Wild Fiction

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‘He’s given me a photographic memory,’ Rebecca said looking up at the ceiling.
‘What else can you do?’ Conrad asked.
James had by this time opened his eyes and was watching Rebecca and Conrad.
Buenos días señor. ¿Cómo estás?Rebecca said. She put her hand over her mouth as she giggled.
‘Guess what?’ she said with a grin on her face.
‘You can speak Spanish,’ Conrad said shaking his head. ‘I wish he’d given me skills like that.’
‘Me too,’ James said sitting up.
16
The author had had a good nights sleep. It was one of those comatosed sleeps from which you awake bright eyed and bushy tailed, or some such equivalent cliché. His mind was full of ideas for his story and he needed to get them down on paper before they deserted him. While the kettle was boiling, he found a ladybird crawling around the kitchen window. Using a sheet of plane white paper he picked it up, carried it to the front door, and threw it up into the air and the morning sunshine.
In his study he cleared his desk and sharpened two pencils. He always did his best work by hand. He would write it out first using old-fashioned pencil and paper. When he had finished he would enter it into the computer’s word processor. By doing it that way, the prose immediately underwent a first revision although he would never change the plot until the end of the story.
There was no stopping him now. He had worked out the direction his novel was going to take, he had selected his characters and he knew who would die and who would survive. What could be easier than that?

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