The question to be discussed is: If we were forced to wear a warning label, what would yours say, and why?
In truth, I'm quite glad that we're not. I suspect that fewer people would be interested in getting to know me if I had to wear one. Without a warning label, I flatter myself that I'm a reasonably attractive, confident-looking, interesting-seeming person. In fact, from time to time I've been known to look quite... well... I almost feel it's the kind of thing that I shouldn't say about myself, but occasionally my appearance is... no, it is, it's kinda bad-ass! Take last Wednesday, as I stepped out of the Wallace place, blood on my face, shirt torn, bag of money swinging in my hand. All right, so I couldn't actually see how I looked at that moment, but the people in the street who saw me - which wasn't so many of them, because most of them were staring at the smoke pouring out the window of the Wallace place - stepped out of my way to let me pass, and one quite tough-looking guy actually looked at the ground when I caught his eye. Perhaps it's shallow of me, but at that moment, I did feel a little like an action-movie hero or something. And the effect would have been ruined if I was having to wear a sign around my neck that said: 'I am a fundamentally disappointing person.'
Does that sound harsh? I'm afraid it's true though.
Just ask any of my friends. The first time you meet me, you see, I'm a cool, funny person... but I only seem to be able to keep it up for an evening or two. I don't know, maybe subconsciously I make a huge effort with people who are new, but after that I just can't be bothered, and the small talk becomes smaller and smaller.
It was that way with Wallace. When I first met him, a month or so ago, I made him laugh like a drain all night with my witty repartee. We met up again a week or so later, and went drinking, and it was still a pretty fun night. The third time we met up, he introduced me to his mates. He said: 'This is Paul. He's a fucking riot!' But that time, I just couldn't think of anything much to say to any of them. I think my one contribution to the conversation all evening was: 'You remember that time the other week when it was a bit cloudy?' And when someone asked what about it, I just said: 'Um. It's cleared up a bit since then, hasn't it?' And I saw Wallace and his mates surreptitiously exchanging slightly worried glances.
(Of course, by that time I had already been invited to last Wednesday's poker game - the one that ended in blood and flames - and it was too late to un-invite me.)
Or take the stories I write. There's always a great hook. One thing I'm good at is hooks. I mean, listen to this - this is how one of my stories starts: Quite when or how Usk Island first acquired its bad name is not known, but certainly by the sixteenth century its reputation as an evil place was firmly entrenched among local people. That's some opening line, huh? Or how about this one: I could tell the man had been dead for quite some time from the pallor of his skin, and from the way his eyes were sunken into his head; the fact that he was talking to me, and clasping my shoulder, didn't fool me for a second. Admit it, you're already curious to know what manner of evil befell the unfortunate inhabitants of Usk Island. And don't tell me you're not dying to know why the narrator of the second story had a dead man talking to him and clasping his shoulder.
Unfortunately, however good I am at hooks, I'm less good at payoffs. The story about Usk Island is just a little nothing-story about a farmer who tries to break the world record for the largest number of molehills in a single field. (She doesn't succeed. There's a field in Moldova that has three more molehills, even thought it's slightly smaller.) There's occasional mention made of sinister legends surrounding the island, but they're entirely incidental to the story. They're threaded throughout the narrative, so you think they must be leading up to something, but they're not. And the dead man that talks is only in the first scene of the other story, which thereafter becomes an account of the narrator trying to find her lost cat. By the end of the story, the dead man has been entirely forgotten about, except by the reader, who presumably feels a little cheated by the whole thing. My hooks are great, but they never lead anywhere.
