New Statesman -- novelist's early work -- June 20 deadline
 

No 4280
By Leonora Casement
We want an excerpt from an early MS from a current, well-known novelist of your choice.
Max 150 words by 20 June comp@newstatesman.co.uk

I did a Bram Stoker one before noticing that the 'well-known novelist' must be 'current' i.e. living (presumably- unless undead).

I ewas going to do David Foster Wallace, but he's dead, too. Damn!

Is Stephen King still living, or at least giving that impression?

Tom Sharpe obviously heard this one coming. Sic transit perhaps the master of comedy of our era - who could have reduced this, or do I mean elevated it(?), to a level of true farce. He deserves to be remembered for much - but perhaps most of all for the wonderful invention of "a Porterhouse blue" - so good it should have been true in life and not just true to life. I have never forgotten the real 'life-caught-out-by-art' experience of finding a colleague had placed a copy of the original Wilt in my pigeon hole in our staff club on the very morning of a CNAA visitation. (A form of bureaucratic torture devised by Higher Education 'managers' to do governments' biddings in the UK in the 1970s and 80s.) I ever after concluded that his farces had to get more fantastic just to keep an inch or two ahead of the real madnesses of our times. What a loss!

I remember, Nigel, when I was published by the late Secker and Warburg, that those estimable publishers had only two authors who turned a healthy profit, and thus subsidised all us bards (and there were over fifty of us). There was George Orwell and there was Tom Sharpe who had been tied by Seckers tightly into a contract that stipulated he MUST write a novel every year. Hence his prolific output.

Yes, he is very much alive. His bad habits are well behind him, and he has an iron discipline about writing each day. He is getting his son into the trade.

I once overheard this remark. 'Oh, a lot of people can write like Stephen King. But no-one can over-write like him.'

For what it's worth (which is nil for this brief, biased as it is wholly in favour of the living among novelists), here is/was my first attempt:

‘Blud flode from the gapping wooned in her nek, bare sholder shoing as the dark figger stoppd over her body in the bed with greedly gleaming eyes. Sudenly her maide enterd (probably becos of opend windo bangin in thunderstom comin too close it for her mistris) and imejiatly feyntid in garsly horrer. But first screemd. Up stares runs the hero with stake reddy and hammer apraised. (Luckly he just saw a dark shape fly in the window.) He leept at the monstrous Count who stepd bak blud dripping from his hooge shap teeth and hist. But it wos too layt the stake went home thud sqelsh and crumpld to a pile of hidiusly shuddering dust. Jonathan breethd a sie of releaf at the site. But then lots of blud from his viktims oozed out all over the capit (which was rooind and wud hav to be bunt). the End.’

[School essay by Abraham Stoker, ‘What I did in the Holidays’]

I think that's charming. Bram Stoker is, however, very dead.