But David Mitchell, author of Cloud Atlas, didn’t take to the social network for the fun of it - he did it to publish his next novel.
‘The Right Sort’ is a short story, written in 140 character instalments, that has started being published today on the Twitter account.
The story, which is set in 1978 and follows the story of a teenage boy who discovers valium, will be published in a series of 20-tweet instalments over the next seven days.
Mitchell that it is in fact a marketing ploy to promote his new novel, ‘The Bone Clocks’.
But that doesn’t really matter – he’s publishing a story for free on Twitter, and it is an excellent way to build anticipation.
Author: David Mitchell
Publishing platform: Twitter
Read the first instalment here:
We get off the Number 10 bus at a pub called ‘The Fox and Hounds’. ‘If anyone asks,’ Mum tells me, ‘say we came by taxi.’
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
‘I thought lying was wrong,’ I say. Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth. Mum gives me a look. ‘It’s called "creating the right impression".’
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
A lorry rumbles by. ‘Besides,’ adds Mum, ‘if your *father* paid what the judge told him to pay, on time, we would travel more by taxi.’
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
Westwood Road’s not a run-down road, but it’s hardly posh either. Joined-up red-brick houses, like ours. Small drives. Dustbins.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
Not like you’d expect a Lady to live in. ‘Right,’ says Mum, double-checking the directions she wrote on an envelope. ‘This way.’
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
‘So we’re looking out for an alley called "Slade Alley",’ says Mum. ‘On the left. And mind the puddles.’ Off we trudge.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
It’s a grey afternoon. Rain’s forecast for later. Through a front window, I see wrestling on the telly. Mum walks ahead. I follow.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
I hope to God nobody from school sees me in this tweed jacket and tie Mum bought me from Littlewoods. I look like a total ponce.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
If any of Gaz Townshend’s lot catch me dressed like this, life won’t be worth living come Monday. His gang shits on me enough as it is.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
It’s all very well for Mum to say, ‘You shouldn’t care what people think’: kids have laws and if you break those laws, you’re dead meat.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
(No point telling Mum about getting picked on: she just sighs and says, ‘You should have passed the scholarship for King’s, Nathan.’)
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
Leaves blow down from an overhanging branch. There’s more leaves off than there are leaves left. October. The clocks go back tonight.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
Suddenly here it is: ‘SLADE ALLEY’ says the old-style sign, high up on the windowless side of one of two houses the alley cuts in between.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
You can’t see Slade Alley till you’re smack bang in front of it. Dark. Dunno. It’s like Slade Alley shouldn’t even be here.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
A real live Lady, married to a real live Lord, living down here? If you ask me, Mum’s ballsed it up. Wouldn’t be the first time.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
‘Lord and Lady Briggs’s main residence is in Oxfordshire,’ Mum tells me for the umpteenth time. ‘This is only Lady Briggs’s town house.’
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
‘I didn’t say anything,’ I say. ‘Good,’ says Mum. ‘Come on then, don’t dawdle.’ Her voice and footsteps echo a bit.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
It’s colder in Slade Alley than on Westwood Road. After twenty paces, the alley turns left, then carries on between two high walls.
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
‘We’re to keep our eyes peeled for a door,’ says Mum. ‘A black iron door. Lady Briggs said it’s easy to miss.’ You can say that again...
— David Mitchell (@david_mitchell)
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