What They Call a Taster.

I’ve been thinking about the business of writing another novel, and I was going to make a post about why I haven’t and why I almost certainly never will. But then I got bored with the whole idea and decided to write a synopsis of an existing novel instead.

Two young psychic twins who like taking country walks together get separated early in life through a misunderstanding. One of them goes away but later comes back, and then the psychic twins – or soul mates if you like – feel compelled to continue their psychic connection, or soul mateyness if you prefer. Unfortunately, an interested third party who doesn’t understand a thing about either psychic twins or soul mates (and who would, therefore, be entirely unqualified even to consider whether the two terms might be synonymous) – and who certainly, and fatally, fails to appreciate the vital difference between romantic and Romantic – throws a grey blanket of conventional and suffocating worldliness over the whole process and makes everybody unhappy. One of the twins dies and turns into a ghost, whereupon the other becomes even more black hearted than he was before and takes various forms of revenge on the interested party and his unfortunate family. And then he also dies and turns into a ghost (although we only have the pronouncement of a young boy for evidence, and he speaks with a thick West Yorkshire accent so he might have been enquiring after the price of cod and chips for all the rest of us know.) So now the twins are once again joined at the hip and everbody’s happy at last, including the man who doesn’t have to worry about getting lost in the snow or accosted by a chilly ghost any more. The End.

If that doesn’t have you rushing out to buy a copy of Wuthering Heights, I don’t know what will. And I have an image of dear Emily tittering in a way most unbecoming of a Victorian young lady. (For my part, I’m still spreading the word and fighting the good fight, Em. I am.)