In my life I have had, in my head, three books I believe are worth writing.
Of course I’ve never actually written one, although given the sheer amount of words penned both in such things as this blog and the reviews I wrote for years I certainly (probably) could have.
At any rate, two of those ideas will never ever come to fruition, and given that one is 20+ years old now I figured I’d air it out a bit on this blog.
The title of this entry, Brando Pineapple, is what I used to think the tale may have been called. It was a story about a man named Brando, and his girl named Lemon (or Jelly). They were in a band with a few mates, a not-very-successful band that mostly played pubs and workers clubs. They lived in Newcastle, near the CBD (in an upstairs apartment somewhere up near Zaara street) and had a beaten up old van in which they drove their gear around in. I recall they were a bit of a covers band, Angels and H&C and Cold Chisel – stuff like that. In other words, not the music I used to listen to when the idea for the story was coalescing, but exactly the sort of music the pub bands of the day used to play.
Brando was quiet but charismatic, and was devoted utterly to Lemon. This was reciprocated, but Lemon herself was troubled. For reasons she couldn’t understand people used to often remember her even when they hadn’t met, and she found that quite often memories of her and Brando would surface that she herself couldn’t rationalize. She was also very afraid of water and specifically the ocean, which was troublesome for someone living in a port city!
Brando himself was not oblivious to Lemons travails, but the extent of his concern he kept only to himself. During the story, after a relatively short passage of time, the curious events surrounding Lemon increased in frequency. People would call her by other names, or sometimes look right through her as if she wasn’t there. She herself was forgetting things, and found that where once there were inexplicable memories now there were none at all.
As Lemon was the singer of the band they were forced to stop gigging at this time, and Brando took her for some quiet rest to the house of a friend who lived in Redhead. This friend was an ancient man, old and wise, and clearly possessed of knowledge about what was really the cause of Lemon’s anguish. Brando and this man spoke at length. Brando clearly respected his opinion, but the man told Brando nothing he did not already know.
For Lemon was not real. The band was not real. Redhead, Newcastle – even Brando’s friend – none of these were real. The only truth in the tale was Brando himself, and everything else in all creation was an invention of Brando. He had created the universe, all of it, all the stars and planets and minerals and animals – everything. The reason was as an escape from a life of utter isolation, so he (or it, because I never really decided what Brando actually was) made this life and inserted himself into it.
Only his creation was not perfect, and after some time would break down, would come apart at the seams. Various ‘constants’ in his endlessly recreated worlds – including Lemon – were usually the ‘first to go’, and when the evidence presented itself Brando knew it was time to reset and start all over again. And so he would do this, over and over again, every time hoping that he would get it right, and eventually be able to (perhaps) ‘live a normal life’, albeit one of his own creation.
The story I was going to write was the description of just one of these attempts, from just before things went bad to the very instant before the reset.
Now, as I said, this story was kicking around in my head about 20 years ago. Some small portions of it were written down, including the name and the names of the characters. I’m not sure now when I did this exactly, although I think some would have been in Australia and maybe some shortly after arriving in the US. I don’t know where that writing is today. However what is true is that, at the time, I believed this an original and fascinating idea that could have made a good book (which, you may realize, is an obvious allegory for my life as a young man). But, as some of you may realize, the ‘original idea’ behind my 20-year-old story has become quite famous these days…
If you don’t understand that reference, then I won’t spoil it for you.
I have a very vivid imagination. I’m also supposing this, and “what if-ing” that. I’ve read a lot of books and remember an awful lot of stuff. It’s typically not that common that a piece of fiction truly surprises me, or doesn’t just retell a story I have seen or read somewhere before. Hence the fact that I saw the events of Haruhi coming before the big reveal, or that (during my recent trip) I sussed out the ‘secret’ in the film ‘The Prestige’ within, well about 5 minutes! These things happen all the time to me.
But the basis of Brando Pineapple has become so well known now, that I’d guess a good chunk of potential readers would probably perceive it as a Haruhi rip-off. And for that reason alone I doubt I’d ever write the book. Maybe.
(And, for the record, I don’t pretend to admit I ever though my idea was 100% original, it’s just that at the time I hadn’t read any other works with the same idea.)
So… what about the other two books!
The first is an over-the-top piece of tokusatsu nonsense, catering purely to my own whims. It would be terrible, since I would be attempting to write, in book form, what should only be filmed. However I believe it would be worth a try, for were it to succeed it could be grandiose indeed. My powers of hyperbole would help in this endeavour. It would be called “Not On My Earth“.
And the other story is the one that would have the most chance of ever being written, so for now I will keep the details close to my heart. If Brando Pineapple is an allegory of young me, then this latest work is an allegory of the me as I am today. The story tells of a man with endless time on his hands, and the world as his playground. But there is (as there always is) a catch…
Maybe some day I’ll actually get around to writing it, and you can read for yourself.
(Addendum: See this post, in which I describe a different tale using the same characters (and even the same name). There were others as well, but in reality the one described here was always the ultimate.)
