If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in history, December 15, 1937, that UK inkspiller Eric Blair hand-delivered his publishers a manuscript entitled, “The Road to Wigan Pier” and I’ll wager a goodly sum that the bookseller’s reaction was the same as mine: Who in blue blazes wants to read some codswallop about a waterfront pier in bloody Wigan? I’ve been to that shanty town and let me tell you, Eric Blair’s time would’ve been better spent shoring up the old pier with new plank boards—pounding hammer and nail rather than the keys on his Wurlitzer brand typewriter on a story that no one outside of his mum, would want to read. My next reaction: Why in God’s name would Eric Blair invent the “name de plume” George Orwell for authorship purposes? Who says George Orwell is more writerly sounding than Eric Blair? Not Yours Truly Dooley! When I see the name Orwell, I picture that bow-tied and suspendered jackaloon Orwell Redenbacher which puts me in the mind of eating home-popped kettle corn and you can’t read a book while munching on a sweetened, buttery snack. I’ve never trusted anyone with a phony baloney name, anyway. Think of all those wankers in Follywood changing their names. What’s wrong with the name Marion Morrisson, John Wayne? Are you ashamed of your own parents, mister not-a-real-cowboy? English actor Lionel Barrymore didn’t change his name, did he? I don’t know, I haven’t checked. (Haha!) But Eric Blair did and it didn’t help him sell one bloody copy of that “The Road to Wigan Pier” rubbish and if he hadn’t followed the advice of that thoughtful publisher—the one who steered him towards more interesting fare, like the futuristic tale of talking farm animals that became the inspiration for Van Halen’s Solid Gold recording “1984”—Eric Blair or George Orwell would have spent his days in obscurity, fishing for carp off the side of g*ddamned Wigan pier.Wednesday, December 15
Do Tell, Orwell
If Memory Swerves, ‘twas on this day in history, December 15, 1937, that UK inkspiller Eric Blair hand-delivered his publishers a manuscript entitled, “The Road to Wigan Pier” and I’ll wager a goodly sum that the bookseller’s reaction was the same as mine: Who in blue blazes wants to read some codswallop about a waterfront pier in bloody Wigan? I’ve been to that shanty town and let me tell you, Eric Blair’s time would’ve been better spent shoring up the old pier with new plank boards—pounding hammer and nail rather than the keys on his Wurlitzer brand typewriter on a story that no one outside of his mum, would want to read. My next reaction: Why in God’s name would Eric Blair invent the “name de plume” George Orwell for authorship purposes? Who says George Orwell is more writerly sounding than Eric Blair? Not Yours Truly Dooley! When I see the name Orwell, I picture that bow-tied and suspendered jackaloon Orwell Redenbacher which puts me in the mind of eating home-popped kettle corn and you can’t read a book while munching on a sweetened, buttery snack. I’ve never trusted anyone with a phony baloney name, anyway. Think of all those wankers in Follywood changing their names. What’s wrong with the name Marion Morrisson, John Wayne? Are you ashamed of your own parents, mister not-a-real-cowboy? English actor Lionel Barrymore didn’t change his name, did he? I don’t know, I haven’t checked. (Haha!) But Eric Blair did and it didn’t help him sell one bloody copy of that “The Road to Wigan Pier” rubbish and if he hadn’t followed the advice of that thoughtful publisher—the one who steered him towards more interesting fare, like the futuristic tale of talking farm animals that became the inspiration for Van Halen’s Solid Gold recording “1984”—Eric Blair or George Orwell would have spent his days in obscurity, fishing for carp off the side of g*ddamned Wigan pier.