There is a rose in
Spanish Harlem...
Well, near enough anyway. It’s coming up to that time of
night when I get soppy; I’m usually at my nicest after midnight.
What helps is having just picked up a voicemail from my
landlord. Remember his demand for £1107 towards the cost of painting the house?
He apologised for becoming doddery in his old age, and said that the 50%
provision only applies to tenants who come under the Agricultural Holdings Act, which I don’t. He says I owe him
nothing. Correct. And there was me girding up my loins for battle. Now I can
ungird them again.
All I need now is the e-mail from the film production
company which says ‘We just read your novel Odyssey and want to buy the film
rights.’ Actually, that isn’t all I need. There are several things I need
rather more than that, so I don’t know why I wrote it. Can’t be bothered to
backspace.
4 comments:
Good to know that problem with landlord solved fairly.
Wish your novel become a movie. Would be great that people would find your other works too.
My landlord is so doddery, he left another voicemail this morning saying the same thing - said he couldn't remember whether he'd called last night or not. He's only eighty, which isn't considered desperately old these days.
I like the word doddery. It's cute.
And I have a question: would it give you any pleasure if you knew that your book would be published/made into a movie after you were dead? Just wondering.
I’d be very happy to know that, Maria. I’ve even said that I’d be content for somebody else to plagiarise it and publish it under their own name. I’ve long found the concept of ‘intellectual property’ difficult to accept, since it’s largely driven by ego. Whether the financial aspect could truly be described as ‘pecuniary’ is a matter of degree and opinion. The point is, though, I believe it’s what a book says that’s important, not who wrote it.
It's already self-published, by the way, at Lulu.com.
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