Mother Road E-Book

Claire Doyle

• Herausgeber: Claire Doyle
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Frustrated writer Laura McLove finds the ideal way to avoid writer’s block–a younger man. Leo–flaxen hair, eyes of cornflowers, lips for kissing, a French wine expert and rugged traveller. Laura manipulates her way onto Leo’s US road trip using the law of attraction. But what about her great debut novel? And does she get the guy?If you like your romantic fiction without the romance, and your literary fiction from the school of Fante and Bukowski, this is an unashamed how-the-hell-to-become-a-writer novel. Not from the pen of another bright–and male–young thing. No! This is a full-on, hormonal literary reclamation from a woman making damned sure she gets in on the action.Sort of.

Leseprobe

Mother Road

A Novel

by

Claire Doyle

Mother Road by Claire Doyle

© 2015 Claire DoyleAugust 2015

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this book publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means - electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording or any other - except brief quotation in reviews, without the prior permission of the author.

Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

Also by Claire Doyle

The Artists’ Club on Franz Liszt Square

Claire Doyle

Maybe it’s better to arrive than travel hopelessly.

I first met Leo after my mother died. When the inheritance cheque arrived, I considered my options carefully and decided to visit a psychic.

Maggie Lightly advertised in the Evening Standard and I was not a little intrigued by where she lived: she lived on Abbey Road. She said her flat had a view of the zebra crossing.

Three days later, we sat at a table by her window and I gazed out at the street below. She spread the cards into a Celtic Cross.

“You’re a writer,” she said. I startled. She lifted my left hand, looked at the lifeline and said–damn her!–“You have the line of Mark Twain.” I had never considered such a thing.

“Fiction or non-fiction?” I asked.

“What’s the difference?” she replied. She was shrugging.

“One has a beginning, a middle and an end. The other is about facts …”

“What’s the difference?” she said again.

I stared at her. I had nothing to say. I wasn’t a writer. I didn’t like writing and I didn’t have a story. I looked out the window and thought about that album cover. It was there, that’s where the fab four walked across the zebra crossing. People thought Paul McCartney was dead in 1969.

Who me? A writer? I followed her advice and wrote junk for a year and then I understood why writers shoot themselves, turn to drink and take off on road trips. I cursed that psychic. I’d only gone to see what her flat was like. She lived on Abbey Road.

Jobless, manless, childless and rudderless, I left London to add another to the list— homeless. Failure had been my towering achievement. Real life and its tick-tock lurked in the shadow but—like Morrissey—I’d never had a job because I never wanted one. There was one thing I now could do, however. I could afford to bugger off for a while. I fled London leaving the weary sense that everything in my life was over.Some go to Harvard, some go to Yale. Some go to Oxford or Cambridge. But I’m a mystic of a transcendentalist school.

Hell, I went to Emerson College.

1

Emerson College, Sussex, England, October 2009