Genre Fiction
![Rebecca Watson - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B005CRA84E.jpg)
little scratch: A Novel
"Extraordinary"--THE NEW YORKER
In the formally innovative tradition of Grief Is the Thing with Feathers and Ducks, Newburyport comes a dazzlingly original, shot-in-the-arm of a debut that reveals a young woman's every thought over the course of one deceptively ordinary day.
She wakes up, goes to work. Watches the clock and checks her phone. But underneath this monotony there's something else going on: something under her skin.
Relayed in interweaving columns that chart the feedback loop of memory, the senses, and modern distractions with wit and precision, our narrator becomes increasingly anxious as the day moves on: Is she overusing the heart emoji? Isn't drinking eight glasses of water a day supposed to fix everything? Why is the etiquette of the women's bathroom so fraught? How does she define rape? And why can't she stop scratching?
Fiercely moving and slyly profound, little scratch is a defiantly playful look at how our minds function in--and survive--the darkest moments.
In the formally innovative tradition of Grief Is the Thing with Feathers and Ducks, Newburyport comes a dazzlingly original, shot-in-the-arm of a debut that reveals a young woman's every thought over the course of one deceptively ordinary day.
She wakes up, goes to work. Watches the clock and checks her phone. But underneath this monotony there's something else going on: something under her skin.
Relayed in interweaving columns that chart the feedback loop of memory, the senses, and modern distractions with wit and precision, our narrator becomes increasingly anxious as the day moves on: Is she overusing the heart emoji? Isn't drinking eight glasses of water a day supposed to fix everything? Why is the etiquette of the women's bathroom so fraught? How does she define rape? And why can't she stop scratching?
Fiercely moving and slyly profound, little scratch is a defiantly playful look at how our minds function in--and survive--the darkest moments.
Editorial Reviews
look at me now lost in linearity, where is the freedom in my head, to not have to only move side to side, stuck in straight lines every morning once I've arrived in this office, breaking myself in every morning, having to loosen the numbness punch by punch
but yes I can feel my head loosening, freeing, it's always this way, numbness ebbs, visits, interrupts, but always pushed down eventually taking my head away, but always giving it back (or do I wrench it back? I am not sure but I am tired certainly, so I might have been wrenching), takes a while to unstick, colleague passing, who always makes tea for the assistant in the corner, who, I wonder, perhaps knows everything, it seems so, in her soft look, her incessant tea and the no questions, no questions, apart from tea, and sometimes
noting things that she likes, today my shoes her, nice shoes!
patent t-bars that I rather like myself me, aw, thank you!
(obviously) they're from Tesco
but don't tell anyone
her, your secret's safe with me
and she's away, me still not even sure what she does, her name beginning with R, likely Rachel although that doesn't sound right,
someone called her over once after she left my desk (she was probably pausing to offer me tea or compliment my dress), and I remember thinking I MUST REMEMBER HER NAME but all that's left now is the R
I would conclude that she's imagined, except I imagine that if I were to imagine people they'd make less small talk, do something more radical, incite Gregorian chant, my subconscious trying to find an escape route, a way to be sent out of this place for good (and a chant filling the newsroom might do the trick), I don't think I'd imagine someone nice, I'd know I was imagining it straight away,
nah I don't buy it,
I'd tell my imagined colleague,
just not a believable character I'm afraid, the critics would slate you
ignoring, admittedly, the fact that she does exist, her and the flecked auburn falling across her back, the white of her eyes even whiter than her skin
(her paleness not a weakness, not prone to illness, just pale),
I'm still in my argument (with myself inside my head) ignoring the fact that all of that exists, all of her exists, those eyes that hair those soft looks that seem to say I know I know I know, all exist and thus she is believable, is real even, but yes, after all, often those that are real are the ones that, when imagined up, don't quite fit, don't quite work
and she is gone now after all
shoes still on my feet
her gone
wondering the difference between a woman saying nice shoes
a woman I do not know very well at all no and a man
I do not know very well at all saying nice shoes
I guess
but yes I can feel my head loosening, freeing, it's always this way, numbness ebbs, visits, interrupts, but always pushed down eventually taking my head away, but always giving it back (or do I wrench it back? I am not sure but I am tired certainly, so I might have been wrenching), takes a while to unstick, colleague passing, who always makes tea for the assistant in the corner, who, I wonder, perhaps knows everything, it seems so, in her soft look, her incessant tea and the no questions, no questions, apart from tea, and sometimes
noting things that she likes, today my shoes her, nice shoes!
patent t-bars that I rather like myself me, aw, thank you!
(obviously) they're from Tesco
but don't tell anyone
her, your secret's safe with me
and she's away, me still not even sure what she does, her name beginning with R, likely Rachel although that doesn't sound right,
someone called her over once after she left my desk (she was probably pausing to offer me tea or compliment my dress), and I remember thinking I MUST REMEMBER HER NAME but all that's left now is the R
I would conclude that she's imagined, except I imagine that if I were to imagine people they'd make less small talk, do something more radical, incite Gregorian chant, my subconscious trying to find an escape route, a way to be sent out of this place for good (and a chant filling the newsroom might do the trick), I don't think I'd imagine someone nice, I'd know I was imagining it straight away,
nah I don't buy it,
I'd tell my imagined colleague,
just not a believable character I'm afraid, the critics would slate you
ignoring, admittedly, the fact that she does exist, her and the flecked auburn falling across her back, the white of her eyes even whiter than her skin
(her paleness not a weakness, not prone to illness, just pale),
I'm still in my argument (with myself inside my head) ignoring the fact that all of that exists, all of her exists, those eyes that hair those soft looks that seem to say I know I know I know, all exist and thus she is believable, is real even, but yes, after all, often those that are real are the ones that, when imagined up, don't quite fit, don't quite work
and she is gone now after all
shoes still on my feet
her gone
wondering the difference between a woman saying nice shoes
a woman I do not know very well at all no and a man
I do not know very well at all saying nice shoes
I guess
Readers Top Reviews
Josef Anton
Schlecht: kann das Item nicht am Kindle Downloaden weil das file nicht compatibel ist. Bitte ändern!
Egroeg Nostaw
Greetings from your biggest fan from Eastern Europe.
N.P.
Funny, sad and insightful into how we all think. It’s what poetry becomes when it grows up. I highly recommend you read it.
Kristine Fisher
little scratch by Rebecca Watson is a free NetGalley ebook that I read in early September. Britspeak first-person stream of consciousness reactionary prose where the passage of time is noted journal-style or in a long-form text message.
Short Excerpt Teaser
look at me now lost in linearity, where is the freedom in my head, to not have to only move side to side, stuck in straight lines every morning once I've arrived in this office, breaking myself in every morning, having to loosen the numbness punch by punch
but yes I can feel my head loosening, freeing, it's always this way, numbness ebbs, visits, interrupts, but always pushed down eventually taking my head away, but always giving it back (or do I wrench it back? I am not sure but I am tired certainly, so I might have been wrenching), takes a while to unstick, colleague passing, who always makes tea for the assistant in the corner, who, I wonder, perhaps knows everything, it seems so, in her soft look, her incessant tea and the no questions, no questions, apart from tea, and sometimes
noting things that she likes, today my shoes her, nice shoes!
patent t-bars that I rather like myself me, aw, thank you!
(obviously) they're from Tesco
but don't tell anyone
her, your secret's safe with me
and she's away, me still not even sure what she does, her name beginning with R, likely Rachel although that doesn't sound right,
someone called her over once after she left my desk (she was probably pausing to offer me tea or compliment my dress), and I remember thinking I MUST REMEMBER HER NAME but all that's left now is the R
I would conclude that she's imagined, except I imagine that if I were to imagine people they'd make less small talk, do something more radical, incite Gregorian chant, my subconscious trying to find an escape route, a way to be sent out of this place for good (and a chant filling the newsroom might do the trick), I don't think I'd imagine someone nice, I'd know I was imagining it straight away,
nah I don't buy it,
I'd tell my imagined colleague,
just not a believable character I'm afraid, the critics would slate you
ignoring, admittedly, the fact that she does exist, her and the flecked auburn falling across her back, the white of her eyes even whiter than her skin
(her paleness not a weakness, not prone to illness, just pale),
I'm still in my argument (with myself inside my head) ignoring the fact that all of that exists, all of her exists, those eyes that hair those soft looks that seem to say I know I know I know, all exist and thus she is believable, is real even, but yes, after all, often those that are real are the ones that, when imagined up, don't quite fit, don't quite work
and she is gone now after all
shoes still on my feet
her gone
wondering the difference between a woman saying nice shoes
a woman I do not know very well at all no and a man
I do not know very well at all saying nice shoes
I guess
if a man says a certain sort of man that is, I can't say for sure,
can't tell you how to know, just that you'll know when you know, that it's that sort of man, yes,
when that sort of man says nice shoes
he is not saying nice shoes
he is saying I am itemising you
he is saying, take yourself out of that head and put your eyes in my sockets
because hello I am itemising you
like yesterday
that man rapping the side of his stand
selling caramel nuts me sitting nearby propped on the side by the river ten minutes before I needed to go back to my desk reading and then him, suddenly, rapping the side, rap rap rap, me head down ignoring, him rapping the side, me looking up and beaming at me, nothing more, just wanting to grin, to show his presence when I was finally for a moment not present anywhere
what are those moments called? some would call them niceties I guess but I just hear the knock against the side of his stand with his fist (clenched), needing me to notice, to be interrupted, to give the attention I was so set on giving elsewhere
I know if I told this anecdote I'd stress the nuance, if I were to tell my him about it, as I often end up doing, telling that is (although not other things but this digression is not something I am going into), I'd embellish, I'd say !HE LOOKED ME UP AND DOWN!, or !he said PHWOAR LIKE A BIT OF THAT!, adding any detail to support my side so there is no chance he'd doubt, no chance he'd say, Well what's wrong with a man wanting to smile at you on a sunny day? the answer is obviously a lot A LOT IS WRONG WITH THAT but I don't have the words I can't unpick
but yes I can feel my head loosening, freeing, it's always this way, numbness ebbs, visits, interrupts, but always pushed down eventually taking my head away, but always giving it back (or do I wrench it back? I am not sure but I am tired certainly, so I might have been wrenching), takes a while to unstick, colleague passing, who always makes tea for the assistant in the corner, who, I wonder, perhaps knows everything, it seems so, in her soft look, her incessant tea and the no questions, no questions, apart from tea, and sometimes
noting things that she likes, today my shoes her, nice shoes!
patent t-bars that I rather like myself me, aw, thank you!
(obviously) they're from Tesco
but don't tell anyone
her, your secret's safe with me
and she's away, me still not even sure what she does, her name beginning with R, likely Rachel although that doesn't sound right,
someone called her over once after she left my desk (she was probably pausing to offer me tea or compliment my dress), and I remember thinking I MUST REMEMBER HER NAME but all that's left now is the R
I would conclude that she's imagined, except I imagine that if I were to imagine people they'd make less small talk, do something more radical, incite Gregorian chant, my subconscious trying to find an escape route, a way to be sent out of this place for good (and a chant filling the newsroom might do the trick), I don't think I'd imagine someone nice, I'd know I was imagining it straight away,
nah I don't buy it,
I'd tell my imagined colleague,
just not a believable character I'm afraid, the critics would slate you
ignoring, admittedly, the fact that she does exist, her and the flecked auburn falling across her back, the white of her eyes even whiter than her skin
(her paleness not a weakness, not prone to illness, just pale),
I'm still in my argument (with myself inside my head) ignoring the fact that all of that exists, all of her exists, those eyes that hair those soft looks that seem to say I know I know I know, all exist and thus she is believable, is real even, but yes, after all, often those that are real are the ones that, when imagined up, don't quite fit, don't quite work
and she is gone now after all
shoes still on my feet
her gone
wondering the difference between a woman saying nice shoes
a woman I do not know very well at all no and a man
I do not know very well at all saying nice shoes
I guess
if a man says a certain sort of man that is, I can't say for sure,
can't tell you how to know, just that you'll know when you know, that it's that sort of man, yes,
when that sort of man says nice shoes
he is not saying nice shoes
he is saying I am itemising you
he is saying, take yourself out of that head and put your eyes in my sockets
because hello I am itemising you
like yesterday
that man rapping the side of his stand
selling caramel nuts me sitting nearby propped on the side by the river ten minutes before I needed to go back to my desk reading and then him, suddenly, rapping the side, rap rap rap, me head down ignoring, him rapping the side, me looking up and beaming at me, nothing more, just wanting to grin, to show his presence when I was finally for a moment not present anywhere
what are those moments called? some would call them niceties I guess but I just hear the knock against the side of his stand with his fist (clenched), needing me to notice, to be interrupted, to give the attention I was so set on giving elsewhere
I know if I told this anecdote I'd stress the nuance, if I were to tell my him about it, as I often end up doing, telling that is (although not other things but this digression is not something I am going into), I'd embellish, I'd say !HE LOOKED ME UP AND DOWN!, or !he said PHWOAR LIKE A BIT OF THAT!, adding any detail to support my side so there is no chance he'd doubt, no chance he'd say, Well what's wrong with a man wanting to smile at you on a sunny day? the answer is obviously a lot A LOT IS WRONG WITH THAT but I don't have the words I can't unpick
