I’M JUST ABOUT TO START WRITING my bit of a communal short story, commissioned for The Times Cheltenham Literature Festival. It’s part of a project called Whose Story? Ten writers, including Lionel Shriver, Maggie O’Farrell and myself, have been asked to provide a chapter each, which will then be topped and tailed by the bestselling author Kate Mosse. Obviously I only said yes because I mistakenly thought it was going to involve the top and tail of Kate Moss.
No I didn’t — I said yes because it sounded interesting, as readers will not be told who has written each chapter and will have to guess. The reason for this, according to the mission statement, is that “Whose Story will echo the all-important message that it is the story that counts, not the identity of the writer”.
I have to say that I’m not sure about that — if that’s an all-important message, what about “Give Peace A Chance”? — but it does sound a bit of a laugh.
The characters are of our own making, but they all live in a London square, and the action takes place on the same day, with a time-line provided by Ms Mosse. The key to the project is not to allow the readers easily to guess who wrote what. On beginning to write my chapter, however, I am possessed by a slightly Tourettey urge to write something that completely gives myself away. I am someone, you see, who can never do practical jokes: I want, as soon as I see the confused or uncertain face of the victim, to shout: “It’s me! It’s a joke! Please don’t be frightened!” Similarly, upon seeing that the timeline includes the information “10am: Jonathan Ross’s Radio 2 Show is playing”, I am gripped by a desire to write: “She switched on the radio. One of the guests on the Jonathan Ross show was David Baddiel, who was telling a story.”
Part of me thinks that I should write that. Wouldn’t it be a great postmodern gag? Of course, part of me wants to go a bit further: “She switched on the radio. One of the guests on the Jonathan Ross show was David Baddiel. She had always loved him — his wit, his confidence, his command of language. Secretly — something she had always kept from her husband — he was top of her wish list of men she’d like to sleep with, above Brad Pitt and George Clooney.”
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Or, perhaps more postmodern still, I could go for: “She switched on the radio. One of the guests on the Jonathan Ross show was David Baddiel. She’d always hated him. So smug, so tiresomely laddish, so full of himself. How she hated his stupid Times column! Only yesterday, she’d thrown him off a cliff during a game of Kill, Shag or Marry . . .”
Or most postmodern of all: “ She switched on the radio. Jonathan Ross was just complaining that his guest, David Baddiel, hadn’t turned up.”
Of course, the other way to go, following the Bevis Hillier/A. N. Wilson model, is to provide some kind of enigmatic cryptograph within the writing. Even then, however, I worry that my compulsion to throw up my identifying hand will get in the way: “She switched on the radio. Dazzled, Amazed, Valiant In Defeat, Beth Ate Doughnuts: Deliciously, Individually, Easily, Luxiouriously.”
Admittedly, this may cramp my writing style a bit.
Then again, another Tourettey part of me wants to overdo the red herrings. Knowing that Tracy Chevalier is one of the other writers makes me consider: “She switched on the radio. One of Jonathan Ross’s guests was Scarlett Johansson, who was talking about her role in Girl with a Pearl Earring . . .”
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Or perhaps I could try to misdirect them towards Lionel Shriver: “She switched on the radio. Jonathan Ross was about to introduce his first guest, but then her son came in, threw it on the floor, and shot her.”
I’ve just heard, however, that Lionel Shriver has withdrawn from the project — possibly because she’s read this column.
The full story will be published in Books on October 7