In an attempt to shake up the literary establishment and garner the kudos I have long deserved, I have written an astonishing new novel that combines Joyce’s stream of consciousness with a sporadic rhyming prose reminiscent of Dr. Seuss. As if that wasn’t innovative enough, I have topped it all off with dollops of insight worthy of Joseph O’Conner.
My groundbreaking new novel is called Salty Seas, Salty Tears: a Cognitive Montage. As with all good books, it deals with memory and coming to terms with the past. Ah yeah, the past, the past, the past, and all that fuckin shite. Anyway, here’s an extract:
Knees knock. Teeth chatter. Babies cry and mothers natter. A discarded sausage covered in batter. Sandy sand and sea of blue. The blanket is red and my towel is too. Windbreaker flip flap snap. The twisting of a flask cap.
‘Oh Mammy. Oh Mammy. Can I have a sandwich Mammy?’
‘You eat that one now. The one I gave you.’
‘But Mammy, there’s sand in this one and I wanted jam not ham.’
And the sea melodiously farts and Mammy is angry. Mammy angry. Angry Mammy.
‘Don’t be dropping them. I told you. Here’s another.’
‘But Mammy, that’s ham and I wanted jam. I wanted jam Mam. Oh Mammy. Oh Mammy. Please make my sandwich jammy. Jammy Mammy! Mammy Jammy! Not hammy! Not hammy! Mammy Mammy Jammy Jammy!’
‘Whist now child, don’t make me chide, let me listen to the Angelus on the wireless.’
But whist I won’t as is my wont. I will have jam. I can. I can.
‘Mammy Jammy I will and canny. I insist Mammy, you give me jammy!’
A wasp floats around a dead can of Fanta and I am clouted as ‘No!’ is shouted. The clouds cover the sun and the tears fill my eyes. Please, please, give me the Man Booker prize.
End of extract.
Well if that doesn’t land me slap-bang between literary goliaths Colm Tobin and Amanda Brunker in a drunken post-literary festival three-way I don’t know what will.