As a girl, K had a terrible urge for the up. Trees were her preferred medium: the most convenient a large, broad branched sycamore in the woods across the field at the back of her house. On one memorable occasion, a heroic hawthorn ascent in the neighbours' garden, spurred on by the plaintive mewings of the small white kitten halfway up. K returned from that particular escapade marked in more ways than one. Physically: a hawthorn is not named whimsically, but for very good, and painful, reasons. And psychologically too, since the kitten did not choose to show gratitude for its rescue. (This has been cited as a possible reason for a distinct lack of sentimentality in the later K oeuvre KM) Seaside holidays provided K with further opportunities to test her fascination for the vertical, and also with the opportunity to experience at first hand (and foot, and inside of arms and legs) the instability of a scree slope. (Referenced in the story: Stones on a Bald Man's Head (editor's note))
Nothing was ever made of this particular urge, at that time it would hardly have been thinkable for K's rather conventional parents to encourage her to take up a career as a climber, of any kind. However she was rescued from misery at the girls' high school she went to at the age of 10; despite a fairly promising academic ability (mostly confined, it must be said, to imitating accents) she was removed to a place where her remarkable lack of fleshiness was considered to be an advantage rather than grounds for merciless teasing. It was hoped to make her into another Olga Korbut, but there was a distinct, and discouraging lack of flexibility in the backbone, little sense of balance, and she grew too tall. Indeed, K showed little inclination for any of the activities at the sporting academy that involved learning a complex technique, but she could run. (Any fool can put one foot in front of the other, as her coach so accurately pointed out). She trained hard with Verona Bernard-Elder, but just missed selection for Team GB at the Montréal Summer Games. Interviews with her coach reveal that he never took her chances of success seriously. "K was never dedicated enough. Her motto was always 'If at first you don't succeed - give up'. And she suffered terrible nerves before a race. You'd think, with running, that it wouldn't matter too much. It's not like tennis, where nerves would make you lose your natural swing, or choke like Jana Novotna against Steffi Graf in 1993, but nerves made K's legs seize up and ruined her chances of competing at top level."
(Editor's note:This interview is not documented, but taken from K's private notes)
This sort of thing is great fun to write. The mix of true and not-true-but-I-wish-it-were is also fairly entertaining to read for about the length of a GR review, perhaps. But not, Ms Hoppe, for 331 pages. I'll read your short fiction, any time. I like your sardonic style. But your 'dream autobiography' got tediously repetitive and, well, pointless.