The Maddening Misconception of a Rocket Man Writ Large

Many years ago during the first few years of my university course I decided that I wanted to be a writer instead of architect. Thus for some time thereafter I stayed up late at night after completing my studio work, endeavouring to write short stories in the mode of Frank O’Connor but with an infusion of what I considered to be the piercing wit of Oscar Wilde and the melancholy reflection of Samuel Beckett. My first coherent composition was a modest effort called ‘The Maddening Misconception of Jonathon Amesbury’ which told the story of an Anglo Irish misfit who considered himself to be a vampire and who thus lay out on tombstones at night and tried to have unlawful congress with any ‘passing’ female whenever the opportunity presented itself. Although of course sincerely committed to the success of my new writing venture, I did not write in a total vacuum as it were. I had a particular female fellow student in mind as a source of inspiration that I felt would surely share my heightened sense of creative purpose. I knew that she regularly frequented a select coffee house called ‘Jonathon’s’ in Grafton Street and her first name was ‘Aimee’, thus I felt that the title of my little piece was sure to strike a chord with her.
Furthermore, we were both particular fans of the music of Elton John at the time and I used to play his records while bent over my foolscap pages trying to give suitable written expression for my artistic endeavours.

As I didn’t want to spring the finished hand written and much corrected and amended work on the object of many romantic desires in a casual way, I decided to have the work ‘typed up’ to give it added gravitas. As I had no money at the time I had to give the story to my elderly maiden aunt to have the work done. However, she was greatly disturbed by it’s sexual ‘overtones’ and unseemly vampire focus and it took the intervention of my mother, who loudly proclaimed that it was just a phase I was growing through, to get her to undertake the task at all. As you can readily appreciate this negotiation took a considerable length of time. However, I was buoyed at that time by the lyrics of Elton John’s ‘Rocket Man’ in that I was sure that in the eyes of my female focus, I was soon going to be considered ‘high as a kite.’ So as I worked diligently to finish my ‘opus’ I sang along with Elton and echoed his song lyrics; “I’m not the man they think I am at all, Oh! No! No! I’m a Rocket Man. However, I should have known better about the fickleness of this female friendship as no sooner had I got my treasured short story in typed edition ready to captivate my sweetheart’s sensibilities did I find out that she had transferred her affections elsewhere. Like Elton John’s Rocket Man lyrics, I suddenly realised that the attainment of any reciprocal affection was going to take ‘a long, long time’ so I gave up my Oscar Wilde writing phase in frustration.

However, once again Elton John’s lyrics came to the rescue, and I could readily appreciate the sentiments expressed in the song: “I guess that’s why they call it the blues” especially in the lyric; “between you and me I can honestly say that things can only get better’. And so it proved, because within a short few weeks I had entered my Beckett phase of short story writing. After a concentrated period of endeavour I came up with a radical new departure expressed in the short story “The Rodent Image in the Moon Rays’ which dealt with the mental reflections of a ‘gaunt and expressionless old man lying in a rubbish heap’ and thinking about Hiroshima. As you can gather from even this cursory description of its contents it was hardly a barrel of laughs. Being acutely aware of my failure to get an ‘honest’ appraisal from my fellow Irish students, particularly of the female persuasion, I sent it to a friend abroad. After a number of weeks waiting with bated breadth, I got a letter to tell me for ‘God’s sake’ to snap out of these pessimistic ramblings and to get out more often!!

So my literary career was stillborn from that moment and I only ever showed these pieces even to my good wife after we had successfully negotiated some 20 years together. I’m glad to say that she was the epitome of kindness and consideration and simply gave me a big hug and said to make sure they were kept out of the reach of our young impressionable children. So I was amazed to find an old notebook at the bottom of the bookcase some days ago and to find the original typed stories collected inside. So I reread them with a fresh perspective after all these years and at the same time replayed Eton John’s greatest hit songs because ‘sad songs say so much’.

And after reading them was I sorry for giving up my literary ambition so long ago? I’m afraid that I have to readily admit that in the intervening time they have not improved with age. No I’m afraid that once again my critics were proved correct but I still in a way don’t feel sorry for trying to write at least. Because, in a sense the time spent in writing was for me like my then idol, Elton John, expressed so well in the lyrics of his songs, ‘No Sacrifice for me at all’ and because even now ‘Sorry seems to be the Hardest Word’.

Note: This blog is written in an attempt of recollection and humour and like the stories described therein should not be taken with any degree of seriousness.