THE KICKER:'Why would someone who has nothing better to do with their day than trawl the sand for trinkets not take a minute to read a note that has been written by a shipwrecked man'
A BEACHCOMBER WALKS along the windswept coast, on pearl-white sand. His eyes are cast down, studying the remote shoreline for anything of value among the detritus; anything shiny. In the past he has found a St Christopher medal, some nice ornate driftwood, once even an Art Deco transistor radio, albeit with corroded insides.
Something catches his eye. It's a dark green bottle propped right way up, as if placed there by a wave. At first, it's the colour that draws his eye, that deep emerald. He understands why they call it bottle green. Then he notices that the bottle is corked and something has been preserved within. He picks it up and brushes off the salt-dried sand. Inside, he sees a rolled-up piece of paper, and squinting down the barrel of the bottle, he can make out some writing in charcoal. He can't read it all.
He holds the bottle up to the light for a minute as if inspecting the vintage, then secures the cork in place with his thumb. His feet are rooted in the sand and he turns with his shoulders - as a discus thrower might - whips his torso back around and flings the bottle out into the ocean. He pauses to watch it plop into the sea beyond the lapping shore, eight or nine waves out. Satisfied, he wipes his hands on his windbreaker and moves on.
What's wrong with this scene? Well firstly, the beachcomber is clearly an idiot. In the argot of screenwriters, it's so hard to identify with him, on any level. I mean why would someone who has nothing better to do with their day than trawl the sand for trinkets and rusty electronic goods not take a minute to read a note that has been so carefully written by a starving, shipwrecked man on an island nearby? Okay, maybe the note's not as dramatic as that, but could instead be a charming picture from a dreamy child. He could pin that to the fridge! Or scan it and put it on his blog with some wry accompanying text.
The response of the beachcomber is unacceptable, and I say this with shame because I am that beachcomber. I found a letter at the bottom of an old bag the other day; it was addressed to me, and it was unopened - though it was clearly more than five years old. Back then, someone took the time to write to me, someone I know and love, and I hadn't even bothered to open their letter. When I saw it, I felt an ache of shame as my memory of that person came flooding back. If a letter is the zenith of word-smithery, then the image of an old unopened letter is how to tell a story with pictures.
There are millions of valid responses to any piece of written material; be it blog post, book, fulsome love letter. Reading something that somebody else has written takes time, it can be arduous, and there is no egocentric pay-off at the end, no "I'm brilliant!" euphoria upon completion.
I would like to be a better reader, because I know that even when you write a lowly e-mail, once the created thing has been dispatched into the world with a click, all control is surrendered, and whether palms have begun to dampen with regret is immaterial. Once the recipient presses play, discards the scented envelope or watches that curtain rise, they are entitled to interpret it in any way they like, providing it's within the realms of local law. You can do as little to assure the response of those who get down on one bended knee and cry "Yes! I do!", as you can to those who demand that the last few minutes of their wrecked lives be returned to them immediately. You can like it or hate it, but even if it's not written for you and it happens to wash up on the shore at your feet, you have a karmic duty to pop the cork and read the thing.
Beyond not reading something at all, there is one response that edges it out in unfathomability, and that is to go to lengths to make it clear that you've deliberately avoided reading what has been written, altogether. You might think that this group doesn't exist, but they do, and the great thing is that I can write about them with impunity.
Him: "How many pieces have you written for the paper now?"
Me: "I don't know. Maybe 80?"
Him (pointing to her): "Do you know how many of them she has read?"
Me: "I don't."
Her (laughing): "I think I've read two. Maybe three."
Me: "Wow. Okay."
Him (proudly): "I've never read any of your pieces."
Me: "You're not much of a reader. But [to her] you, I have to say that does surprise me."
Her: "Well, the Guardian is more relevant for me, so I buy that instead."
Me: "I read the Guardian too."
Beat.
Another guy (kindly trying to change subject): "I like the Telegraph."
I don't mind anyone saying they don't like anything I write, and unlike the shipwrecked man I'll survive even if no one bothers reading this, but if someone I know takes every opportunity to tell me that they have avoided it, I lose empathy.
Instead of throwing the bottle back, what the beachcomber does, in fact, is gently put the cork between his teeth and work it free, taking care not to let it crumble before he has purchase on it. Then, sitting down, he carefully retrieves the message. He flattens it out on his lap - but with the reverse side facing up - and digs around in his pocket. He finds the pen, and holding the page down with his hand he scrawls the following message on the reverse side.
"I don't care."
He stuffs it back in the bottle, corks it, then stands and flings that into the surf, praying that the right person will find it.