Anyone who has been within earshot of me in the last year will know I’ve been constantly going on about Evie Wyld‘s debut novel, After the Fire, A Still, Small Voice. It won the the John Llewellyn Rhys Prize and Wyld is a talented writer, not just of fiction, but of memoir/non-fiction prose. She contributed to Granta’s Sex issue with Woman’s Body: An Owner’s Manual and in today’s Observer, she talks about being ill as a child. I think it’s her eye for detail that really strikes me.
My father says that the first inkling that something was wrong was when I sat at the top of the stairs not talking to anyone at my second birthday party. I don’t remember the party, but I remember those stairs. They were steep and there were lots of them. I remember pushing myself down those stairs often, head first and on my belly, I remember the rough weave of the carpet and the small burns you’d get if you went too fast. I remember that spot on the landing at the top of the stairs, where the light didn’t reach, a small part of that house you could get afraid of if you thought about it too much, a place that was dark and somehow remote.
You can also read her blog posts for Booktrust where she is currently writer in residence and I can’t remember the last author whose second novel I’m looking forward to as much. You can also follow her on Twitter, @eviewyld.