This woman thinks
she’s slipping out of my control. I know it’s generally believed by the
gullible public and artsy-farty wannabe writers that characters take on a life
of their own and start doing things you don’t want them to. But that’s
bullshit. They’re words on paper, figments of my imagination, and they bloody
well do what I want them to do. Jesus Christ, they’d better because I made them
and I can unmake just as easily. Which way you want to go? Car smash, cancer, a
bullet between the eyes, or something really inventive and agonizing like being
burned alive as a witch? ‘Cause I can do it, and there’s bugger all you can do
to stop me.
Then again, maybe she is getting a bit
uppity and I’ll have to slap her down. I’ll string her along for a couple of
chapters and then, wham, out the left field something’ll leave her wide–eyed
and gasping and she’ll be bloody sorry she ever screwed with me. I think that
calls for a couple of fingers of Scotch. I always write better when I’m half
loaded. The words come easier and there are none of those fatuous inhibitions
and cringing servility at the altar of political correctness. Fuck political
correctness. I write and if you don’t like it, don’t damned well read it. Chuck
the book in the fire. Write to the Pope and get it banned – yes, please do
that: the free publicity would send sales through the roof.
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