The picture, regrettably, has nothing to do with what
follows. It’s a memento of our trip to Lapland three
years ago. I put it there to brighten the day. They do winter so much better up
near the Russian border.
One of the pleasures of working for yourself is that, when you feel the need to down tools and reflect, there’s nobody there
telling you to get on with your work. Which is good news for a guy who likes to reflect, who's always trying to make sense of the past, re-constructing
the narrative in order to come up with the story I want to tell, about who I am and where I came from.
These last few weeks I’ve been wondering what would become
of the sci-fi manuscript I completed just before Christmas. All I’d had, since
I whizzed it off to China
According to the writer of the report – an eminent scholar,
very knowledgeable in the genre fiction and sci-fi scene – my script has ‘intelligent
action movie written all over it’. He loves it, and thinks it should go
straight to an agent, thence to a publisher. He thinks it’s ‘a joy to read’ and
‘a no
nonsense, unpretentious page-turner’. Normally, of course, this would call for champagne and high-grade protein. But the lot of the ghost writer is not normal. Instead of turning cart-wheels I went into reflective mode once more. What if it does sell? What if it becomes a movie? A block-buster? Well, tough. My handsome fee, paid promptly upon delivery of the manuscript, is sitting in the bank gathering dust where it might, ten years ago, have gathered interest. The Man has had his final word. Thankyou, Mr Wilkinson. Here’s your money. And the
maid will see you out.
Ghosts are invisible, right?
I'm afraid that is indeed the case.
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