The Writer

The e-mail was patronising at best, insulting at worst:

You seem to have found your niche as a frustrated novelist, it said. If you persist in treating plot as though it were a labyrinth through which your reader must be led, Theseus-like, then you must at least provide a credible Ariadne to narrate it.

‘What on earth is all that about?’ Zachariah wondered, ‘I thought literary agents were supposed to be constructive?’

Then there was the bit about overwriting – something about flogging dead horses. Zachariah snapped off the computer and made toast and coffee, indignation fuelling his movements; he broke the percolator and pulled the handle off the grill pan before going for a brisk walk instead.

Zachariah Conran had written three novels and a score of short stories, all of which had afforded him immense pleasure but none of which had been deemed worthy of publication. They were in three black lever-arch files on a shelf in his study, awaiting what one publishing house had called a ‘serious re-working’. He perused them from time to time, prefaced as they were by rejection slips (‘we regret that we are unable to represent you on this occasion’) but he frankly lacked the heart to begin his work all over again.

Meanwhile, he tried out new ideas, using his spare time to construct short stories which he always hoped would be profound observations of life, but which usually turned out to be little more than humorous trifles, entertaining enough in themselves, but not terrifically thought-provoking.

After his walk, he read the e-mail again, scarcely able to believe that a literary agent would send such a damning condemnation. It was not that Ewan Wyatt had been unfair – Zachariah was realistic enough to accept his own limitations – but that he had been so scathing. That part about the main character was the limit; “no substance, at best a cardboard cut-out with no credible emotions.”

He told himself he should not be discouraged; “Never, ever give up” the gurus all agreed; “There’s no such thing as ‘can’t write’, only ‘won’t write’ ”. They cited anecdotes of now famous authors whose first attempts had been ridiculed. But Zachariah did not type another word in the two years that followed, and while he often meant to begin the ‘serious re-working’ of his novels, there never seemed to be sufficient time in the evenings, and holidays always brought other commitments.

* * *

Zachariah recognised the number as soon as it appeared in the screen of his mobile phone. He hesitated; Delia had been a serious complication in his past, and he was unsure of the status of their relationship since that last, disastrous, encounter. The mobile persisted, however, and with some reluctance he picked up. Delia was fine – no mention of the CDs he owed her, or the dent he’d left in her Renault 5. They chatted amicably for ten minutes before she asked whether he was still writing.

“Only the reason I’m phoning is that I’ve just read this fantastic new novel. It’s all about a girl born dead poor in the nineteenth century, and becomes the mistress of an aristocrat. Weren’t you working on something like that?”

Zachariah recalled the long nights at his desk, toiling over the plot of The Rise and Fall of Sarah Radcliffe (A Dark Tale of Lust, Deceit and Murder).

“I was, once” he replied, thinking it must have been longer than he had thought since he and Delia had spoken.

“Well, you ought to read this.” She said, “it’s really good! It’s called The Adventuress, by Andrew Munro. You never know, it might give you some ideas.”

* * *

A pyramid of glossy hardback books took most of the window space in Waterstone’s. Zachariah was only vaguely aware of the tiers of photographs; an intelligent, youthful face radiated optimism and success, its well-defined chin cupped by steepled fingers in the pose that publishers for some reason think makes their authors look profound. He had passed the bookshop before the author’s name registered. Then he remembered Delia’s passionate recommendation. Entering, he picked up one of the books and read the blurb:

This is a passionate account of a young girl born into the poverty of nineteenth century London, and the measures she is prepared to take to realise her seething ambitions. It is a tale of lust and deception whose principal character remains admirable in spite of her vicious amorality.  The Adventuress is a heart-stopping, page-turning thrill of a reading experience, all the more vivid for its meticulously researched detail.

Zachariah experienced an odd mixture of emotions. They involved the recognition of a setting which he himself had extensively researched, the excitement of discovering a fellow writer who shared his enthusiasm for pre-Victorian London and an instant empathy for the poverty and wealth of the period as well as the prejudices operating against a young girl in a wicked city. He looked again at the face on the dust cover, and recognised that envy, too, played a part in what he was feeling.

In spite of himself, he purchased a copy of the book, hoping that his resentment of its author would not taint his enjoyment. That evening, he completed the first chapter with the satisfying sentiment that he had discovered a writer whom he understood, whose narrative flow and observational asides he found stimulating and whose turn of phrase he particularly admired. In spite of the smugness of his photograph, this Andrew Munro was a novelist he could very much relate to.

After another chapter, he was struck by the parallels of the narrative to that of his own, first, novel, The Rise and Fall of Sarah Radcliffe (A D T of L, D & M); not only was the main plot surprisingly similar, but the peregrinations of even minor characters and much of the historical detail brought his own novel to mind. By the time he had finished the third chapter, the similarities were so striking that he scanned the remaining chapters with growing disbelief; The Adventuress was his novel! Its title and protagonists were different, the setting had changed from Lambeth to Cheapside, and one of the minor characters had undergone a sex-change. But essentially, the plot was his. He retrieved one of the black lever-arch files from his study and began his comparison in earnest, reasoning that coincidence may yet account for a superficial similarity. Then he discovered a passage which settled the matter; the heroine had travelled to Paris, and was seducing a young artist in his studio at the Ecole des Beaux Arts. Zachariah had had the young Géricault in mind when he had written it. His ‘lurid turquoise of a tumultuous sky’ still described the painter’s unfinished Raft of the Medusa as the couple made love next to the canvas. Zachariah’s ‘she contained his lust as she surveyed the sinuous limbs of the desperate castaways upon the raft’ had become ‘she admired the sinuous limbs of the castaways as he thrust himself relentlessly into her’, but otherwise, the passage was unchanged.

Zachariah told himself that whatever he did, he must remain calm. He had to find out who this Andrew Munro was, and how he had got hold of his manuscript. He pored over his correspondence with various agents and publishers, reliving the familiar pain of rejection; there was nothing which contained the name Munro. Then he telephoned the publishing house – not one he had previously dealt with – expressing enthusiasm for the novel and asking about its author. A helpful receptionist confirmed that ‘Munro’ was a pseudonym, but declined to give the author’s real name.

Zachariah contemplated legal advice. He even obtained, from the Internet, the name of a solicitor specialising in literary and intellectual copyright. But then he read this in the pages of the Observer Review:

The Adventuress is a surprising turnabout for Andrew Munro, whose previous works include crime fiction and Sci Fi fantasy. He also used his considerable experience as an assistant with the literary agency Harkness Schneider and Fry to produce the popular How to Write a Blockbusting Novel. Nothing in these works suggest the devotion to historical detail evident in The Adventuress.  The novel seems set to become that rare literary product, an historical novel which is also a blockbuster.

‘Harkness Schneider and Fry’ sounded familiar. Zachariah checked his

file once more and, sure enough, found the rejection slip they had sent nearly five years before:

In its present form, The Rise and Fall of Sarah Radcliffe (A D T of L, D & M) is about as workable as its rather obvious title; whilst the latter weakness is easily remedied, those inherent in its convoluted plot and heavy-handed structure require more attention than any copy editor would be prepared to take on. This is not to say that the novel is without merit, but it needs considerable restructuring. We should be pleased to hear from you again once such revision has been completed.

Since you did not enclose a S.A.E, I am taking the liberty of adding your manuscript to our ‘slush pile.’ Please do not be too disappointed… etc.

The writer was no other than Ewan Wyatt, the author of that supercilious e-mail which had terminated Zachariah’s literary aspirations some two years earlier. Zachariah seethed with anger, and with a pressing need to confront the man, to discover how he could live with such absolute hypocrisy.

* * *

The flat in Earl’s Court was small but comfortable, its furnishings reflecting the flamboyant success of its owner. Having spent considerable time finding it, Zachariah had had to wait until 3 a.m. for its owner to return, probably from an event in the marketing circus which accompanies literary achievement. Zachariah recognised the chiselled jaw and the dark, intense eyes from the book cover. He called out ‘Ewan Wyatt?’ to be sure he had found the right man. The plagiarist acknowledged him, but tried to retreat into his flat.

Zachariah had decided to pose as a fan. “Mr Wyatt,” he said, “just a few words about The Adventuress, I beg you. How on earth does a writer go about creating such a … such a masterpiece?”

Wyatt fell for it, and before he had finished some pompous drivel about ‘living through one’s characters’ and rather drunkenly misquoting Flaubert with a sententious “The Adventuress, c’est moi!” both men found themselves inside Ewan’s front door.

Once inside, Zachariah spat venom. “No, actually, mate, it’s moi, you bloody thieving bastard! You told me in no uncertain terms what utter crap I’d written, then you nicked my manuscript and published it under some pseudonym.”

Wyatt made a dismissive gesture with his right hand, as though distancing himself from excrescence. Zachariah certainly hadn’t planned what happened next, and if it had not been for the barefaced smugness of Wyatt’s expression, he – Wyatt – might have lived to tell a different tale.

As it was, Zachariah’s subconscious put his body into auto-pilot for the crucial seconds it took for him to pick up the decorative flat-iron (just the sort that Sarah Radcliffe might have used in her days as a servant) from the bookshelf and to strike his adversary on the left temple. It was quite a pleasurable experience, akin to the trance-like contentment he recalled when the prose had been flowing and his aching fingers had struggled to keep up with his thoughts, the actions of his characters surprising him even as he wrote. It was because of Wyatt that he had lost that pleasure, and as he realised that Wyatt was stone dead, he felt a momentary delight that the enjoyment was lost for him, too.

Then he felt mortified, if not for Wyatt’s death, then at least by the prospect of life imprisonment. Zachariah told himself not to panic; there was nothing and no-one to link him to Wyatt, for he had spoken to no-one about the plagiarism. No-one had seen him arrive and he had touched nothing except the flat-iron, which he now rinsed in the kitchen sink, watching thin traces of Wyatt’s blood disappear down the drain.

Carefully putting on the rubber washing-up gloves from the sink, Zachariah went through each room, transforming his crime into the result of an opportunistic burglary gone awry upon the unexpected return of the householder. He pocketed a wallet, a gold ring and a wristwatch, and scattered the contents of drawers and cupboards upon the floor, working quietly for fear of waking the neighbours. Before leaving, he saw a laptop which he picked up and carried with him, briefcase style, putting the flat-iron in its empty case which he slung across his shoulder. He satisfied himself that no closed-circuit TV system was in operation, and left the building, closing the door behind him and folding the rubber gloves into his pocket.

* * *

Zachariah meant to dispose of the laptop, as he had the wallet, the ring, the watch and the flat-iron, in a canal in some remote corner of Camden Town. But it seemed such a waste. He decided to see what was on it before dumping it. Its contents kept him entertained each evening for much of the next fortnight. There were two novels, each nearing completion, and both offering compelling reading, though he didn’t much care for the gratuitous sex which emanated from each page of the one, or for the self-conscious first-person narrative of the other. Both were in a sense historical, the first being set in sixteenth century France, the second exploring an inexplicable spiritual link between a modern girl living in Cambridge and a nineteenth century murderer who had been hanged at Newgate prison.

Though he enjoyed reading these works, they contained stylistic weaknesses which, given Wyatt’s Blockbuster advice, surprised Zachariah; the narrator too readily instructed the readers what to feel rather than leading them to draw their own conclusions. Secondary characters lacked roundness, and needed far more development.

Zachariah began to amuse himself by making the improvements he felt necessary. Concentrating on the novel set in France, he changed the characters’ names and appearance to suit his own preference. Then, without substantially changing the plot, he modified the place names, so that the Rouen of Joan of Arc became instead the Paris of Saint Louis. Much of the description still worked, but he altered its ‘flow’, changing an adjective here, deleting an adverb there.

Zachariah soon found he had rediscovered the pleasure of writing, and continued to make minor amendments to the novel over the course of the next three months. Then, out of curiosity, he compared his latest version with the original file still on Ewan Wyatt’s computer. He concluded that he had created a far superior work. Indeed, he felt that any similarities between the two were quite superficial. He went through his own version once more, as a proof-reader rather than a writer, then printed it off and submitted it to a literary agency based in Bath.

The response he received threw him completely:

Dear Mr Conran

We have read your manuscript with interest and feel that  L’Hirondelle has great potential.

He read the remainder of the letter in a kind of daze, particularly relishing the line which said “we would be delighted to discuss the possibility of our further collaboration.”

Zachariah travelled to Bath, agreed to make the amendments the editor suggested, and signed a contract. He began reworking the novel, now called The Harlot, sending endless versions of various chapters to an Editor who was pernickety beyond belief, but who clasped him about the shoulder when, eight months later, the book was finally printed.

“Sorry to be a pain in the arse, lad,” the Editor said, “but that’s my job, at the end of the day.”

Zachariah’s eyes were brimming with joy as he held the glossy tome to his swelling breast. He could not help admiring the pose he had struck for the photographer; the steepled fingers holding his chin in that manner, and the stacked books on shelves in the background gave him a certain intellectual rigueur.

It was hardly fame, he told himself, but the initial round of cocktail parties, dinners and in-store signings were, for Zachariah, thrilling beyond words. He gave several interviews for the Sunday supplements and the TLS, was invited to submit short stories for forthcoming compilations – he selected two old ones from his lever arch files and both were accepted without question. The Editor from Bath ‘phoned his congratulations on a glowing article about The Harlot in the Observer Review.

“That should secure a few more sales! But let’s look to the future. What’s your next project?”

Zachariah hardly hesitated before replying. “Well, I’m half way through a novel which explores a mysterious spiritual link between a modern-day student and a prisoner who was hanged for murder in the nineteenth century.”

“Hmm,” said the Editor, “a bit bizarre, but I suppose it could work. When can you get me a first draft?”

“Oh, in about a month, I reckon.”

Zachariah worked frenziedly on the laptop, changing the narrative from first to third person, altering place names, character details and descriptive passages. He thoroughly enjoyed himself, and felt almost sorry when it was done. He left the pages of its final draft spewing out from his printer as he answered an urgent knock at the door. At the threshold stood a woman of about his age, dressed in jeans, tee-shirt and anorak. She seemed angry. She held a copy of The Harlot in her hand, which she thrust angrily into his face.

“This book you’ve stolen from me, ” she shouted, stepping towards him, her eyes red with rage and her right hand reaching into her anorak pocket. “Where the hell did you get the manuscript?”

END