They say no man is an island. They are wrong. The very idea that we must make ourselves reliant on other human beings for our basic needs, our own fulfilment, and our happiness is absolutely absurd. Because in case you haven’t noticed, most human beings suck balls. Not literally. Well, some of them do, I'm sure, and that’s fine if they like that sort of thing, but that’s not the sucking to which I am referring. The average human being is completely unreliable, and therefore, if you can avoid them, you should—a lesson I learned as a young child.
A man can, in fact, be an island. It's just a matter of how large said man’s bank account happens to be...
Take me, for example. I am disgustingly rich. I’m the guy Jesus was referring to when he said (and I’m paraphrasing here, because to be honest, I’m not a big bible guy): it’s easier to squeeze a camel through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to sneak into Heaven. Or something like that. Anyway, the point is, I’m rich enough tonothave to rely on a living soul other than Mrs. Bailey, my housekeeper, who I pay very well to be here as little as possible whilst managing to get through all the tasks I’d rather not do (which includes anything a 1950’s housewife would have done). Other than Mrs. Bailey, I’m ecstatic to be alone most of the time.
Although lately, my fortress of solitude has become more of a prison of luxury. Now, before your hand shoots up and you shout that you’d happily trade places with me, allow me to fill you in on the fine print…
Instead of growing up with a close-knit family in a cozy three-bedroom home on a quiet street, you would have spent your formative years in a very cold mansion with marble floors (quite unforgiving for a toddler learning to walk). You’d also have formed attachments to a string of nannies, all of whom were unceremoniously dismissed by your mother for various inane reasons such as ‘her hair was too brassy,’ ‘her laugh gives me a migraine,’ or my personal favourite, ‘she ate the biscuit I offered her.’
But the fun doesn’t stop there, because as a grown man, life will then present some challenges most people don’t have to suffer. Imagine that privacy is as foreign a concept as loving parents—something you only read about in books or see on the telly—and I have to say, it is the one thing for which I often long. (Privacy, that is. I can do without the sentimental mum who keeps a scrapbook of every inconsequential thing I’ve ever done, like a photo of the first time I made a poop on the potty.)
As the grandson of the great Lord Davenport—founder of Davenport Communications, the UK's largest telecommunications, digital cable and satellite service provider—and son of Lord Alistair and Lady Bunny of the House Davenport, you’d have grown up under a microscope, being examined by every well-to-do person in the entire kingdom. (And yes, Bunny is her real name–disgustingly rich people can get away with ridiculous baby names.)
Were you in my Testoni dress shoes, you’d find yourself subjected to relentless curiosity and intrusion by nearly everyone you meet, and after thirty-one years of having strangers believe themselves entitled to the inside scoop on your father’s alleged affair with a certain Victoria’s Secret model (not a chance in hell, by the way), you’d likely find yourself growing a little bitter. In fact, I’d venture to guess that you’d also find yourself overwhelmed with a desire to retreat to your own personal fortress of solitude.
That's where I am at the moment—in my 4000 square foot penthouse flat that overlooks the Langdon River. From my bedroom window—or, to be more accurate, my wall of windows—I can see all the way to the Langdon Bridge, which incidentally is not falling down, but only because it has undergone more facelifts than my mother.
Unfortunately, at the moment, even my fortress in the sky isn’t enough of an escape, because for a man seeking privacy, I’ve fucked up entirely by writing a certain series you’ll have either read or watched on the UK’s biggest subscription-only channel NBO. Alternatively, you’ve refused to watch because it’s too gory and sex-filled. Yes, I’mthatPierce Davenport, writer ofClash of Crowns. Had I known it would become a mega-hit, I might not have written it at all.
Other than the cash that pours into my account faster than that Rain Man fellow could count it, the entire experience has been a disaster. Well, I suppose that’s not completely fair. The series has definitely been responsible for yours truly getting a whole lot of action in the boudoir, so that’s a bit of perk.
But here’s the thing about writing the world’s most popular epic fantasy drama series: if you don’t know how the hell it ends, and you’ve got millions of people waiting for the final installment, a good percentage of them are going to get impatient. Brutally impatient.
They will turn on you in a way that no other reading audience will because they have a bloodlust to begin with, and then you’ve gone and put some rather violent ideas into their heads. And when that happens, you really are trapped because every time you leave your home, you’ll be bombarded by angry super fans who want to know just what the hell you think you’re doing out in public when you should be holed up at home writing. These same people tweet, email, and send IG messages to medemandingI finish. They then grow unreasonably angry when I don’t reply, which I find rather ironic because were I to spend my time writing back to thousands of people per week, that wouldn’t exactly leave me with time to finish the novel, now would it?
But set the irate nerds aside for a moment because I’m even more fucked than you’d think. This is because the executive producers of the television seriesClash of Crownsare also out of patience and are now threatening to bring in a team of screenwriters to complete the series for me, which would be an unmitigated disaster. First off, the writers on staff aren’t capable of an original thought between them. NBO had me in for a ‘planning sesh’ with the writers once, and one of them actually suggested the old ‘it was all a dream’ ending and that all the characters I’ve mercilessly killed off are actually alive. I’m not shitting you. They even put that little gem up on the ‘Board of Possibilities.’
They’ll take whatRolling Stonemagazine has called “the most unpredictable, horrifically beautiful, gut-wrenching masterpiece in the history of television” and tame it down so that nobody dies and the good guys win. In other words, they’ll FUBAR it (fuck it up beyond all recognition).
Let’s be honest, the brass at NBO are in it for the cash. They don’t care how the series ends, because at this point, they’ve already hooked hundreds of millions of viewers so it’s totally irrelevant to them if the last season satisfies the hungry fans or ends up being the nextLost. And the moment they realized that, I was totally fucked. Unfortunately, I didn’t know it until last week when the head of NBO—a total bellend by the name of Kent Cromwell—gave an interview on ABN’s (Avonian Broadcast Network) Entertainment Weekly Round-Up stating that they’ve given me two months to write the ending so they can start turning it into a script or they’ll do it for me. Rumour has it, they’re already amassing a team to be on call should I fail. Thanks for that, Kent Cromwell, you colossal douchenugget. This has caused every entertainment media cockroach from around the world to camp themselves outside my building, along with a couple dozen “Crownies” as they call themselves, who are holding a candlelight vigil until I emerge with the completed manuscript. A little dramatic, no?
I don’t know how the hell they think this works. It’s not like I’m up here madly typing each page on an ancient Typemaster Five and will grab the entire stack of papers when I’m done and run down the street to my publisher with my bathrobe flying behind me.
I haven’t stepped foot in Sullivan and Stone Publishing House for years. Everything is sent via email. And I’m certainly not coming out of the building the moment I finish to hand out free copies. That is not going to happen, no matter how much they wish it did.
I know they believe themselves to be supportive, and I really am grateful for my Crownies (at least the ones who haven’t threatened to castrate me), but seriously, people, it’s a lot of fucking pressure to know you’re out there while I wrack my brain for the perfect ending.
To be honest, I sort of wrote myself into a corner in the third installment of the series, and I’ve spent the last two years holed up thinking of ways to get out of it, but to no avail. I’ve tried everything to figure it out—rereading the books, watching the entire series in one go, reading all sorts of books about how to beat writer’s block (useless, all of them). Meditation, hot yoga, self-hypnosis (total sham). I even spent six tedious months building the entire Qadeathas world out of Lego pieces on my massive walnut dining table in hopes that having a miniature version of my creation would lead me to the answer. I now have an intricate 3D model depicting every castle, ship, mountain, river, lake, road, and township in all five realms that has done absolutely nothing other than take up thirty minutes per week of Mrs. Bailey’s time when she dusts it.
And now this very public, very shitty deadline has been set.
Fear not though, because in exactly two hours, I’ll be sneaking out the back door of my building (out of sight of the paparazzi) and slipping into a limo that will take me to the airport where a Learjet will be waiting. Once aboard, I’ll be disappearing to a private island in the South Caribbean where no one will be able to contact, harass, bother, badger, or beg me to finish the fourth book. And that’s when the book will finally get written.
As a side note, if you’ve ever wondered why it rains so much in the UK, it’s karma getting back at the horrid so-called ‘reporters’ who make their money selling stories to the gossip rags. And the paparazzi here in Avonia outdo them all—they’re the worst of the worst. I like to think that today’s pea soup fog and unseasonably cold drizzle is payback from the heavens for the crowd of vultures waiting for me downstairs. I don't need to call down to the doorman to know that they're down there waiting for me. I canfeel their presencejust as certainly as I feel my Zaffiro gold razor skimming along my jawline.
The sound of a chime tells me my editor/best friend, Zach Shulman, is calling through on my private line. He is one of only three people to have this number—and the other two are not my parents or my idiot brothers. I make sure my towel is secured around my waist, then say, “Answer call.”
Zach's face appears on the screen embedded in my bathroom mirror. (I got a little bored last winter and had the guy who did Bill Gates’ home electronics flown over to tech out my flat.)
“You're up early,” Zach quips, referring to the fact that it's almost eleven and I am only now through the shower.
In my defence, I generally work until around two a.m., and I did get up to run on my treadmill already today.
“You could sleep in too if you hadn't saddled yourself with that lovely wife of yours.” She’s not lovely at all, actually. She loathes me because I won’t allow her to use me to help her climb the corporate ladder over at ABN where she works as a producer for the news. She’s been on me for years to allow her cameras into my fortress of solitude and bare my soul on television and, because I have politely declined on each attempt, she looks at me like Taylor Swift looks at Katy Perry—with an unmistakable bitterness.
“Don't remind me about the single life. If I don't think about it, I don't miss it nearly as much,” Zach says, even though he definitely doesn’t miss the single life at all. He yawns widely while he scratches at his overgrown, thick brown hair.
Zach is chronically tired because even though he starts his workday a full three hours after his wife, Kennedy, he insists on getting up at the arse crack of dawn every morning so they can eat breakfast together. Apparently, they miss each other so much while she’s away bossing people around and he’s crammed in his tiny office at the newly merged Sullivan and Stone Publishing House that he simplymustget up to prepare her tea and toast each morning. Pathetic, no?
