Writing Therapy

Fall

2009-10-08T01:12:00.000-07:00

As it's National Poetry Day today I thought I'd post Sophie's contribution from chapter twenty of my novel, Writing Therapy. In the course of preparing her for this final form of therapy, student nurse Will Caxton encourages the teenager to try all sorts of writing exercises, one of which leads to the following...

Fall

Some girls at school seem not to care who sees

Their bodies wet and naked from the shower.

The others hide behind a towel, like me,

And fret about it all for hours and hours.

One girl, though, just doesn’t seem to care:

She seems to love the thought of being bare.

She likes all the attention - no fig leaf for her.

She doesn’t care if what she does is wrong.

But she’s not sweet or innocent, she’s aware

Of what she does, and knows it won’t be long

Before he turns from her and goes for me.

And that’s her motivation - jealousy.

To set a trap you need to have a plan,

And tempting fruit is such a common feature.

How could she ever hope to trap the man

Without bringing an apple for the teacher?

She offered him her gift and knew he’d bite,

And I was left to watch, consumed with spite.

The ripe fruit was the bait, my sweet temptation.

Once bitten, though, the fruit turned brown and sour.

And now I sit and wait for inspiration,

As the lonely classroom clock ticks down the hour.

How could she eat, like Eve, and still be free?

I ate the apple once: it poisoned me.

On tour....

2009-07-31T23:24:00.000-07:00

For the next five weeks Writing Therapy will be on a blog book-tour. You can catch it at the following venues:

Gary Murning (http://garymurning.wordpress.com) - wb. 3^rd August

Joanna Penn (http://www.thecreativepenn.com/) - wb 10^th August

Nik Perring (http://nikperring.blogspot.com) – wb 17^th August

Melanie Trevelyn (http://www.melanietrevelyan.co.uk/blog/) wb 24^th August

Gadjo Dilo (http://chantree.blogspot.com/) – wb 31^st August

Do pop along to these wonderful blogs and say hello. Most points of the compass have been covered! And then coming soon, this September - an exciting new development! Watch this space!

Coming soon....

2009-07-22T01:58:00.000-07:00

The blog book-tour. During August, I'll be doing the rounds of several blogs, discussing Writing Therapy, writing, mental health and well-being, nappy-changing and just about anything else that anyone wants to talk about. I'll publish the itinerary here as soon as possible. In the meantime, you might want to listen to an interview I gave to Judy Theobald on BBC Radio Lincolnshire a couple of weeks ago, about, well... Writing Therapy, writing, mental health and well-being, nappy-changing and just about anything else. Maybe it'll whet your appetite!

You can find it here.

In the Free Press

2009-05-20T08:06:00.000-07:00

My home-town newspaper recently ran a story on Writing Therapy's nomination for the Young Minds book award 2009. You can read it here. And you can find out more about the Young Minds book award by clicking here. In fact, if you're under 25 you can become a judge! They're looking for a team of young people to read the nominated books and select the shortlist. So, of you're interested, check out the website and click on the link.

Fact from fiction

2009-05-04T06:31:00.001-07:00

Can you learn anything from fiction? As a writer, the answer has to be a resounding 'yes'. But what about the reader? What can a reader take away from something that never actually happened? Writing Therapy is, first and foremost, a fictional account of a teenage girl's recovery from depression. Frances Nolan is a young girl with a problem. She's been doing too much reading. So much, she thinks that she's a character in a book that she's creating. But the way this young girl chooses to recover reveals another layer to the writing. Because Writing Therapy is a book about writing, too. In it's first ever review (by D.J.Kirkby) Writing Therapy was described as being "ideal for those preparing to write their first full length manuscript," and as "an effective 'how to' book cleverly disguised as an innocent novel." Serena Rain, a writer living in California has just said, "It's a great read and an entertaining writing manual." And as a story about the process of personal myth-making and the complex relationship between fact and fiction, Writing Therapy can clearly be a useful introduction to a number of ultimate truths. Even though it's 'only' a work of fiction.

Review by Sue Guiney

2009-04-14T10:48:00.001-07:00

I've been very lucky. Not only has Writing Therapy received a decent number of reviews, but so far they've all been very positive. Sue Guiney, author of the novel Tangled Roots (among many other things) is the latest, and her review is here. It's really pleasing to find out that what you had intended in a piece of writing seems to strike a chord with readers - the more so when I recall the long list of rejections that littered the road to publication. Of course, both writing and reading are highly personal, and what works for one person isn't guaranteed to work for everyone. And I never anticipated Writing Therapy would. At best, it's a niche book: something for someone looking for a book that's just a little different; something challenging, perhaps, but ultimately, something very satisfying.

"Boys being girls being girls being boys..."

2009-04-07T09:18:00.000-07:00

Writing Therapy is told in the first-person by the book's main character, Frances Nolan (though later in the book she decides to be called Sophie Western). She's a teenage girl; she's struggling at school; she reads a lot of books. In fact (just like her alter ego) she sets herself a challenge - to read every work of fiction in the library, alphabetically. Unlike the protagonist of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, she doesn't get very far. A catastrophic crush on a male teacher, school refusal and an episode of self-harm lead her to the local psychiatric hospital. There all manner of therapies are tried before the one that works, that cures her - Writing Therapy.

Now Frances/Sophie is a girl. And I'm not (at least, not when I last looked). Can a man in his mid-forties, albeit one who has spent twenty years plus working with teenagers, write convincingly as a teenage girl? This seems to be the single most important question exercising readers of the book. Why choose to 'speak' through someone so much younger, someone of a different gender? What conceit makes you think that you can 'catch' her voice?

I'd be lying if I didn't say that it was difficult. So difficult, in fact, that I had sections of the book narrated by a different (adult male) character. And although the voice is authentic, I'm not perhaps the best judge of its success or failure. What matters more, perhaps, is whether Sophie is the best narrator of the book. Is her 'voice' true? And she's been called "...one of the most engaging characters you could wish to spend your time with, even though she’s a patient in a mental hospital" by Sally Zigmond. And she goes on to say "I was particularly impressed by the way [the author] gets convincingly under the skin of a teenage girl. The other characters are also well-portrayed as are the power games and personal animosities between the professionals in the unit. Tim Atkinson tells it all without analysis, without grinding any axes, without any agenda."

Sally's not the only reader to have decided that the delicate balancing act in Writing Therapy is a success. But I'd like to know what other readers think - not just, perhaps, about my own book but also about the fundamental question: can a man write as a woman, and a woman as a man?

Boston Book Group

2009-03-11T15:17:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I attended what was probably my first real author 'gig' - an evening with the Waterstone's Book-Club, answering questions and discussing and signing copies of Writing Therapy. Quite the celebrity! Well, hardly - but getting feedback (WT had been their book of the month) from people who had read it, liked it, had a view on it and even an opinion on the cover (mostly negative) was fascinating. I remember the late John Mortimer saying that the reason that he wrote plays instead of novels was because 'you never catch anyone reading your book on a train'. Clearly there weren't many book-groups in those days! Meeting readers face-to-face and listening to them talk about something you're responsible for creating is an amazing, and humbling, experience. I've been very lucky - so far, the overwhelming majority of responses have been positive. But even - or especially - the criticisms (and there were a few) are fascinating. I can't wait for the next one!

Bob Dylan on Writing Therapy!

2009-03-08T14:40:00.000-07:00

Interviewed by Caroline Smailes

2009-03-04T03:19:00.000-08:00

The author of Black Boxes, In Search of Adam and Disraeli Avenue, Caroline Smailes e-mailed last week to ask me if I'd be prepared to be interviewed on her blog. You can read all about it here. It's the second interview I've done since Writing Therapy came out. The first was on local radio station Endeavour FM and concentrated solely on the book. But as a successful writer, Caroline wanted to know all sorts of things about my writing in general - how I wrote, or why, and what else I'd had published. It was good to take time to consider these questions (something I hadn't really done before). The best interviewers have a knack of revealing something new about their subjects, something perhaps the interviewee wasn't even fully aware of. That's certainly what happened here.

It was timely, too, as next week I'll be subjected to the live interrogation of the members of Waterstone's Boston Book Club. If you're around, the event starts at 7pm. Admission is free, but please phone 01205 360002 for tickets.

Writing (as) Therapy

2009-02-21T07:43:00.001-08:00

It's no accident that the title of this book can be interpreted in different ways. It is, of course, the title of the novel but also the name of a bona fide form of psychotherapy. In the novel, the protagonist uses writing as a way of curing her depression. Forms of writing therapy have been in fairly common use for some time. But I have a question. Can anyone provide any anecdotal evidence that what Frances Nolan does - i.e. 'write herself well' - is actually possible?

Sold Out!

2009-02-13T11:38:00.000-08:00

Passing Waterstones, Boston, today we popped in (as you do) in order for me gratuitously to see my own book on their shelves and got a shock - no books. Nothing. Not a sausage. Panic. Thankfully, one of staff came over to explain that they've all gone because, well, they've all gone. Sold out. And more are already on order! So that's alright then.

In other news, I've been booked to appear at the meeting of their book group next month, to talk about Writing Therapy (and maybe sign a few copies). So if you're in Boston on March 10th, at around 7.30 in the evening and you haven't got a better offer, you're invited!

See you there!

On the buses!

2009-02-10T02:55:00.001-08:00

Well, not quite but it's fun to pretend. You can have a go, too, here.

Scott Pack reviews Writing Therapy

2009-01-27T03:47:00.001-08:00

Scott Pack is probably best known as Waterstone's former Head Buyer. He was once described as 'the most powerful man in book publishing' and now runs The Friday Project as well as his book blog, Me And My Big Mouth. He had this to say about Writing Therapy in his 'Quick Flicks' column:

An interesting concept. Is the narrator trapped within a novel of her own making? Is this a guide to writing fiction in novel form? Or just a story of madness? Possibly a little too tricksy for me but I can see some people really going for this. (***)

And in stock at Waterstones!

2009-01-20T01:15:00.000-08:00

I suppose supply is always likely to be slow with 'print on demand' publications, but given that the manager has had stock of my book on order since the 5th December, I'm now very pleased(and relieved) to say that Writing Therapy is available at Waterstones, Boston.

In stock on Amazon!

2009-01-15T08:55:00.000-08:00

After a few days when the website claimed it was going to take 10-15 days to get a copy of my book (it didn't - I got one myself today after ordering on Monday!) Amazon now have Writing Therapy in stock, with free UK delivery! But hurry - there are only five left!

Facebook Writing Therapy Page

2009-01-07T04:50:00.001-08:00

Those of you on Facebook can keep up-to-date with events here. You can become a fan, too!

Writing Therapy in the Yorkshire Post!

2008-12-31T04:52:00.000-08:00

Read an interview with Tim Atkinson about giving up work to be a full-time father and author here.

How the Target sees it

2008-12-17T04:05:00.001-08:00

Click here to read the story.

Interview on Endeavour FM!

2008-12-10T15:09:00.000-08:00

Click here for a recording of the interview broadcast today on Endeavour FM.

Available now!

2008-12-06T10:21:00.000-08:00

Writing Therapy is a "beautifully angled novel about growing up and breaking down," said Richard Coles, Broadcaster, Priest and former 'Communard'.

D.J. Kirkby (author of 'From Zaftig to Aspie') said of Writing Therapy - "Be warned, this book is not an easy read, it is not junk food for the brain and it demands the attentions of a 'thinking' reader..."
Described as 'sassy, postmodern, clever and funny', Writing Therapy is a book within a book, a work of fiction which raises questions about the nature of fiction and tells the story of one young girl's recovery from depression.

From all good bookshops or online at Amazon, The Book Depository etc.

ISBN

2008-11-21T06:02:00.000-08:00

It must be true, because I've just been given the ISBN -
978-1-84923-007-0
Beautiful, isn't it?
And I now have a publication date: December 10th.
I think that calls for some kind of celebration, don't you?

Progress report

2008-11-03T12:55:00.001-08:00

I'd intended this blog to record the book's progress to publication, but the last few weeks have been so hectic that recording it has proved impossible. But thanks to the combined efforts of my wife, Sarah (an eagle-eyed proof-reader) and editor, Jeannette Elwood, together with a raft of technical assistance from my father, the completed and corrected manuscript was duly delivered by the 31st October deadline. And as far as I'm concerned it's out of my hands. I'm happy that the book does what I planned; some initial readers' reports have been encouraging; I'm sure I couldn't do it in a different way. So that's it. Time to get back to novel number two!

Chapter One

2008-08-23T02:41:00.000-07:00

CHAPTER ONE

This is not a real book; not really. A real book tells a story. A real book starts at the beginning and it has a middle and an end, and I should know - I’ve read enough of them. I read so many books that one day I woke up as a character in one. I’m there now, trapped between the pages in the story of a young girl who drops out of school, who reads more than is good for her and ends up in the loony-bin. And she is not the only one here stuck between the covers: there are other characters, like the nurses for example: Ted and Monica; and there are other patients too, like Debbie and Jason and Lizzie. And, of course, there’s Dr Grimshaw, my psychiatrist.
‘So we’re all just characters in a book then, are we?
That’s him now, psychiatrising me. He asks me questions that he thinks he knows the answer to, and I sit here and tell him what he thinks he already knows. That’s our therapy; that’s the treatment. That is what we do. That, and take the tablets that he gives us.
‘Yes we are,’ I told him.
‘That’s interesting’ he said. ‘So who is the narrator?’
‘Me, of course.’
‘And you’re the author?’
‘Yes.’
‘And we’re now in the middle of the story?’
‘Absolutely! Yes. I know exactly what to do, you know.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘Yes. First of all you start off with a plot hook, and then begin the story in the middle – in medias res, it’s called. You can use time-shift; write habitual behaviour; slowly build your characters. I know all the tricks, you know – tricks used in a proper book, a book that’s written by a proper author.’
‘But you’re not a proper author, are you Frances?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘One day, though – maybe? I would like to be, if only everyone would let me.’
‘I’m sure you would’ he said, and smiled. ‘But first of all you must complete your therapy.’
Of course he didn’t mean my therapy at all, oh no. He meant his therapy: his talking, tablet-giving, asking questions-type of therapy; the sitting-in-the-silence-wondering-what-to-say-next type of therapy.
‘And in order to do that,’ he went on, ‘you must start at the beginning, Frances. Not ‘in medias res’ as you put it. You should know that well enough by now. If you’re ever going to make a full recovery we must go right back to...’ and he gave a little snort ‘... the first page of your story.’
I sat and scowled at him.
‘It all makes sense you know,’ he added, smiling like a vicar.
Sense. It all made sense; it was the sensible thing to do. But no, it didn’t and it wasn’t. I can see that now. Why should it make more sense to do things his way? Whose story was this, anyway? Mine. So why wouldn’t it make sense to do things my way? Yes, that’s right - there was another, better way of understanding what had happened to me. There was a different kind of therapy: research therapy. That was it! My life to date – the mess I’d made of everything, the dropping out of school and all of that – well, it was all just research for a book. It had to be; it was. Either I was just a loony in the loony-bin like all the rest of them, or this was part of an enormous literary plan: my plot, my writing therapy.
‘Look, Frances,’ he continued, ‘don’t misunderstand me. This is quite a good idea.’ He lifted up the blue school exercise book that I’d been writing in. ‘Will means well, I know, but...’
‘Yes, I know. He’s just the student nurse...’
And you, of course, are the psychiatrist - the boss, the fat consultant, the enormous ego. But he wasn’t. To be honest Dr Grimshaw had been something of a disappointment. For a start there’d been no couch for me to lie on, or even a comfy chair to sit in. And he didn’t wear a three piece suit or have a gold watch on a watch-chain stretched across an ample stomach. He didn’t have a stomach. Or a waistcoat. He wore brightly coloured jumpers. His consulting room was bare - a desk, two chairs; a plastic box of toys – no more. I had expected so much more of a psychiatrist. I thought at least he’d have a tiny beard. And I’d expected him to make me to lie down on a couch while he read out random words and I responded with whatever came into my head: you know, like ‘school – teacher’, ‘book – story’, ‘fantasy – reality’ etc. I’d expected him to do all sorts of things. And most of all I had expected him to cure me. But here we were, months later, doing all the same things that we’d done so many times before.
‘Will means well,’ he went on. ‘But he’s got some strange ideas. And anyway, he won’t be here for long.’
‘He doesn’t need to be,’ I said. ‘He’s already done much more than anyone to help me. Look there – see that? See - those comments in the margin? Marginalia. Nota Benes. That’s him writing in the white space of my story. He’s more like my editor, really. He helps me get the words down on the paper. But I’m still the author. I am the omniscient narrator. And I’m the central character.’
‘Ok then,’ Dr Grimshaw sighed, deciding to indulge me. ‘Tell me what kind of character you are.’
He looked down at the file of notes that he’d been making and he started reading: Frances Nolan – that’s me - is a girl who’s done more reading than is good for her, and now she thinks that she’s an author. She’s really just a schoolgirl - a sixth-former – studying literature, or at least she should be. But she hasn’t been to school for months. She left one day, quite suddenly, for reasons that are as yet unclear. At first she hid the fact that she’d been sent home, from her mother. She got up every day as normal, got dressed, left the house, and went off the public library. There she spent the day behind the stacks, reading fiction alphabetically, until...
‘Until? What happened then?’ he asked.
‘I got as far as J’ I said.
‘Ah yes.’
‘And that was when you found me.’
That was the day that everything had ended, or the day that everything had started – I don’t know. Who does? Some things can be hidden, even from the author. Some days, for example, Dr Grim could ask me questions and I’d know the answer. But at other times we’d simply sit in silence listening to each other breathing, listening to the typists typing in the typing pool next door, or listening to cars and buses driving past the door; the church clock chiming.
‘Look,’ he said eventually. ‘I’m not sure that this is working.’
I could have told him that before. I knew all about the problem – conflicting narratives: there was creative tension lying like a snake between us. He wanted me to write a different kind of book but I resisted. In his narrative I was just a girl refusing to face up to what was wrong with her. I wasn’t co-operating with him; I was withholding information, even from myself.
‘Why don't you want to talk to me?’ he said. He looked hurt.
‘It’s not just you,’ I told him, ‘I don't want to talk to anyone. The characters in my book are all more interesting. It’s their conversations that I’m listening to.’
‘Maybe,’ he replied and sighed. ‘Although I really think it’s time we knew now what was happening. There has to be some action soon or else people will stop reading.’
‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘but I not just yet – we’re only on page six,’ I told him. ‘If I get to it too soon then it will spoil the surprise.’
‘Perhaps,’ he muttered, turning back to his untidy pile of notes. ‘Although I think I might have one for you.’
There. He’d done it now: he’d stopped the story right there in its graphite tracks. And I had no idea where to go from here. I had to hand it to him. I suppose I should have seen it coming. As we sat there on that late December afternoon I should have known he would demand a new, dramatic twist: some action, progress, resolution – at the very least a change of setting. Even I knew that we couldn’t simply stay in his consulting room forever. Every Thursday he would meet me at the big front door of the town’s Child Guidance Clinic. He would smile and turn and lead me down a corridor, past the typing pool and into the converted kitchen at the back where we sat scowling at each other for an hour. On the wooden desk were photographs of smiling, blond-haired children. His, I thought they must be, even though his hair was dark and wavy, trailing slightly on his open collar.
‘You are taking all the tablets I’m prescribing Frances, aren’t you?’ he would always start by asking me.
Yes, I was. And then we’d sit in silence for a while.
‘You do want to get better don’t you, Frances?’
Actually, I don’t. I like being depressed. It’s good fun hurting all the time. I like not being able to get out of bed each morning. And I love the constant washing – can’t you smell how clean I am? That smell - like bleach without the fumes? Can you smell it? Can you? No. Of course he couldn’t. I just nodded.
On the wall behind him was a poster that I used to look at. The Psychiatrist is... IN, the sign said. Charlie Brown was sitting looking glum: ‘Sure you’re depressed’ sneered the girl, Lucy. ‘We’re all depressed. Get over it.’
I sat and watched him breathe; I heard his wristwatch whisper. Along the corridor the typists might observe a brief ceasefire. If I strained hard I could just catch fragments of their conversation: boyfriends, diets, new contraceptive methods. How come they found this so easy? How come they could talk about it all so openly? And then I realised they were reading from the script – the letters they sat typing, typing, typing, all the words dictated through those stethoscope things that they plugged in to Dr Grimshaw’s Dictaphone. But there was no script for me here in the consulting room; no prompt; no words; no clue. And I didn’t have the confidence or the experience to ad-lib.
‘Look Frances. Talking therapy is successful in over 80% of cases. It’s how we do things nowadays. It is how you and I will gradually discover what is wrong with you. It’s how you will get better.’
I nodded, even though I disagreed.
‘This isn’t really helping,’ he went on.
‘No,’ I said. ‘It isn’t.’
‘We’re going nowhere. You’ve been seeing me for over three months and we’re still no nearer finding out what all this means.’
‘All what?’
‘All this…’ he held the manuscript for me to see. ‘All the writing that you’re doing and the washing – everything. The Health Authority is making cuts, you know. I might not have as long as I would wish to go on sorting out your story. We need to get things into order. And I need you to co-operate. We’ve got to get to the bottom of what’s troubling you, Frances – and to do that you will have to talk - to me; to someone; anyone.’
I suppose deep down I knew that, too. But there was nothing more that I could tell him. Nothing that I’d not already told him. I had told him everything; I’d taken everything that he’d prescribed. I had been coming here and seeing him for three months and the pain was still there buried deep inside, impossible to ignore.
‘Of course, at first you would only have to be a voluntary patient.’
I looked up and I saw that smile again.
‘That would have to be the basis on which you would be admitted.’
What had I admitted? What had I volunteered?
‘I think time as an in-patient would be useful at this stage’ he went on. ‘At Lowood Lodge, I mean...’
I stood up suddenly. This wasn’t in the script.
‘Isn’t that... you know... ISN’T THAT THE LOONY-BIN; THE FUNNY-FARM; THE SPASTIC FACTORY?’
Silence.
‘Does that worry you?’ he asked, and put his hands together. Outside, the late December sky grew dark; cold air hissed like gas through small gaps in the window frame. The Venetian blinds were buzzing for an answer.
‘Lowood Lodge is not the same as Cranford Hospital, you know. It’s in the grounds of the hospital, of course...’ he went on, shifting slightly in his chair. The working day was coming to a close. Soon, those typists would be going home. For once, he didn’t want a long discussion. He wanted a solution. What he wanted was a happy ending. He wasn’t satisfied with the resolution I’d provided for him.
‘Yes - it’s in the grounds...’ he went on ‘but it isn’t really part of Cranford Hospital at all. It’s different. It’s a place for young adults like you, you know, who need to spend some time away from family and school, away from all the stress of everyday life. That’s all. It won’t need to be for long. You just need a little time to sort things out, that’s all’.
Time? To sort things out? I had the narrative worked out by now; I knew the characters and the plot. The details might have needed more work, sure - but the basic structure was already sliding into place, or so I thought.
‘Oh, I know exactly what you’re thinking,’ he was interrupting.
Oh God, I thought. Is that true? Can he see inside my head? Does he know what I’ve been thinking all along? Is that what psychiatrists can do?
‘You’re worried, aren’t you?’
That was true. I was.
‘You think that everyone who goes there must be mad,’ he said.
I did.
‘You think that if you go there, it must mean all the things that people have been telling you, and all the names that people have been calling you at school – it’s all true: that you belong there; that you’re like them – that you’re mad, too.’
True. Perhaps he did know everything that I was thinking? That would be exciting - suddenly, an independent character emerging - someone capable of taking the story in a new direction.
‘I’m going to tell you something now,’ he told me ‘and I think you’ll be surprised.’ He leaned towards me confidentially, and beckoned me to come a little closer; then he put his mouth close to my ear. I felt him take a breath, and then he spoke.
‘You know,’ he whispered followed by a pause. ‘There’s no such word as mad.’ He smiled at me – a small, triumphant smile - and sat back in his swivel chair.
‘I know’ I said. ‘I read that in a book somewhere when I was in the library - the word was amad, then we lost the a.’
‘What? That isn’t what I meant,’ he said.
‘It isn’t?’
‘No. I mean – there’s no such thing as madness’ and he drew quotation marks around the m-word with his fingers.
‘What?’
‘There’s no such thing as madness’ he repeated.
‘But that’s crazy.’
‘Maybe,’ he replied. ‘But true.’
And then we had another silence. Someone shouted ‘see you tomorrow’ and the front door closed.
‘So?’
‘So?’
‘So what do you think of what I’ve said?’
‘Well,’ I started. ‘Well - ok, then: if that’s true, and if you’re right and if there’s no such thing as madness... well, I don’t know...well - what is there, then?’
‘No Frances, what I meant was...’
Yes I know, I know, I thought. I know exactly what you meant. I know what you were thinking. I could read him like a book.
‘Will you come to Lowood Lodge?’ he asked again. ‘After Christmas, I mean.’
I didn’t bother answering. It didn’t really matter. By then, another story was already being written. Nothing ever happens till it’s written down, I once remember reading. In a moment Dr Grim would have the words all safely typed out on the paper in a letter to my mother:

Dear Mrs Nolan
Further to our earlier discussion I now feel it would be useful to admit your daughter Frances to the Adolescent Unit. This will allow her treatment to continue more intensively. Although, of course, the final decision rests with both yourself and Frances I would add that – in my clinical opinion – her admission to Cranford Hospital needs to be done as a matter of urgency...

And that was it. So simple; so straightforward - an opening, a conflict, and some exposition. Now for the setting.