“You’ve not really been on the internet until you’ve posted one, solitary, poorly thought out blog post”, the gangly teenager said, arrogantly rotating a collection of beads, paraphernalia and, he imagined, a Labubu around her wrist. But then he remembered he had no idea what a Labubu was, and who searches on the internet these days? Fuck that reality check.
He sipped at his branded Hay Festival coffee cup, winced yet again at the price of an Americano in today’s socio-economical shitstorm of capitalism and delivered what he hoped would be a generation-bounding response. “So I should do it, but not really make any effort, is what you’re saying?”
“Yes.”
“And people write about something they feel passionately about, do they? Sort of like a self-published weekly magazine column?” He assumed she knew what a magazine was, despite her TikTok-fulness.
“If you want to frame it in the context of those fading media formats, then by all means, go ahead.”
“Thank you.”
“Will it help you write a post?
“Probably not. I’m not sure I’m passionate about any subject these days.” He felt his Americano go cold in his big, weathered workman’s hands that had always seemed old, even when he was a teenager. Do parts of the body age at different rates? Maybe the first to go are the hands? Then your enthusiasm for ‘things’, then your stomach muscles and finally your pension plan? It had definitely seemed that way for him.
”Maybe the blog will help you find your enthusiasm again.” She sighed deeply (at least five decades worth of sigh, by his reckoning) and sat down, placing her lunch on the table between them. “Just keep tapping away and see what themes emerge, okay?” At this she produced a pristine fork from her backpack and started in on her vegetarian curry.
The writer considered also ordering a curry, but the moment passed when he scanned the prices on the board. He had homemade chicken rice wraps in his lunchbox.
She caught his eyes taking in the menu. “This obsession with cost won’t lead you to happiness and contentment with the world.” At this she drew an imaginary line through the air between them with her turmeric-stained fork. “Maybe the key to unlocking what could be a solid, lengthy writing streak, rests in your ability to forgive the world its pricing sins and embrace change. And inflation.”
He remembered his last blogging attempts. It had been the endless tapping away at keys that finally put him off. Time spent in front of another bloody glowing screen that didn’t appeal. “What if I just can’t think of anything, even for one solitary post?”
”Don’t worry,” she said, sliding her curry to the edge of the table where it rested precariously. “Something unexpected in the narrative may change everything.”
And with a jangling of teenage paraphernalia and dramatic flourish she pushed her curry over the edge of the table, where it splattered across the floor and stained the expensive trainers of several festival goers.
“You could start by asking yourself why you’ve chosen to develop this narrative through a conversation with an imaginary teenager, you fucking weirdo!” She stood up, stepped over the pile of food on the wet carpet and disappeared into the crowd.
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