The Cliff House: A beautiful and addictive story of loss and longing. Amanda Jennings
made him laugh though I had no idea why. ‘Hemingway said there’s nothing to writing, all you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed. It’s an obsession. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t do it. But then again, I know I’m lucky to earn so much money doing something I love and not have to tread the hamster wheel for peanuts in an office somewhere. Plus,’ he said, taking another piece of apple and gesturing at me with it, ‘writers have fictional worlds to escape to, which I’m certain stops us all going completely batty.’
I knew exactly what he meant.
‘Here’s a pearl of wisdom for you. In life always remember you’re the author of your own story.’ He smiled. ‘Don’t let life be something that happens to you. Write it yourself.’
It was the type of thing my dad would probably have said to me. Edie was lucky to have her father still. To have him alive and eating apples, not drowned and buried in a coffin in the ground.
Max patted the table then stood. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Enough of that nonsense. My book calls.’
‘Thank you for supper,’ I said, pleased I’d remembered it was supper not tea.
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