Tick this box if you are who you say.
Tick this box if you, the owner of your library card, gazed endlessly at your image for hour on hour before replacing it with the face of another.
Tick this box as you carried your book through countless towns over weeks and months, long after its due return date.
Tick this box to confirm you still haven’t read it and you cannot pay the fine.
Tick this box if, at the end of each day, you open your book and re-read the same three worn and fingered pages.
Tick this box for the sections underlined in thick black ink. Underlined by you. Your words. Supplied by you.
Tick this box for the warmth you feel as you remember those nights when you resolved each of her searches for the elusive word, phrase or idea.
Tick this box for your due accreditation.
Leave this box blank if you recall leafing through the crisp pages of the newly published hard back.
Leave this box blank after glancing at the shining dust-jacket - her image filling the back.
Leave this box blank for no mention of you. Not even in the bio. The kids. Her parents. Your parents. Not you.
Leave this box blank for your confrontation. At the launch. In the hotel foyer.
Leave this box blank if you dare to admit you were uninvited.
Leave this box blank for remembering her look of surprise as you, rushing towards her, pointing out your words on your pages in her book.
Leave this box blank for your increasing volume. For her embarrassed smile, her growing awareness of others listening.
Leave this box blank for your enforced exit into the cold and lonely night.
Tick this box for the other 398 pages. The ones she didn’t ask you about or even show you.
Tick this box as you still feel the moment of realisation that each one of those 398 pages is about you. The book is about you.
Leave this box blank if you are who we say.
Tick this box if you, the owner of your library card, gazed endlessly at your image for hour on hour before replacing it with the face of another.
Tick this box as you carried your book through countless towns over weeks and months, long after its due return date.
Tick this box to confirm you still haven’t read it and you cannot pay the fine.
Tick this box if, at the end of each day, you open your book and re-read the same three worn and fingered pages.
Tick this box for the sections underlined in thick black ink. Underlined by you. Your words. Supplied by you.
Tick this box for the warmth you feel as you remember those nights when you resolved each of her searches for the elusive word, phrase or idea.
Tick this box for your due accreditation.
Leave this box blank if you recall leafing through the crisp pages of the newly published hard back.
Leave this box blank after glancing at the shining dust-jacket - her image filling the back.
Leave this box blank for no mention of you. Not even in the bio. The kids. Her parents. Your parents. Not you.
Leave this box blank for your confrontation. At the launch. In the hotel foyer.
Leave this box blank if you dare to admit you were uninvited.
Leave this box blank for remembering her look of surprise as you, rushing towards her, pointing out your words on your pages in her book.
Leave this box blank for your increasing volume. For her embarrassed smile, her growing awareness of others listening.
Leave this box blank for your enforced exit into the cold and lonely night.
Tick this box for the other 398 pages. The ones she didn’t ask you about or even show you.
Tick this box as you still feel the moment of realisation that each one of those 398 pages is about you. The book is about you.
Leave this box blank if you are who we say.