(RVI, age 13)
Five-year diary: I practise downstairs in the hospital on crutches and then come home.
Last night’s film has stayed with me—The Earth Dies Screaming. That kind of science fiction, like War of the Worlds, always fascinates me—the “what if” of it. A wiped-out world. A handful of survivors. The idea of being the last boy and the last girl on the planet. It feels both terrifying and exciting. To make a go of it together. Like Adam and Eve.
I want to write several books. I’m determined to.
I’ve got into the habit of writing down titles—just titles sometimes—and a cryptic line or two about what the story might be. Whole worlds, reduced to a sentence.
Even on crutches, moving along the corridor, I imagine it.
What if I got out and everyone had gone?
What if I was the only survivor of something—a crash, a disaster—and had to begin again?
I want to leave school after O Levels—but I need the books published first. That’s the condition I’ve set myself. Age 13.
Can I take my typewriter to school?
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