Devil in the Words. Книга для практики английского языка

He took another sip of his coffee, trying to come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t a genius. After all, if he were a genius, he could easily figure out what to write about at least the first chapter of his book.

Turning on his favorite song, he leaned back in his chair and threw his hands behind his head, beginning to reflect on the plot of the book. Basically, he imagined that he wanted to write a book about a writer who writes a book, and then it gets picked up by a publisher, and the writer makes a ton of money from it. But he had absolutely no idea what to fill the chapters with. After all, an idea is literally a couple of lines, and each chapter should be several pages long. Publishers took at least eight author’s pages to print books, which is almost two hundred and fifty pages of text. Peter didn’t want to write a story; ideally, it should have been a novel, or at least a small book that wouldn’t look like a brochure from a newsstand.

As time went. Peter sat at the computer and wrote down a few sentences from time to time. The text of the book grew. The second and third paragraphs appeared. Peter even thought that if he wrote at such a speed, he could finish a whole chapter in a day. It was only necessary to catch the impulse of inspiration. Some authors wrote twenty novels a year, which is almost two novels a month, that is, at least one thousand pages of text per month. It was quite possible to write one chapter in a day, and moreover, Peter felt that he could do it.

He gathered all his thoughts into one and began to write. Lines began to appear on a white sheet of paper on the monitor. Dialogues and scenes appeared, characters began to do something, they began to come to life, becoming not just text, but characters who had their own desires and thoughts.

In a burst of inspiration, Peter sat at the computer until lunch. He managed to write an entire chapter in literally three hours. The chapter was small, only two and a half thousand words, but for Peter it was a real achievement, he felt the strength to create. However, there was no plot as such yet. He simply wrote down what came to his mind.

The sound of keys clicking came from the corridor. My sister returned from school. Motya ran out into the corridor to meet her. She took off her briefcase and went to her room. Peter watched her through the slightly open door.

Taking the mug, he noticed that it was out of coffee. He got up from the table and went to the kitchen to pour something new.

Turning on the kettle, he poured sugar and coffee into the mug, and when the kettle boiled, he poured hot water over everything, adding milk at the end.

He returned to the room, but his sister was already sitting at the computer, heatedly discussing something on a social network.

– Now I’m sitting at the computer. – she said, typing a message.

Peter put the coffee mug on the table and went to the kitchen to watch TV.

There was still a series about witches on TV. It was shown almost all day. Peter sat down at the table, leaned his elbows on his hands, and began to watch him. Several episodes were shown a day. Most of them repeated, adding only one new one per day. Peter looked thoughtfully at the TV, but it was obvious that his thoughts were somewhere else.

After half an hour, he couldn’t stand it anymore and went into the room to get his computer back. Sitting on a chair in the kitchen was not as comfortable as sitting in a chair at the computer.

– How long are you going to be? – he asked, turning to his sister.

– I don’t know, I need to wait for an answer.

– How long will you wait for him?

«I’m telling you, I don’t know.»

Peter went back to the kitchen. He returned to the table and continued watching the series. He remembered seeing the books that the series was based on and thought that maybe he should write something like the series too. It seemed easier to write that way. But these thoughts still did not solve the main problem; they did not give ideas on what to fill the chapters with. The idea could be embodied in a story, put into a few pages, write that there was such and such a guy who wrote such and such a book, and then it was published, and he made a lot of money. But it was a story. Story! Not a book. No one has ever made money from stories, and not many have made money from books.

– I’ll write one chapter a day, and in about twenty days I’ll just finish it. – Peter thought, pondering his book. – The main thing is to have a desire to write. Although, perhaps, you should treat this as work, not wait for the desire to appear, but just write. But what if no lines are written at all? Give up everything? Admit to yourself that you are mediocre and have no literary inclinations? What about dreams? You won’t be able to come to terms with the fact that you will never have anything. Think about it, where else can you make money? You will end up as a loader at some factory, where you will work from morning to evening. And all that will happen in your life is a bottle of beer and computer games. – He put his head on the table. – No, you can’t do that, I have to think of something. I have to find a way to make a ton of money, but how?

My sister came into the kitchen. She had a textbook, notebook and pen in her hands.

– Help me do the math.

– Let’s go to.

Together they went to Peter’s room. The sister sat down in a chair and put the notebook on the table, giving the textbook to her brother. He took it and began to read the problem. Having read it completely, he comprehended everything that was said in it, and began to dictate a decision to his sister. She began to write it down in her notebook.

Peter was tired of standing with a textbook in his hands; he would rather sit down at the computer and continue working on the book, or at least search the Internet for some useful articles or blog posts that would help him write. He tried to solve problems from the textbook as quickly as possible, dictating solutions to his sister.

Having finished doing math, Christina got out from behind the computer and, taking a textbook and notebook, went to her room. Peter sat down in a chair. It was a moment of relief. He was so used to his chair that he received incredible pleasure from being in it. Everything in his room was done in such a way as to enjoy comfort, which Peter valued very much. He bought all his things when he worked at the factory. He worked there for a couple of months, and was just able to save money to buy a computer, a sofa, and a computer chair, not to mention other small things, such as a table, a bedside table and a carpet.

Working at the factory seemed like absolute hell to him. He hated the whole world when he was carrying heavy sheets of iron, or dragging them from the truck to the workshop. But there was nowhere to go. He woke up in the morning and, trying not to think about fatigue, went to work. Walking down the street, he tried not to notice cars and people who, as he believed, lived much better than him. They were happy, it was evident from their smiles. And anger accumulated in him. He never wanted to answer questions about why he was so sad or dissatisfied. He had no reason to be pleased. He wanted a yacht, he wanted a car, he wanted a separate apartment and a life, the same as the one that Hollywood stars had, but instead, a factory.

When he quit his job, he had no regrets. Of course, he understood that his mother would be unhappy, that she would be angry with him and let all the dogs go the first time, but he could not continue to work, his dreams were too colorful. He didn’t just dream, he believed that he deserved a better life.

– Do you have money? – asked the sister, entering Peter’s room.

– No. Where do I get them from?

– OK. I will go for a walk.

– Okay, go ahead.

The sister left the room. Keys jingled in the corridor, a clicking sound was heard in the lock, after which the door opened. Christina went out into the entrance and closed the door behind her. Peter was left alone in the apartment.

– Almost four o’clock in the afternoon. Maybe try writing another chapter? – thought Peter, looking at his watch. – Why not.

He opened the office program in which he wrote the book and continued writing. At first the text was difficult, there were no ideas for a new chapter, but after half an hour, Peter signed, and the glory began to appear on its own. Text began to appear on the empty sheets of the monitor, filling them.

Peter did not notice how four hours had passed. He realized this when the front door opened. Getting up from the computer, he looked out into the corridor. It was the mother. In her hands was a bag filled with groceries.

– Did you buy anything for tea? – Peter asked, turning to his mother.

– Yes, I bought it. Go and unpack the package.

Peter went out into the corridor, took a bag of groceries from his mother, and went to the kitchen. He pulled out all the food and put it in the refrigerator. A package of chocolate wafers was bought for tea. Peter opened it and took three strips. He returned to the room and sat back down at the computer. Taking a bite from the waffle strip, he took a mug to wash down the waffle with coffee, but the mug was empty.

Putting the waffles aside, he went to the kitchen to pour some coffee. He did this quite quickly, trying once again not to catch the eye of his mother, who at that time was fastening the leash on the dog’s body to take her out for a walk.

– Close the door behind me. – she said, since closing the door with a leash in her hand was inconvenient.

Peter took the keys and went to the front door. The mother left the apartment and he closed the door behind her.

Together with the keys, he returned to the room, sat down in a chair, put the keys down, took a bite of the waffle, and washed down the coffee. A mild taste spread throughout the mouth. He glanced at the monitor, looked at the text, then at the word count. The second chapter was finished. A feeling of self-satisfaction and joy reigned in the mind. But, despite the fact that the second chapter was finished, the whole book was still ahead. It is unknown how many chapters will need to be written for the book to look complete. Maybe twenty, maybe thirty. But where do you get ideas for so many chapters? This was probably the main question that tormented Peter. But now, he tried not to think about it, the main thing was that he had finished the second chapter. Five thousand words were over. It was a small segment of the entire journey, but it was very significant. Yes, Peter was not the same genius as those who wrote several hundred novels during their lives. But Peter believed that if he managed to write at least one book, it would certainly become a bestseller and bring him good money, with which he could buy everything he loved to dream about.

CHAPTER 3. A walk in the park

– Take a walk with Motya today. – said the mother, getting ready for work.

Peter was in the kitchen, pouring himself some coffee to cheer himself up. It was not early morning, about eleven o’clock. Usually at that time his mother left for work. My sister was already at school. Only he, alone, did not go anywhere, and did not do anything except wander around the house all day. At least that’s what his mother, sister, and all those who knew about him thought. But Peter himself thought differently. He believed that he was on his way to becoming a rich and famous man. He believed that he would be able to write a book, that his book would be loved, and that he would be able to earn good money from it, which would be enough for him to buy a separate home, a car, and a girlfriend, whom he did not have.

– Okay. – Peter answered, pouring hot water from the kettle into the coffee and sugar.

The mother packed her things, took the keys, and left the apartment. Peter was left alone, with Motya, who climbed onto a bench in the corridor and, curled up in a ball, began to doze. She often did this, but as soon as some sound was heard on the landing, she immediately jumped up and began to howl, so much so that everyone immediately ran to calm her down so that he would stop barking.

Having stirred the coffee and added milk, Peter took the mug and stood in front of the window, watching the rare passers-by who went about their business. Peter felt a little uneasy because he had nothing to do. He felt like a parasite, a parasite, almost a scum of society. However, after taking a sip of coffee, all negative thoughts disappeared at once. He remembered the book and imagined that he was not a parasite at all, but a writer. Yes, he didn’t work, yes, he rarely left the house, yes, he had practically no friends, but all this did not stop him from living in his own world, which seemed to him much more interesting than the one outside the window. Although, it is unlikely that his world would find at least some understanding among people. He was unemployed, and this was enough to consider him unworthy of attention.

Together with the mug, Peter went into the room where he sat down at the computer. Placing the mug next to the monitor, he opened the office program in which he wrote his book. Scrolling to the bottom of the text, he wrote the subtitle: «CHAPTER THREE.»

– Can lighten up a boring text with some action? – thought Peter, trying to come up with a new chapter. – Let’s say Peter was writing a book, and then, unexpectedly, aliens fly to earth. Thousands of spaceships descend on the planet and hover over cities. This is an invasion, nothing less. Everyone is trying to escape, and Peter finds himself in the thick of things, he becomes a hero who needs to save the world from foreign invaders. Why not? But on the other hand, I’m writing a book about a writer, just a boring book, where a guy will write a book, why add to the plot everything that thousands of pages of text are already written about? Yes, bad idea. I’d rather not add anything fantastic and mystical. It was still not enough to insert into the plot about the writer, some vampires, or werewolves. No, it won’t be anything like that, just a boring book. The book should be boring, it’s not a movie. Also, what if I’m an intellectual and my book is intellectual? All intellectual literature must be boring. I don’t know what the reader needs. Maybe what readers want to read is a boring book with a boring guy doing boring things. I play roulette. I am writing a book, but whether it will be published and whether millions of copies of this very book will be sold is not up to me.

Peter threw all thoughts about aliens, demons and vampires out of his head, leaving only boring thoughts about the gray everyday life of a young man who wanted to get rich. He tried to imagine his hero, tried to get into his head, to understand what he could think about, what he could want, what he could dream about. In the end, Peter simply thought about what he himself was thinking about, thinking about his own dreams. After all, the main character of his book, in fact, was himself.

– How difficult it is. And no one can guarantee that anyone will read the book at all. I can sit on it for a month, or two, or six months, and then some unfortunate critic will say: «There are too many mental verbs in it, I don’t like that.» And it doesn’t matter who this person was, and whether he understands at least something in literature, he just doesn’t like mental verbs, because some writer said that you shouldn’t use mental verbs in books, that it’s bad, that you need give the reader a picture. Yes, I’m probably just not so brilliant as to convey all the thoughts of a character in pictures and actions. The book is about one person, only one, who writes a book, and how can one not use mental verbs? – Peter thought indignantly. All he had was his thoughts, and these thoughts needed to be reflected on paper somehow. – Well, it can’t be that I’m so mediocre! In any case, there will be someone who will like my boring book. Even if someone says that she is boring, I deliberately intend her to be boring. What’s important here is the story, not the events that happen in that story. Maybe my hero will spend the entire book sitting at the computer, what now? Such a book, such an idea, such a plan that the main character will spend the entire book in the apartment writing a book. It will just be a boring book about a writer.

Peter drank all the coffee that was in the mug in one gulp and, getting up from the computer, went to the kitchen to pour another one.

Going out into the corridor, he noticed Motya, who was lying on the bench. He remembered that his mother asked him to take a walk with her.

– Later. – Peter said quietly and walked into the kitchen.

Turning on the electric kettle, he poured coffee and sugar into a mug, took milk out of the refrigerator, and sat down at the table, waiting for the water in the kettle to boil.

Peter was thinking about the book. He was trying to come up with a plot for the third chapter. The idea came on its own, and unexpectedly. He simply decided to describe his day, just one day in his life. Write about how he drinks coffee, how he walks the dog, how he washes his face in the morning. After all, it was his book, and he could write whatever he wanted in it. Yes, he took a risk, because publishers love books in series. They love books that have an exciting plot, and the plot of his book was as boring as his every day.

The water in the kettle boiled. Peter rose from his chair, took the kettle, and poured hot water over the coffee. Having thoroughly stirred the coffee and sugar, he added milk to the mug. Having put the milk in the refrigerator, he took a mug of coffee and went back to the computer, promising Mota that he would go for a walk with her later.

Sitting down at the computer, Peter put the mug next to the monitor and, pulling the keyboard towards him, began to write. He started in the morning. I just remembered one day from my life, took some fragments from it, and began to write it down. Words began to appear on the monitor. One, two, a whole sentence, and then a whole paragraph, and now the first page is finished. It seemed that inspiration had found the writer, but, alas, after five hundred words, everything stopped. Peter re-read the text. It seems that he wrote everything he wanted, but at the same time, there was too little written. Only five hundred words, but the chapter needed at least two thousand.

All thoughts disappeared.

Opening the browser, Peter entered his social network page. There were no new messages, but in the news everything was the same as a month ago.

– What to write about anyway? – thought Peter, staring at the monitor. – Although, why am I, I can just take ideas from my life, take any ideas. And even more, I can invent things that are not in my life. For example, I can come up with a friend for the main character with whom he will go to drink beer. Or he will go to a restaurant to eat a hamburger. I can write anything. The main thing is that the events do not contradict themselves, and that it is not boring. But, stop, I’m writing a boring book, then I can write about boring, hackneyed, annoying things.

The door of the room opened. Peter looked down and saw Motya, who entered the room and sat down next to the computer chair.

– Okay, now let’s go for a walk. – said Peter.

Turning on the music, he got up from the computer and began to get dressed. He put on his pants, changed into his t-shirt, put on his shirt, then put on his sneakers. Approaching the window, he stuck out his hand to see if it was warm outside. It was warm outside, and what’s more, the sun was shining there. And without even putting your hand out of the window, you could understand that it was warm there.

Turning off the computer, Peter put a harness on Motya, attached a leash to it and, taking his smartphone and keys, went outside. Leaving the apartment, he closed the door. Motya started barking. Her barking echoed through the entrance, causing Peter to almost tremble. This was one of the characteristics of his dog; she always barked terribly when she went out for a walk.

Leaving the entrance, Peter headed to the park, which was located a hundred meters from the scrap. You just had to cross two roads. Motya ran ahead, stopping near every bush and sniffing it.

An expensive car drove into the yard. Peter looked at him longingly, he wanted to have the same one, but he didn’t even have money to go to the movies. But he was not upset, because he was writing a book, and he believed that when he wrote it, he would definitely sell it in large quantities.

Having let the car pass, Peter walked further towards the park. He crossed the first road, taking Motya on a short leash, and then walked along the lawn, about a hundred meters, and crossed the second road, the traffic on which was more intense than on the first. Immediately behind the road there was a park with a large pond and many apple trees. The park also had an asphalt road, round in shape, the size of the entire park. You could often see girls and boys going out there to run a couple of laps. This day was no exception. Several girls were running along the road, with toned figures, wearing tight pants and T-shirts.

Peter sighed heavily, staring at them.

– I wish I could meet at least one of them. – he thought, looking at their slender waists and rounded hips.

Motya pulled him to the side, along the path. Peter followed her, leaving the running girls behind. He left the main road and followed the path behind Motya, which continued to pull him forward.

– Every moment of this can be taken into a book. – Peter thought. – Absolutely everyone. You can take into the book all these people, all these paths, and even all these apple trees that grow around. But will this be of interest to anyone? This is a classic. Just life, without exaggeration, without a sharp plot, without lyrics and fantasy. A true classic. What if I really can become a classic?

Peter’s chest filled with air. He was so inspired by his thoughts that his condition could be compared to schizophrenia, because now he imagines himself to be an outstanding classicist, capable of writing a novel no worse than those of the most outstanding classics of the world. He was ready to return home and create, write, fill pages with text, create new events, new moments, new thoughts. But first, it was necessary to walk at least one lap around the park so that Motya could do all her business.

A warm light wind was blowing. The sun was hot. Girls were running along the asphalt road, children were rollerblading and riding bicycles, and people with dogs were walking along the lawns. Peter walked along the path, not far from the roadway, completely immersed in thoughts about his book. Although most of his thoughts were still not about the book, but about how much he could earn from it. Million? Or maybe two? What if the book sells a million copies, and from each copy he receives fifty rubles? Fifty million? Peter’s heart began to beat faster.

– This is a game with fate, a game with luck. After all, no one can say for sure whether my book will be popular or how many copies will be sold. – Peter thought. – It’s like playing roulette. I ’m writing a book, and I’m setting it free to float, and then, depending on your luck. It happens that people find treasures, or win the lottery. Yes, it’s like winning the lottery. I’m writing a book and starting my lottery game. Whether I will be able to promote my book among thousands of other books, and whether people will buy it, no one knows.

A girl rode past Peter on a bicycle. Peter stared after her. Her figure drove him crazy. He really wanted to catch up with her, and get to know her, start a relationship with her, take her to the movies, and then to a restaurant, and then marry her, have children, and what not flashed through Peter’s head as he looked after the charming of a girl who rode past him on a bicycle. But he could not do this, because he had no money. Anger at the whole world awakened in him.

– Why me? There are so many people around, and everyone has cars, money, relationships. Do I have anything? Why am I worse than others? – he turned it over in his head, looking around. – What a fate.

He walked around the park and went back to the house. Motya continued to sniff all the bushes that came along the way. Peter’s mood dropped somewhat. He even forgot about the book. He was depressed by the fact that he had nothing, not even a job, while others had everything he dreamed of.