Arguing With Myself

“Ideas. ‘S’all about ideas innit?”

It’s 1am and I’m talking to the voice inside my head. This isn’t, I should say, some demonic voice telling me to set fire to things, it’s the voice of my subconscious; the root of my creativity. My subconscious has had a personality for as long as I can remember. For reasons which I’m not entirely clear on, over the years, it’s evolved into that of a middle-aged London cab driver.

“Yes, it is about ideas,” I sigh. We’re covering old ground here. “But it’s not just about ideas, it’s about structure; it’s about…timing.” I hit that last “timing” with particular emphasis. This is the root of our argument; it’s the root of most of our arguments.

“Timing? Don’t tell me I’ve got no timing. You’ve done alright off my sense of timing in the past, pal.”

“I know, I know. You’re very… quick-witted.”

“Too right I am!” he cuts across me, petulantly, “You set ‘em up, I knock ‘em down. You know I…we can be sharp when we want to be.”

“Yes, but my point is that it’s 1am and, while I agree that sometimes you’ve got to grab an idea when it comes to you, my point is that you don’t have any ideas! You’re not actually giving me anything to work with. You’re just sitting there idly tapping away at that typewriter, or laptop, or whatever it is that you use in there, but you’re not actually producing anything.”

“Well I’m bored! I want to do stuff!” He’s whining now. This isn’t a good sign.

“I know you want to do stuff. So do I. All I’m saying is that I can’t lie here awake night after night listening to you being impatient but not delivering the goods. I do have a job  you know.”

“Yeah, a shit job,” he whispers as an aside, making sure it’s loud enough for me to hear, (as if there was a way for me not to hear).

“Fuck off alright! I’m sorry I’m not knocking out novels or struggling to get a sitcom commissioned, or whatever it is that you’d rather I do with my time. I wasn’t the one that pissed off 15 years ago for an extended holiday.”

“You were busy! You had other things to do – booze… birds… Not my fault if you couldn’t be bothered to stretch your creative muscles.” I can’t see, but I can tell he did air quotes around that last bit.

“Oh come on, you know you missed out on years of opportunity for us to do something worthwhile.”

“Well,” he sniffs, “like I say, you were busy. Maybe I felt a bit left out.”

“Fine. I’m very sorry.”

“Well so you bloody should be! You’re the one who suddenly decided you wanted to be all creative again. Wandering around with your fancy notebook like you’re Lord-bleedin’-Byron, waiting for inspiration to come and smack you in the face. Don’t you worry about inspiration, pal. You just stick with me and you’ll be fine.”

“Alright, alright,” I concede, “but it’s still 1am and you’re not actually giving me anything worth staying awake for, so do you think you could keep the noise down until do come up with that stroke of genius?”

“Hmmph,” he snorts, “fine. Whatever. But don’t blame me if you’re asleep and I come up with something great.”

“I’m sure you’ll remember it in the morning,” I reply, laying on the sarcasm.

“Well maybe I’ll wake you up and you can write it in your little notebook.” Touché.

“Right, well I’m going to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams!”

“Shut up.”

“Prick,” he mutters under his breath.