Truman Capote and Toby the sapient pig are talking in the drawing room. Capote, the famous author, is entertaining the pig with insights into the craft of storytelling. But Toby wants to know about In Cold Blood, the book Capote wrote about a murder in the 1950s. Capote sighs. Everybody wants to know about In Cold Blood.
The thoughts are painful. Everything gets painful when you’re thinking about yourself. The bad blots out the good. It’s like scraping off a scab. Some say that pain is good for you. Next time I hear someone say that I’ll get my pitchfork chatting to their bollocks, and see if they get any good.
Can you tell me a little bit about yourself?
I like honey. But I don’t like jam so much. I definitely don’t like marmalade.
Ah, why’s that?
Honey is easier to spread and once its spread out you can’t tell how much there is on the toast. I mean my mum can’t, so..
Jam is thicker, it doesn’t sink in, and you can tell by the colour that I got a lot of it.
Well, I’m pleased that your mother takes an interest in your eating.
The plan is actually working out. My brother and his wife aren’t up yet. We said goodbye last night, so they wouldn’t notice we’re not taking anything.
I’m scared to be the first to get in the car, and I want to tell you so, but when I look up you’ve wandered off to smoke. I take my book out. We always were the introvert couple, separating at random to respect each other’s need for solitude.
It’s just like on our honeymoon, we’re even going to the same beach. We’re crossing a threshold together.
I hope our son is there.
© Tiffany Williams
Writing can be incredibly lonely. We spend hours every week (or every day if we’re lucky) by ourselves with only our imaginations for company. We shield ourselves from the outside world, even if we’re reflecting it in our work, and we become increasingly unsociable and reclusive.
And that’s exactly how it should be.