Chapter 1
In the decent pages of my script, I forgot to place pronouns and then misspelled all of the parts going. I had to then rename myself.
My characters have no names and there is nothing to link them but me.
Myself, I am a woman I am an author and that maims me because not suited for the job of writing because totally useless.
They took exception to my speaking about Shakespeare how dared I speak about the great man? He was an outlaw for a hundred years so he was not always that great.
Then he got fobbed into a folio. How can she be so objectionable?" Shuddered they the editors who made the editions then they said to the world.
"All the characters in Shakespeare are us."
"Are they really?"
"They don't age."
"Don't they?"
"So the frilly things they are wearing?"
"Dressing up."
"The petticoats are wearing me down."
"We don't wear petticoats we are not stupid."
"Oh?"
"Harmful to the body because of corsets."
"Such a lot of thought goes into this speech." I reluctantly let it go. The thing was someone else was looking at me sharply.
"Describe something or someone to me or I will destroy you."
"I am not visual in that respect. I see my characters' souls, not their clothes."
"What's the point of reading this trash?"
"Madam, why do you relive them in your art?"
"He is the one to blame." She points to her husband.
"Fan is he?" I ask drily or archly.
I pretend not to see her and leave to go to the restroom.
I am overwhelmed with something called rage.
I stand looking at the mirror then level myself up and speak nothing to the woman who is looking cornered at me. Restrooms there is nothing here but curiosity.
I move quickly and go and visit Chaucer a painting that I always admired the level of this and that care in the artwork. During that spell, I nearly fall asleep.
Some woman comes over to greet me.
persons of my sort are not usually glanced and they are never spoken to. I was not glad to see her she was all amiable. She did not want to seem curious or vulgar but did I just do something rotten?
"Not at all," I said in something like high language of concern would I do such a thing to all my friends?
There was a gentle nudge there was something like a good smile. They had sorted something that had puzzled them and had made up their minds to do something that would make them remarkable.
I did not want to know. I was puzzled and uneasy but did not want to ask.
The thing was nothing to do with me if they were into ideas that made them money so be it.
The stuff and the nonsense they believed in was that they did it all the time.
I know we had the movement towards the bliss of women authors but one needs friends in order to be part of that movement.
"We believe we made a remarkable fine today."
All the old ladies came clucking in something like deceit and white plans. I thought they should get planning permission before that. Whatever they were planning the plots varied. They were into many factors and what they had the money would flow.
"Poetry today never."
"Yes, but that depends on the poets."
"What poets." I began to hope maybe it may be I?"
Never too late to make a poetry document and I would make a bundle and live happily ever after.
I daydreamed the women had left the women had to leave to make more plans to make it palatable to their owners.
But bards flowed from their lips and then they did not speak a word about the whole thing. I then heard that the Bard was immortal and his words were the words that mattered the most. It does it did.
His characters all of them Kings and Queens and the nursemaids as real as the words. I thought and thought.
For over twenty-five years he was the modern writer. I am still forever grateful that he is. He is well read and he has done for modern literature what I must be doing for the elite literature.
But the thing is dust did nothing to the editions many editions later the things that are read are the stuff that is translated interpretation of Shakespeare.
I thought that Shakespeare should be real and I myself have misplaced time and space and wandered into something like a lunacy. I did in fact having been certified and laid to rest I am that woman who has made the benediction to all the poets.
I am a friendless disabled woman and the thing is no one really liked me or thought about me or any such thing.
"I was young and not as interesting as my rivals."
So I went and began research for many years hardly writing anything at all. Then things fell apart and then fell into place again. This is me I am a writer and no one wanted to know because another writer wrote better.
Friends are more important in today's authorship than even her work. I have found out the hard way.
I am not gifted in speech.
I take it on board to have the mane of a rhinoceros and then sparks fly.
"To become an author you need to have decent clothes."
"To become an author change your attitude."
"To become a writer one is dismissed from life and placed somewhere to work out a draft. The best thing is to find a sponsor."
"In fact if you cannot then we may dismiss you."
The early years passed with such an attitude the editors were more than pleased to see the back of me.
My frills nowadays are to see you all rot as much as I had done.
I am standing in the shadows of discontent and maybe life is my only oyster. I made my way towards toadying and became hell. No one should go through life without anything.
"Paupers are poor." The raging head said.
"The poor should know their place." They all sat down and rewrote the Constitution.
"Who did?"
"The head the head I am weak with trying to explain to everyone we are having the heels run this state."
"Nonsense." Said the editor, "We would have been told or known."
"No one tells me anything but I know."
"See she is mad."
"No, I am not."
"You must be to say that the democratic system is no more."
"How many years of the Tory government does it take for you lot to see there is one party and not even that?"
There is a pause then they shut the door to think. There is a long time in thought.
There is no one to ask what they thought about.
To think that is unkind? Well, so it is. I am not kind the type of woman who has let down many editors and climbed into bed with none. Please let me tell you a bit of me and I am sure it may find you all entertained and best pleased. Let me oil the nosebleeds and such stuff.
I am sure that to find such a villain as me who has just killed a mouse is to find a villain worth the jails that will make me housebound in the mice-infested nest. Tell me why are there mice in my house?
"Shipman does all the killings and their ploy is I am not their type because I kicked a mouse out of my house?"
"The mouse was a friend of ours."
