I promised you that I would serialise my new book on the blog, chapter by chapter. Well, here it is! Olive, my language consultant, helped me with the spelling. And I already have the whole book done, so you won’t have to wait. You can have a chapter every day, or sometimes two.
While you are reading it, please think about the movie, and feel free to offer advice for the screenplay, as I don’t know that much about making movies but…. I am going to the London Screenwriters’ Festival for the third time this year, and I have signed up for something rather scary called Pitching Thursday! So I definitely will need some help with preparations for that.
The title of the novel is:
I bet your wundring were I got this book from. Well, dont go thinking I nicked it because I dident. My brother Jason, when he lived with us, use to get me to nick things for him and I never liked doing it. It made me fiyul sad and sorry for the persen I was nicking things of. And it made me fiyul like may be I was a bad persen.
No, some one gave me this book. It was a woman I had never met proply bifore. I had seen her once or twise, as she woud come in to the center evry week to werk with indivijul gerls. I had to come owt of cooking to talk to her, wich annoyed me, as I am good at cooking. So I came owt with my hands all cuvered in flower from making devonsher scons and probly with a bit of a scowl on my fase. The lady was standing there, neat and compozed. She shook my hand eny way, and laughed. ‘Sally-Anne, I am here to help you with your Inglish,’ she said.
‘Ha, youl have a job then!’ I said. I smiold thogh. Not meny pepol offer to help me with eny thing, so I am quite plesed when some one wants to help me.
I went to wash my hands. Then we sat at the long woodern tabel in the refectery. We had the hole tabel to are selvs. She reched in to her bag and broght owt this thick red bownd book. ‘Oh, no, I hate reading,’ I said.
‘Not reading…’ she said, ‘…riting.’ She flicked thrugh the pages. Thay were all blank.
Now that intrestid me more. I took it of her and operned it and looked at the wite ness. I kind of had a erge to make it less wite. But I was afrayd to rite because I know I carnt spele. When I was at school the teacher often made my hole page full of red marks. She woud slash thrugh werds and under line them.
‘This is for you,’ said the lady. ‘You can rite what ever you like.’
‘I carnt rite,’ I tolled her, pushing it back across the tabel to wards her. ‘I carnt do it well.’
‘You dont have to do it well,’ she said. ‘You jus have to do it.’ Then she lent for werd across the tabel and put her cool hand on top of my warm one. ‘Sally-Anne, no boddy else in the werld sees things the way you do. You are completly oridginle.’ I dident know how she knew this as she dident really know me, not at all. She had only jus met me arfter all. She looked right in to my eyes, still and carm, and slid the book to wards me.
I pushed it awey again. We both sat there, with are hands on the book, pushing. Then I felt a bit tiyerd suddernly and I gave up. I thort, I can all weys fill it with rubish and then put it in the bin, carnt I?
So I took the book. It is this book. This book you are holding now is the book I took from her. But I was suddernly filled with dowt. Again I pushed this book back across the tabel. ‘Theres no point, I like litrally carnt spele, like not eny thing,’ I said.
She blinked very sloly bihind her glarses. You coud see her lazy lids shutting, staying shut for a hole secund, then operning again. I realised she was quite beautifle. Then she said some thing wich shocked me quite a lot, as no one had ever said it to me bifore, and it was some thing I really dident know: ‘Sally-Anne, who cares abowt speling?’ she said.
There was a silence. I jus stared at her. ‘Well….evry one…dont thay?’ I said.
‘Your probly a bit disleck sick. So what? Most disleck sick pepol are intensly creative. Meaning is evry thing. So long as it can be red and under stood by you, thats all. Allow your thorts to meyander. Tell the book what is going on, from your paspecktive.’ She stood up. ‘Im of now. See you next week. Oh, I nearly fergot….’ she reched again into her bag and broght owt a pen. A birow, but a nice one.
I clipped its lid on to the frunt cuver of my big red book and thanked her. I dident tell her I dident know what ‘disleck’ nor ‘meyander’ nor ‘paspecktive’ ment. I thort, ‘I will ask Jess what thay mene, I wont bother the nice lady.’ I put the book with the pen into the pockit of my flowry aprun. I went back to my cooking clars, but I was thinking all the time abowt what I woud rite. I coud fiyul the werds forming in my hed. It was a good feeling. I wantid to rite ‘I can fiyul my hart thumping in side of me.’ I mowthed the werds. I wispered ‘thumping’ to my self. I suddernly realised it was made up of the werd thum and the werd ping. Thum….ping…. That made me laugh a bit. I wantid then and there to stop cooking and rite it down in case I fergot it. When my cooking partner Lisa flicked me with a grunjy bit of doh, and said, ‘For you, doh brane,’ I wantid to rite that down too. I realised that on the page, Lisa woud not look good. And her acshun woud be there for ever, or until my book got bernt or lost or trampulled.
That was in march 2 thowsand and 22. I have got a good memry to member all that way back in such deatail.
I startid to take the book evry where with me thogh I still dident have the confidance to rite eny thing for quite a fiew munths. But then so meny things happerned to me, what were confusing and weerd, that starting on novemba twelth 2 thowsand and 23 (yesterday) I thort I shoud jolly well start riting them all down. I am quite slo at riting, so it will probly take me till the end of febury 2 thowsand and 24 or even the end of march. That woud be four or five munths of riting. My hand alredy akes and I have only been going one day.
I dont know if I can tell this story. I jus dont know if it is aloud. Is there like a list eny where of stories wich are aloud to be tolled and a list of ones wich are not? I worry that it might get me into troubel. But I want to tell it, so pepol know what happerned, and then thay will see that I have not done eny thing rong.
One thing I know is: the way the werld is, shaped what happerned to me. This is a strange werld where its the fashon for rich pepol in Lunden and New York not to have babies no more. Now, see, am I aloud to rite ‘fanny’ or is that too rude? May be I can. Ive seen werse ritten on the wall in side of the phone booth. And on the wall in the pub lavvy. The lady who gave me the book did say I coud rite eny thing I like. So, here goes: moden Lundeners dont want there fannies stretching. Thay jus order there baby on the intanet, easy as pie, visit a docter who pops owt a cuple of there eggs and puts the blokes sperm in a test choob thing, slides them both into a jiffy bag and a courier on a moter bike zooms of with them. Nine munths later the ‘parents’ swon along and pick there order up, or even get it dilivered. Well, if all that jus wasent aloud, then none of this stuff woud of happerned to me.
Bay sickly, I think it shoud be a bit more hassel than jus doing clikking on line, to have a baby. Because, and I speak from expiriense, having a baby is hassel.
I dident do eny thing rong. Things jus happerned and took me along with them. I know that some pepol will say I was rong to love my baby, but I am not afrayd to say, no, I think thay are rong. It was nice and good to fall in love with my baby. She needid me and I needid her. Bisides wich, she was very speshul and lots of pepol wantid to hert her and use her and I coudent of aloud that.
Chapter 2 coming tomorrow!