A Story About Nothing
by W.P. Bradford.
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Hullo. Well this is going to waste your time; I think the title says it all. This is going to be a story about nothing. Exciting isn’t it?
The idea came to me when I was at work. I was in a library (because that’s where I work); and I was trying to come up with an idea about what to write a book on and suddenly the idea struck me: a book about nothing! Pure genius! Although there is (or was) one fatal floor to the idea, to write a book about nothing would involve no book at all, because to write a book about nothing would mean that nothing is something, when we all know dear reader, that nothing is in fact nothing. I pondered this subject (with its deep philosophical questions), whilst eating a potato cake during my lunch brake and I resolved, after my brow had done a lot of furrowing, that I would press ahead with the idea. So hear it is, a book about nothing. Possibly the first, probably the last in this new genre of writing.
A chapter of non-specific numerical value will begin on the next page. To prescribe it a value would be to suggest that the story of nothing is linear. Which, as I am sure you are aware, it is not. In fact to even say nothing has a story, would be to – Oh bugger, this is going to be harder than I thought …
The story of nothing will begin … no. Sorry.
Nothing will begin on the next page.
There you go, I think that was a successful introduction. Yes, nothing will begin … oh bugger; that was wrong.
On the next page there will be nothing.
No.
On the next page, nothing will exist? That was clearly wrong. Ok. On the next page, my interpretation of nothing will begin. There you go, you cant tell me off for my interpretation. Do your worst!
On the next page, my interpretation of nothing will begin. Enjoy.
Ok. I’ve just realised that this is paper, which is something. This is a story about nothing, and as I am sure you are aware, paper is not nothing. Let me think about this…
It was a dark and stormy night. The owls were hooting and the wolves baying (do wolfs bay? Probably not, but ill continue anyway). ‘Martha?’ Called a lone woman, standing in knee-deep snow that came up to her waste. (By that I meant knee-deep for you, not for her.) ‘Yes?’ Martha replied. For her name was Martha. ‘Do you want a cup of teeeeea?’ Called the woman, elongating the first vowel of tea because she was calling over a long distance -
Ok, the story of nothing turned out to be a bit of a headache, so I decided to write the above. It’s not very good, which is probably why I liked the idea of the story of nothing, I didn’t have to write anything and thus I could avoid having to expose my wizened brain to the elements but sadly it wasn’t to be.
I think the problem is that it is too hard to put what is in your brain onto paper quickly enough before it becomes tedious. Take the day I thought of the book about nothing, I was sitting in the staff room, having just finished the potato cake (that’s right, the very same one from before!) and I was trying to sip my tea in a way that would not touch my lips (and therefore burn me) and would cool it down before it hit the back of my throat, a problem that I am sure effects millions of Brits everyday. I had come up with an ingenious solution that some may call slurping from a teaspoon; others (and may I say a better class of people) could call it the Bradford method of drinking hot tea from a mug using one hand, a special implement and sounds that have a cast-iron guaranty to make sure you are next in line for promotion to newspaper display assistant, WBMDHTFMUOHSPSCIGMSYANPNDA for short. But by the time I had finished thinking of this nifty acronym, written it down, called several people about my new scientific breakthrough and apologised to my boss for spraying tea on her Tagliatelle (£2.95 from M&S), the idea of WBMDHTFMUOHSPSCIGMSYANPNDA had lost its appeal.
That’s the problem. Not me.
Just because I don’t want to work doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get the money, just because I have an idea, does not mean I should have to do it.
I invented a cure for malaria, couldn’t be arsed to write it down though.
Ok, I apologise if you have suffered, are suffering or will suffer from malaria. That was mean, and in case you’re wondering, I don’t really have a cure for malaria, really I don’t, I just meant that – oh I don’t know, I went off on one there really, I’m a bit stuck for ideas at the moment.
Back to nothing I suppose.
I don’t like my job.
You didn’t really need to know that, but I thought I would tell you, seeing as I’ve subjected you to blank pages, my story about Martha in the woods and WBMDHTFMUOHSPSCIGMSYANPNDA. Libraries I think are the last places left in England where you can get customer service from the seventies and customers who were alive in the eighteen seventies (see what I did there?). Not that I have anything against old people, or the seventies for that matter (from any century), its just that it can be a bit demoralising debating with people who have out lived their pensions whether they should pay their 15p fine or not. Saying that, I can get away with doing very little, and it must be creatively stimulating if I can come up with genius ideas like this book.
I sense now that you are debating with yourself whether this book is good enough to warrant the term genius.
It does.
I am superior.
Not in the way that suggests that I am better than you, just in a way that tells you I am.
I am also humble.
Chapter.
I sense this story needs more structure. Here is what I propose.
1. Introduction of character/s.
2. Initial plot.
3. A complication.
4. A twist.
5. Resolution.
You have been introduced to me. If you feel you haven’t, refer to the first word of the first page (fifth word if you count the title [which I didn’t]).
The initial plot, hmm tricky, seeing as this started out as a book about nothing, its pretty ambitious to assume that there will be a plot.
Never the less.
Actually thinking about it, the plot so far has been to write a book about nothing, so there is a plot.
The complication? Well, that’s simple, I couldn’t. I think we all saw that coming.
By we I meant you, I said we to make me feel better. It didn’t work. Now the twist will be tricky, twists by nature are meant to be unexpected, however I’ve warned you, so it won’t be.
boo. (Sense by the lowercase of the boo that I wasn’t very enthusiastic about that.)
On the next page, my interpretation of nothing will begin.
©2006 By W.P. Bradford