- زمان مطالعه 6 دقیقه
- سطح خیلی ساده
دانلود اپلیکیشن «زیبوک»
این فصل را میتوانید به بهترین شکل و با امکانات عالی در اپلیکیشن «زیبوک» بخوانید
متن انگلیسی فصل
‘Why don’t you write a story?’
Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller was bored. It was a winter morning in 1908, and she was in bed because she was ill.
‘I’m feeling much better today,’ she said to her mother, Clara. ‘I think I’ll get up.’
‘You’re still ill,’ said Clara. ‘The doctor told you to stay in bed and keep warm. And that’s what you’re going to do!’ Agatha was eighteen years old at this time, but in those days daughters had to do what their mothers told them. ‘But I’m bored!’
‘Well, do something, then,’ said her mother. ‘Read a book. Or write a story. Yes, why don’t you write a story?’ ‘Write a story?’ said Agatha, surprised.
‘Yes,’ her mother said. ‘Like Madge.’
Madge was Agatha’s sister. She was eleven years older than Agatha, and sometimes wrote short stories for magazines like Vanity Fair.
‘I don’t think that I can write stories,’ said Agatha.
‘How do you know?’ said her mother. ‘You’ve never tried.’ And she went to find a pencil and paper.
Soon after, Agatha sat up in bed and began to write a story. It was called House of Beauty, a strange story about dreams.
It wasn’t a very good story. She typed it on Madge’s old typewriter, and sent it off to a magazine. But they sent it back with a letter: Thank you for sending us your story. We are afraid we cannot publish it…
‘You must try again,’ said her mother. Clara was always sure that her daughters could do anything.
So Agatha went on writing stories, and sending them out to magazines - but they all came back. She was a little disappointed.
‘I’ll try writing a novel,’ she decided.
An idea came to her. She remembered seeing a beautiful young girl in a hotel in Cairo when she was visiting Egypt with Clara. The girl was always with two men, one on each side of her. One day, Agatha heard someone say, ‘That girl will have to decide between them some time.’
It was all that Agatha needed for an idea, and she began writing. It was not a detective novel. It was the story of a young girl who lived in Cairo, and it was called Snow Upon the Desert. It was really two long stories put together to make a book. When it was finished, Agatha sent it to three or four publishers, but they all sent it back.
‘Oh dear,’ said Agatha. ‘What shall I do now?’
‘Why don’t you show it to Eden Phillpotts?’ said Clara. Eden Phillpotts was a writer who lived near the Millers. During his life, he wrote more than a hundred popular novels, and many plays for the theatre. Agatha was a little afraid of sending her novel to this famous man, but she agreed to do it and sent it off.
Mr Phillpotts was a good writer, and also a kind man. He read Agatha’s novel carefully and wrote her a letter.
Some of your writing is very good, so I am sending you a letter to take to my agent, Hughes Massie…
Agatha - still only eighteen years old - went to London on the train. It was a long journey - more than 200 miles from her home in Torquay in Devon, and the trains were not so fast in those days.
She was very shy, and Hughes Massie was a big, frightening man. Agatha gave him the letter from Eden Phillpotts. Massie read it, talked with Agatha for a while, then kept her book to read.
Agatha went home to wait.
Some months later, Massie returned Snow Upon the Desert to her. I do not think that I can find a publisher for it, he wrote to her. The best thing is to stop thinking about it anymore and to write another book.
Agatha was disappointed. She did write another book, but some other important things happened in her life first.
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