by Zoe Storey
If anyone knew that she wrote this book in the living room, with her boyfriend on the sofa, Goldeneye on TV, it would crush her. She fancies herself as a bit literary, and often writes with a weird voice, for some imagined audience of high brow critics, who, let's face it, critique because they can't make it themselves. So here she is, finally writing something, she's not sure what it will be about but she'd better hurry because she's been implying it's something else for months. Changed her whole career on a whim, and even while writing this, she's grossly aware of the fact she can never write for herself. The girl of flounce, the Einzelkind, has all vanity necessary for a writer, but none of the profundity. So she continues, biding her time, waiting for the money plot, knowing she lost the agent on the first line.
Zoe Storey lives in London, and, alongside a sensible occupation, is also trying to write.