of legal pads, tucked away secretly under his mattress, but no publisher in his right mind would have paid for the real goods. The real goods weren’t worth tuppence, and if it was his distant dream to see them read and enjoyed by the world, it was his immediate dream to see an envelope full of royalties in his hand and a letter of resignation, signed and ready for presentation in the other. Another week of fetching withdrawals and locking away deposits would probably give him a brain aneurism. Brain aneurism? What’s that? There isn’t another kind of aneurism, is there? He decided that there wasn’t, and continued walking, all alone, because his bicycle was broken, and the traffic was bad enough that reaching Werd and Lyne might have taken the rest of the decade if he had attempted it by car, and he had gained just short of two stone in the past three months, and walking was supposed to do him some good.
He had a papercut that had been festering for some time, all red and yellow and oozing down the length of his left index finger. He’d had it covered with a sticking plaster for a while, but that had made his finger white and wrinkled, and it always came off in the shower, getting that viscous brown dandruff shampoo in the open wound, where it stung. His wife wouldn’t look at it anymore. She said that the doctor ought to see it and maybe even cut the finger off, because it was disgusting. So much for the clinging wife. She didn’t understand, never had and never would, but she seemed to cling to gossip magazines and photographs of American pop stars more than she clung to him. The papercut throbbed and swelled up every time he thought about her.
He slid his parcel through the slot in the door and shuffled off, the hems of his trousers drenched. The parcel lay on the floor of the dark office of Werd and Lyne, silently pleading Save me. Oh, God, save me. Tower Bridge is so tall, the water below so deep and peaceful. Read me, publish me, because I want to be a paperback writer…
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