The film of How I Live Now is starting to look real. Not that there’s anything as real as a cast, but we have a wonderful director (can’t say who quite yet) and we have a script and just last week I signed a bunch of very official looking contracts.
For once in my life I actually read the documents — mainly because they were short, though I’m almost positive that one was in French (why would that have been?). The one in English stipulated that IF I wrote a sequel, and IF the production company wanted to film it, they would get first dibs and I would be entitled to 10% of the shooting budget. Did someone say ten percent?? Hang on. Let’s assume a modest £10 million budget, drag in a twelve-year-old to do the maths (here’s a child I made earlier) and all of a sudden I’m thinking my decision NEVER EVER IN A BILLION TRILLION YEARS NO MATTER WHAT to write a sequel to How I Live Now might have been…a little bit….hasty.
Not that I’m ever going to get around to writing a sequel at the rate I’m flying through There Is No Dog.
Oops. Did I say “flying”? I meant crawling. Over broken glass.
Why has nobody taken the wonderful opportunity of worldwide recession to start a business that finishes off books for distressed and bewildered novelists?
I’m taking applications now.