How to be a successful author!
Created | Updated Mar 16, 2007
Six years ago in a little English village named Lowdham there lived a young and beautiful woman whose name was Elizabeth. Wait. Where does the beautiful come into this? She was a plain looking woman. Perhaps not much over one and a half metres. She was also not that young, forty, at least, and that’s a little on the young side. Anyway, on with the story. She decided that instead of wasting her life in a classroom, making sure that thirty children could use sentences properly, spell cat and mouse and add up, she would write for even younger people. People who couldn’t even form a coherent sentence. People like me and my sister.
Soon afterwards an idea sprang into her very small head. The story was to be about a small girl who came to help people make things from junk. No, I know what you’re thinking, she was going to write the story of the first bin-lady. And no, I know that small incoherent people are not supposed to play with rubbish for fear of them contracting some vile disease but this was in the days before rules were invented. Anyway, on with the story.
A few weeks, several notebooks and a borrowed friend’s computer later the story was finished. It was put in an envelope and me or my very, very small sister reached our tiny, wrinkled hands up and posted it in the postbox at the bottom of our very not famous, ordinary road.
Weeks passed. The letter box was guarded by my small mother in case anybody had liked her story. Bills, post cards, letters from strange aunts who were enjoying Mablethorpe, and a few dead chickens came through the letter box. We had almost all given up looking when one morning there was a thud on the carpet as the mail came through the door. My very, very small sister came back holding one, very small, very dejected looking letter addressed to my very small mother. She looked at it and said that it didn’t look very interesting. She turned it over then started ripping the envelope like a rabid dog. It was a very formal looking letter. I, being very small, climbed on a chair to get a better view. I couldn’t read but it was from the publishing company that my very small mother sent her story to. Apparently, the letter said, that they would like to publish my very small mother’s book.
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This is a time slip. If this were TV or very posh radio there would be weird music playing in the background. However this is not, so, you’ll just have to imagine it.
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Six years later. My very small mother is still very small. My sister and I are not, however. We are now both as big as she is. I am bigger. The book is about to be published. We are waiting in a small bookshop for people we know to arrive. My mother is saying to my father, very tall, “Isn’t this exciting!” in a very loud voice. I am thinking, “Yes, we are standing in a small bookshop with my Grandma and my great aunt who are hogging the only sofa and talking about hospitals, weather and what they had for dinner this time last year.
Then the guests start to arrive. They come in all shapes and sizes, literally. I am told that I have grown by at least fifty different people. Just because they haven’t seen me since I was fifteen months old doesn’t mean that they have to comment on my size. I mean, I know I’ve grown, but I’d have been more surprised if I hadn’t. It is not the only thing that has changed. Mind you, I don’t think I’d be very flattered if they came in and said to me, “My, Kate, you can talk now and don’t you look grown up now you’re out of nappies.” either.
They hung around drinking wine for hours on end anyway. Then it was time for my very small mother to make a speech. It was most embarrassing. She kept talking about how she didn’t deserve it; honestly, if she carries on like that then people will think the book’s no good and I won’t end up living with a dyed iguana in a fairytale castle, because they won’t buy it, will they?
Then it was time to go home. The day was ruined when my aunt and my grandma had to get into the car with us. They decided that it was time they discussed what they had for supper this time last year (bovril probably, very boring). Then they decided to re-enact out that scene with the gas exchange from Dr Who. I will say no more, it was that embarrassing. My very small mother, who had started crying during the speech, had used her third toilet roll by now, mopping up her tears. Ooh, got to go. She is still crying and, by the sound of things, the fire service have come to evacuate us as the building is unsafe.
Soon afterwards an idea sprang into her very small head. The story was to be about a small girl who came to help people make things from junk. No, I know what you’re thinking, she was going to write the story of the first bin-lady. And no, I know that small incoherent people are not supposed to play with rubbish for fear of them contracting some vile disease but this was in the days before rules were invented. Anyway, on with the story.
A few weeks, several notebooks and a borrowed friend’s computer later the story was finished. It was put in an envelope and me or my very, very small sister reached our tiny, wrinkled hands up and posted it in the postbox at the bottom of our very not famous, ordinary road.
Weeks passed. The letter box was guarded by my small mother in case anybody had liked her story. Bills, post cards, letters from strange aunts who were enjoying Mablethorpe, and a few dead chickens came through the letter box. We had almost all given up looking when one morning there was a thud on the carpet as the mail came through the door. My very, very small sister came back holding one, very small, very dejected looking letter addressed to my very small mother. She looked at it and said that it didn’t look very interesting. She turned it over then started ripping the envelope like a rabid dog. It was a very formal looking letter. I, being very small, climbed on a chair to get a better view. I couldn’t read but it was from the publishing company that my very small mother sent her story to. Apparently, the letter said, that they would like to publish my very small mother’s book.
*****************************************
This is a time slip. If this were TV or very posh radio there would be weird music playing in the background. However this is not, so, you’ll just have to imagine it.
*****************************************
Six years later. My very small mother is still very small. My sister and I are not, however. We are now both as big as she is. I am bigger. The book is about to be published. We are waiting in a small bookshop for people we know to arrive. My mother is saying to my father, very tall, “Isn’t this exciting!” in a very loud voice. I am thinking, “Yes, we are standing in a small bookshop with my Grandma and my great aunt who are hogging the only sofa and talking about hospitals, weather and what they had for dinner this time last year.
Then the guests start to arrive. They come in all shapes and sizes, literally. I am told that I have grown by at least fifty different people. Just because they haven’t seen me since I was fifteen months old doesn’t mean that they have to comment on my size. I mean, I know I’ve grown, but I’d have been more surprised if I hadn’t. It is not the only thing that has changed. Mind you, I don’t think I’d be very flattered if they came in and said to me, “My, Kate, you can talk now and don’t you look grown up now you’re out of nappies.” either.
They hung around drinking wine for hours on end anyway. Then it was time for my very small mother to make a speech. It was most embarrassing. She kept talking about how she didn’t deserve it; honestly, if she carries on like that then people will think the book’s no good and I won’t end up living with a dyed iguana in a fairytale castle, because they won’t buy it, will they?
Then it was time to go home. The day was ruined when my aunt and my grandma had to get into the car with us. They decided that it was time they discussed what they had for supper this time last year (bovril probably, very boring). Then they decided to re-enact out that scene with the gas exchange from Dr Who. I will say no more, it was that embarrassing. My very small mother, who had started crying during the speech, had used her third toilet roll by now, mopping up her tears. Ooh, got to go. She is still crying and, by the sound of things, the fire service have come to evacuate us as the building is unsafe.
