by Bruce Way

Created on: January 05, 2009

Start Writing At Fifty

The message said something about a reprint. I dialled; excited that at last, writing would pay my way.

'Bruce settle down,' came the publisher's caution. 'It's only a thousand.' Liz paused, breathing in courage, authors don't make money you know.' I thought about my day job, re-locked the desire of being a self-supporting writer into my heart and noted that ten in the morning was almost lunchtime. I moseyed off for the best fish and chips in Manly. The ferry? Well there is always another Manly Ferry.

Vinegar aromas drifted aimlessly from the feast creating magic chemistry. Genii-like enlightenment oozed out from the newspaper wrapping. A one column by four centimetre footnote tucked between the Jobs Wanted' and Escort Agencies' advertisements. Stephen King had signed a contract for two unwritten, that's right, unwritten manuscripts for seventy-seven million dollars. I pressed redial. She needed to lift her game. 'Bruce. His advance included film rights, merchandising and ' I noted the position of the news snatch. 'He's just a storyteller and you can do better than that.' Liz rang off.

Granted, how many wealthy storytellers have won the Miles Franklin, the Pulitzer or ? Anyway she said writers don't make money. Who was I to argue? The phone rang. 'Your father and I always knew you were a writer.' Mum had read the book. 'So why did you push me into an Economics Degree?' I whined. 'Because there's no money in writing. Your father and I thought long and hard '

I sat in the park facing the Manly Wharf and watched the Hydrofoil fast track commuters to the big smoke. I had found a mother figure for a publisher! Now that's taking oedipal too far. Where was my salvation hiding? Vinegar, blended with cold fish and soggy chips, infused with the newsprint. I wish I had patented the formula because an Aboriginal family, descendents from the Cannalgal People I suspect, materialised from the very land on which I sat.

'Spare something for a meal.' More of a demand than a question. 'Anything.' They pleaded. I extended my newspaper and offered the loaves (chips could replace bread in a modern day parable) and fishes. Four pairs of eyes looked away from my offering and towards the wallet-shaped pocket bulge. 'The smallest note will do.' Now I wished I was a writer, because I would indeed be poor. I opened my wallet. They seemed like nice folks. 'Take what you need.' I offered. 'Listen mate we don't need charity we're a proud people.' The man recoiled.

I pointed

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