Читать книгу Finding Cherokee Brown - Siobhan Curham - Страница 8

I’ve decided to write a novel. If I don’t write a novel I will kill somebody. And then I will go to jail and, knowing my lousy luck, end up sharing a cell with a shaven-headed she-he called Jeff who smokes roll-ups and thinks it’s cool to keep a fifteen-year-old girl as a slave. But if I write a novel I can kill as many people as I like with my words and never have to be anyone’s slave.

It was Agatha Dashwood who first put the idea of writing a book into my head. Last Saturday afternoon I’d gone down to the Southbank – again – and I was browsing through the tables of second-hand books – again – and there it was, stuffed in between a biography of Princess Diana and A Complete History of Piston Engines:

So You Want to Write a Novel? by Agatha Dashwood.

There was a photo on the cover of this fierce old lady glaring over her glasses like some kind of psycho librarian. But that didn’t put me off, because the first thing I thought when I read the title was, Yes – I do. Which was a bit random because I’d never thought of writing a novel before. So I picked the book up and did my usual page 123 test. I do this whenever I’m deciding whether to buy a book. I don’t bother reading the blurb on the back, or the first page – the writer’s obviously going to be trying their hardest there, aren’t they? It’s how they’re getting on by page 123 that’s the real test. If they’re rubbish at writing or bored with their story then you can bet they won’t be making any effort at all by that point. So I flicked through the yellowing pages, trying not to be put off by the musty smell, and this is what it said at the top of page 123:

‘ The Authentic Novelist Writes About What They Know.

Aspiring novelist, if you want your writing to ring true – for your words to echo around your reader’s head with passion and clarity, like church bells calling worshippers to mass – then you have to write about what you know.’

I know the church bells and worshippers stuff sounds a bit nuts, but the rest of it made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I snapped the book shut and took it over to pay. With Agatha Dashwood’s help I was going to write a novel about my crappy life but, unlike my crappy life, it wouldn’t be dictated by my mum or Alan or the brain-deads at school or any of my stupid teachers. It would be my story. Told my way.