April 2005
America & the trampoline
I took a trip to New York to speak to American publishers interested in my novel Labyrinth. It was a fantastic experience. At the end of the trip, my agent turned to me and said: 'Did you really only arrive 48 hours ago?' Time stretched out kindly to allow us to pack everything in.
Labyrinth now has a US publisher to go with the UK, Germany, Holland, France, Italy, Greece, Russia, Portugal, Spain, Catalonia ... It is an extraordinary and exciting time.
At the same time, Greg and I are working hard on several other projects, including a writing festival for our home town of Chichester in 2006. And, of course, there's our ongoing creative writing teaching.
One of Greg's classes is working on stories that rely on the tension between present and past. In order to get the ball rolling, he told the class of a true memory of his own.
One day, many years ago – perhaps at the age of 6 or 7 – Greg was on a beach. The weather was indifferent and the sand cool. His parents sent him to the trampolines on the promenade.
The trampolines were set into the pavement. They were suspended with rusty springs over an underground concrete box, like a coffin. The concrete box was littered with crisp packets and cold chips.
Imagine Greg today, walking along the prom with his own son – a son aged 6 or 7 perhaps. The little boy wants a go on the trampolines.
Greg says yes, of course. But, as he watches the little boy leaping higher and higher, now close to the rusty springs, now on his back, now on his side, all the anxiety of his own childhood experience returns. He tries not to communicate this anxiety to his own little boy, but the youngster isn't fooled.
'What's the matter, daddy?'
'Nothing,' he replies.
There is an echo of the past at every turn of the Labyrinth.
