Went on a really great course at the weekend to learn how to use social media for networking so I've spent the last couple of days trying to set everything up. In the meanwhile I am on a desperate deadline to try and get everything ready for the London Screenwriters Festival. I've booked two pitches, one with an agent and the other with a producer. And guess what? I've never done anything like this before. What makes me do this to myself? Especially when we are so busy at school too.
I've written a novel and I'm trying to find an agent for it. Thing is I've edited it so I don't reveal the event that triggers everything. Will you read the extract and tell me if it is strong enough for an opening chapter? My novel is called The Silent Gardener.
Chapter 1
The sun woke me as I lay curled like an ammonite near the hedge. I have no home anymore was the first thought that emerged. What will I do? My mind groped for the edges of the problem but found it so vast it took the easy route and switched off again.
Next time I woke voices were chattering away, women’s voices. They weren’t speaking in any language I recognised. Fear began to reanimate me. Where am I? Am I still in England? I wondered, my heart beating faster. I rolled over and peered through gluey eyes trying to locate the figures. One of the women saw me and came over. She knelt down next to me and gently touched my forehead before laying the back of her hand against my cheek.
“Are you ill?” she spoke slowly in an accent that sounded eastern European.
I paused and then shook my head.
“Are you sure? You don’t look good. What happened to your head?”
I put my hand up and felt a great swollen hillock on my forehead, I pressed it hoping it would go down but it just throbbed. I must look hideous - at least he couldn’t see me looking like this.
“You are coming here to work?” The woman’s light blue eyes scanned my face searching for an answer. Her strongly accented voice sounded crisp and no nonsense but not unsympathetic.
Work. I needed a job but what sort did she mean? And would I be able to do it?
“Are you coming here to work?” she repeated her question. I hesitated and nodded not knowing what else to do. “You need to see Mr Abbot, he owns the farm. Over there – see?” She pointed over at a smallish dark man in a checked shirt.
I slowly unfurled, rubbed my arms and legs then gradually hauled myself to my feet. I hobbled slowly over to him unable to think of what to say. He turned to look at me and frowned slightly – I looked down, embarrassed by my stained, crumpled clothing and grimy skin. My feet and sandals were indistinguishable from each other they were both so dusty.
“So you want to earn money fruit picking do you?” Mr. Abbot spoke quite briskly despite a soft accent.
I nodded.
“Well, it’s good money if you work quickly, you get paid for piecework – you know, by the basket. Will you be living here while you’re working?”
I nodded again. That was a relief. At least I would have somewhere to stay for now. I just wished I didn’t feel so sick.
“Well that will cost you £60 a week out of your wages for a bunk and three meals a day. That OK with you?”
I nodded. At least I would be fed. My legs trembled as he spoke so I held his eyes willing him not to look down.
“Don’t say much, do you?”
I shook my head.
“What’s your name, then?”
I tried to say Ellie but not a sound came out of my mouth. My throat felt as if an enormous pill was lodged in it, pressing against the sides so no sound could escape. I raised my hands to my mouth and looked helplessly at Mr. Abbot. Where was my voice?
Speak to you soon.
E J
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