“I appreciate some of my work is a little rough round the edges, but if you just look at the messages underneath…”

“I’m perfectly capable of reading messages underneath” laughed the publisher, as he chomped on a cigar. “The problem is we’re a superficial species, Mr Himans, and it’s what on the surface that counts the most. You could write the most beautiful sonnet, yet if no one speaks the language it is lost. You see?”

Jack Himans stayed silent for a moment. There must me a way to rescue this conversation he thought. He’d heard the same message from so many publishers over the past year, so he knew showing that he was offended would get him nowhere. Still, it annoyed him that these publishers, who all conformed to having the same suits, office décor and tone of voice, were allowed to pass judgment on individualism! Did no one see the flaw in how the literary world was run? The top-sellers list was dominated by children’s stories that were praised so heavily by adults, and yet here he was hanging on the ropes of rejection.

“So you’re saying that my writing’s just not simple enough then? I can put it more plainly. Or am I talking too simply? I can use bigger words, you know, it’s not a major concern. It’s just the message…”

“Yes I know, the message, the message.” The publisher blew another ring of smoke. “Look, I’ll be straight with you, as that’s the best way to be, no? I can see the message. It’s my job to see the message. But it just doesn’t work…save the environment and all that, it’s very obvious.”

“Look!” cried Jack, now having lost control over his temper. “You are clearly a moron then who doesn’t deserve this job! It’s not about the environment, there’s a far better theme than such an obvious thing like that!”

“Well I have a message for you then!” retorted the Publisher, standing up from his chair so he towered over the writer. “If I can’t see this amazing message, then it ain’t there! So stick to your fucking day job and get the hell out of my office!”

By now Jack was all too happy to do just that, and, with a dramatic twirl, turned to face the door.

“Don’t you want your precious script?” laughed the Publisher.

“Keep it! You might learn something!” shouted Jack angrily as he exited the room.

It was only in the dark of night that Jack returned to his apartment. The day had taken its toll on him, so he decided to balance it out by drinking to the point where he forgot where he was. The problem with drinking to drown out your worries is that it can either make you ecstatically happy, or just plunge you into further misery. Jack’s luck unfortunately served him as well as it had done in the past year, so he was collapsing to the floor in tears as he eventually stumbled through the door. The random assortment of papers scattered messily on the carpet were no pillow, but Jack was so tired he thought they provided a king sized bed. He fell asleep to the nightmare of falling on the stairway to fame, and twisted and turned inside the dirty apartment.

A knock on the door the next morning saved Jack from the confines of his subconscious imagination. However as soon as the real world came flooding back to him, he realised that he’s rather be in comatose again. It was with an exhausted grunt that he opened the door. A fresh faced teenager was on the other end. He had a look of innocence and hope about him, to the extent that Jack was on the verge of laughing at his optimism. The laugh finally came out when the boy explained why he was here.

“I was on work experience at a publishing firm, and found your work in one of the rejected files. I started reading through it and now I’m enthralled. Can I possibly talk about your work and stuff some time?”

After laughing in disbelief, Jack invited the boy in. As he made two cups of tea, the boy, whose name was Peter, kept talking about why he was excited. Jack sat down and listened, but the words went through one ear and out the other. Eventually he interrupted the excitable teen.

“Look, Petie. I’m going to call you that because it’s what you’d call a kid. And you are a kid; you have a great imagination, which is why you get my work, but no concept of realism. I’ve been to one hundred and twenty two publishers this year, through various forms of communication. Guess how many of them liked my stories?”

“Bingo. So it’s time for me to give up, not to start getting a fan.”

Jack took the two mugs over to the sink, but didn’t bother to wash them. He went over to his coat rack, which rested against the outdated wallpaper. Putting on his jacket, he collected up the various papers from the ground and on the small sofa. He dumped them all on the confused Peter’s lap, who was still sitting at the fold up table by the television. Jack then proceeded to disappear into his bedroom, the only room besides his kitchen/living room. He re-entered with a heftier stack of papers and burdened them all upon the young Peter.

“Right, there are all my written works. Have fun with them, burn them, whatever. I don’t care anymore. It’s time I gave up. If only one person gets my stories, it’s not going to make a difference.”

Jack opened the front door, and waited for the loaded Peter to walk through it. He closed the door and they stood in the hallway for a few moments, as the lights randomly flickered on and off. Peter clearly looked sad at how this writer was giving up, but he had a feeling that there was nothing he could say that would change his mind.

“Please keep writing, even in your spare time. You know, Van Gogh wasn’t appreciated in his time.”

“True, but thousands of people aren’t appreciated during or after their time, so it’s best to just draw the line sometimes” muttered Jack as they walked down the stairs. They reached the exit of the building, and a rush of wind blew past them as they stepped onto the street. The fresh air came like a new beginning for Jack, as he clumsily shook Peter’s occupied hand.

“See you round, Petie. Maybe we’ll see each other again one day”

With that, he walked out to find a full time job, and was soon able to emerge himself in the life of every other hopeless member of society. Peter stood wide eyed for a good minute, his raw innocence clearly shocked at how the world could butcher such a talent.

Fifteen years later and Jack had settled into mediocrity far too easily. Admittedly he’d managed to change apartments, start a family, but it was all so ordinary. Every extravagant dream he’d once had was now replaced by thoughts of mortgages and school runs. He didn’t grieve for what he’d lost, as he’d forgotten what he once had. He was currently lounging around on a sofa, with him and his wife fulfilling the routine of watching the standard Friday night chat show.

Amongst the celebrities was a writer in the prime of his life, in his thirties to be exact. This was the only time when Jack remembered what he once dreamed of becoming, and it annoyed him that another was leading the very life that he desired the most. This writer had the charisma and natural charm that leant his stories such character, and he was taking the world by storm. Some were claiming he was the next Oscar Wilde, so complex and interesting were his views on the world. Of course he wasn’t, as his name was Peter, which initially failed to ring any bells with Jack.

“So you grew up in London then?” asked the interviewer, starting off nice and easily. Peter naturally expanded on his answer, detailing exactly whereabouts in London. These details alerted Jack, who up till this point was dozing off to sleep. The names of the streets, they all sounded familiar. Now that he thought about it, the name Peter was familiar; then again the name was very common.”

“And when was it that you first got interested in writing?”

“Probably when I had to write a witness report for a mugging” joked Peter, to an approving round of laughter from the audience. “No, it was in those very streets actually. I was on work experience, and came across a rejected author who went by the name of Jack Himans.”

Jack’s wife jumped up and started wittering on excitedly to her named husband. He quickly ushered her down, and gazed intently, excitedly at the television in their suburban home.

“I can’t say I’ve heard of him”

“Well no one had. I tracked him down and he was giving up, having been rejected by so many. He gave me all his written works and just abandoned it all. Now that I have some money, I want to find him again so we can publish his work.”

“Well that’s very noble of you”

Not really. He was the first and largest influence of mine, he inspired me. For that, I owe him so much and will always walk in his shadow.”

Jack’s wife looked at him in disbelief, as a smile slowly crept across the face of the middle aged man. His eyes had changed, as there was now a hope in them that had been lacking for sixteen years. Clearly you can change the world, even with just one fan, as long as you are truly believed in by that one bright eyed individual.