Kara Gnodde on The Theory of (Not Quite) Everything

I started writing with the thought of how lovely it would be to be a role model for my children — for what you can do after bringing up kids. They were teenagers and they’d made it clear that my job was done. Published author sounded good, I thought, as role models went. Instead, I became a role model for dusting myself off after receiving rejection letters. Not a bad lesson, sure, but not exactly the joyride I’d imagined for myself.

When asked why I decided to write a novel about siblings, the truth is: I didn’t. After some earlier writing didn’t find a willing audience, I wrote a random scene about a young woman called Mimi, sitting at her kitchen table filling in a psychological questionnaire. Her older brother Art peers over her shoulder. He can see that she’s lying.

I’d recently finished a course on brain and behaviour and learnt about questionnaires with built-in lie-detectors. (Ja — be careful!) The day before, I wrote about a murderer planting tulips. The day after, a widow with a chocolate melting in her pocket.

But the brother and sister started to commandeer my thoughts. When Mimi shot across the wooden floor in a chair with wheels, Art winced, and wished that she wouldn’t, especially near the kettle. Apparently, a sadness shaped their lives and was the wellspring for Mimi’s lies. Art watched her battle with the questionnaire, and the truth, as if he had access to the archive of her mind.

Then I heard a radio programme about a maths problem that could change the world. I knew Art, a genius mathematician, would be drawn to that. His obsession would shape their lives. But it was the siblings’ powerful bond — devoted, demanding, bristling and tense — that was the magnet for me.

It didn’t take long to realise that Mimi would be wanting love in her life — and so, in strolled the more romantic aspect of the book. Like most love, the path was not straight. Written solely from Mimi’s point of view, I had on my hands a family drama, an unusual sibling bond, a mathematical riddle — and I had to get the girl dating! Really? How her brother might feel about that provided the necessary tension, and it was only when I started writing from his point of view too, that I could make it work.

Still, it was a long road. I had to find a structure that could deal with varied time frames, including five days where the only person who knew what had happened was unavailable. It took a while (understatement alert) before the mechanics fell into place. While I wrestled with this, I kept kidding myself that it was ready for publication. Rejection letters are simply hard evidence that there’s work to be done.

Art likes evidence, and facts. Mimi prefers to follow her heart. Sometimes this makes her heedless. A bit like this undertaking — a headlong pursuit, unaware of the potholes in the road, and the emotional roller-coaster in store.

As for me, it feels like I’ve gone back to mothering. My novel, after months of practising, has set off on a race — the egg and spoon. With a big egg and a small spoon.

'The Theory of (Not Quite) Everything' by Kara Gnodde is published by Mantle

Click here to buy the book