JuliaReadsFiction ★☆☆☆☆
19 January 2020
I’ve just finished A Serious Deed by Alexander Comrad and O-M-G. Totally don’t get the hype whatsoever!!! Fair, the guy is able to write a straight sentence, but the protagonist… what a judgmental prick! Makes me wonder about the author's worldview. Let’s see how he would get by without his privileged background… I know what I’m talking about, there were days I had to steal cereal to feed my baby sister. Sometimes acting against the Law is the only right thing, Mr. Comrad! This doesn’t make me a bad person, Mr. Comrad!
↳ Alexander Comrad ✓ Author
21 January 2020
Dear Julia,
Thanks for taking the time to read and review A Serious Deed. It's a shame it didn’t quite hit the mark for you. As they say, art is subjective.
I can’t pretend to know your life story or what led you to your actions. I’m not here to judge. But my readers usually appreciate a clear sense of right and wrong, as do I.
Fortunately, there are plenty of books out there, and I'm sure you'll find authors more in tune with your values and experiences.
All the best,
Alex
Alex reclined in his chair, kneading his hands to dispel the irritation still prickling in his fingertips. It was unlike him to react so emotionally to feedback. His fiction was what his agent Daniel called "fast food for gourmet taste buds". Years ago, such a description would have sparked indignation in Alex. Now, he merely shrugged, accepting the commercial reality of his work. His books paid his rent. And more than that, he thought, as he looked at the Connor Brothers print hanging next to the ergonomic Minotti armchair he loved to lounge in whilst editing his manuscripts.
Still, he couldn’t shake off the nagging feeling of inadequacy that Julia’s comment had elicited. Despite his success, Alex found himself grappling with the same doubts and insecurities that had plagued him since his early writing days. Instinctively, he reached for his copy of In Shallow Waters by Arthur Banks, his former writing teacher and mentor. He always kept the book close by—his go-to read whenever he needed inspiration or felt a bit lost. To this day, the novel remained one of the most profound, most heartbreakingly truthful stories he—and the rest of the literary world—had ever had the honour to read. Alex paused at a dog-eared page, rereading a passage where Arthur had masterfully exposed his character’s deepest fears through a simple conversation about horses. This was storytelling that peeled back the layers of humanity.
Not for the first time, the thought of what his old mentor might think of his work crossed Alex’s mind, amplifying the queasiness in his stomach. Julia surely wouldn’t have accused Arthur of being ignorant to real-world struggles—and for a second, he even questioned his response to her. Too snarky, perhaps?
His phone started ringing.
"How's my favourite author doing today?" Daniel asked before Alex could properly answer the call.
"Just working on the new chapter."
"Thrilling news! Say, did you see my last revisions?"
"Not yet, but I'll take a look when I’ve finished the current chapter."
"Oh!" The enthusiasm slipped from his agent's voice. "I thought you'd be further along by now."
"I only started last week..."
"No worries," Daniel said all too smoothly, a telltale sign that a "but" would follow on its heels. "It's just, after A Serious Deed it would be such a shame to lose momentum now, wouldn’t it?"
"I understand, but—"
"I know, quality takes time," Daniel interrupted, "It's just that the publishers are so excited about The Streets of My Youth. And who can blame them? A psychological drama about young James escaping his precarious situation? You can hang your walls with five more Connor Brothers after the release."
Alex walked to the window, biting down on his cheeks. His agent possessed a unique talent for twisting his praise that always left one feeling a bit of a failure.
"What do you think about James?" Alex asked, his finger trailing a raindrop sliding down the pane.
"Oh," a slight pause at the end of the line. "He’s a good little boy, isn’t he? A real heartbreaker."
"Too good."
"Look, Alex." Daniel's tone turned motherly, a soft reprimand. "Your readers love your books. They appreciate the clear morality. It's your signature. Why mess with a winning formula?"
"Well, not all readers do."
"Ah, you can’t please everyone," Daniel said lightly. "Trust me, I know what sells. Just keep doing what you do best, okay?"
Daniel was right. Alex took pride in sticking to a moral code, and the sales showed his readers approved. His eyes landed on Arthur's book.
But did he do his best?
*
The Literary Press
Oxford Professor and Booker Prize Winner Admits Plagiarism
Arthur Banks’s confession shocks literary world, casting doubt on decades of work
By Susan T. Mitchel, 7 June 2020
Alex jolted up in the Minotti chair, choking his iPad with the outrageous headline.
Arthur Banks stealing content from others? Never!
His eyes scanned the article, searching for words that would acquit the man of the accusations. But there it was, black on white, an extract of Arthur’s direct confession:
"I've carried this burden for a long time, and it's time to be honest. Parts of my work weren’t mine. I took words, passages — sometimes more — from writers who trusted me, or who never even knew. I told myself it was inspiration, homage, editing. But the truth is, I crossed a line. I stole. I can’t defend what I did, and I don’t expect forgiveness. I only want to say: I’m sorry. To the writers I took from, to the readers who believed in me, and to the students who looked up to me — I let you down. I let myself down. And I will spend the rest of my life trying to live with that...."
His brain stubbornly refused to accept what his eyes so clearly saw, and only after rereading the passage for the twentieth time did acceptance reluctantly sink in. A weariness came with it that made him fall back in his chair and close his eyes.
He conjured Arthur’s sonorous, comforting baritone, evoking the pleasure he had felt when attending the incomparable lectures. He had learned everything from this man. He surely wouldn’t have become an author without him.
He felt a violent rip through his chest. This was more than just a fall from grace. Arthur Banks' downfall was like the death of a star.
A sharp knock startled him. Rays of fading sunlight hit his eyes as he glanced at his watch. Almost half past seven. Only two people ever dropped by unannounced, and Shila was visiting Paul's parents before they headed to the coast to see Mum.
Alex’s hope of his intruder leaving was shattered as a muffled voice came through the door. "Apologies in advance, my friend, but I'm not leaving before we’ve talked."
Taking a deep breath, Alex pushed himself out of his chair. "I’ve only got fifteen minutes," he said, opening the door.
"You’re going out?" Daniel’s gaze swept over him — crumpled shirt, bare feet. "I’m not staying long," he said, strolling in and settling onto the sofa, arms stretched across the backrest.
Alex couldn’t help glancing at the curve of muscle under Daniel’s shirt. Unwanted arousal tightened in his trousers.
"What do you want?" he asked, irritated.
Daniel smirked. "Your enthusiasm is overwhelming. Should I come back when you're in a better mood?" His smile faded. "I'm worried about you."
"Why?"
"You made such great progress on The Streets of My Youth. I’ve been waiting months for the last five chapters."
"Writing a book takes time, Daniel. Especially James’ story."
"And I get that. It's just not like you. Is it the ending? If you need help, I’ll cancel everything this week."
"That's… very kind. But it's not that." Alex sighed. "I feel disconnected from James. Don’t you think he's too one-dimensional?"
"Is this still about that one bad review?" Daniel asked, astute. "I thought we were past that."
Alex hesitated. Ever since the review, Julia’s voice hovered like an invisible editor over every line he wrote. "He just doesn’t feel real. Not for a kid in his situation. I need to rewrite some scenes—let him act out more."
Daniel leaned forward. "The scenes are great. And we already have the rebellious one. James is the moral compass."
"But—"
"By the way, did you hear about Arthur Banks?"
Alex slightly shook his head, derailed by this sudden turn in conversation. "I still can't believe it," he murmured.
"He was your mentor." Daniel's eyes gleamed. "Do you think he stole something from you?"
"Daniel, please—"
"Why not?"
"Arthur is one of the most brilliant writers of our time. He didn't need to."
"Until he did."
Alex bristled. "I’d like to see you deal with the pressure of outdoing yourself, book after book."
Daniel held up his hands. "I’m not the enemy. But you can’t defend what he did."
"I’m not. I just... maybe he had his reasons."
"This isn't like you," Daniel said, rising from the sofa. “But your loyalty is admirable.”
Alex followed him through the hallway, a gnawing sense of indignation urging him to hurry the other man out so he could be alone again.
At the door, Daniel turned, his smile softening. “Good luck finishing the chapters. And if you ever need anything, call me. Day or night.”
Alex returned to the living room and dropped onto the sofa. He picked up his iPad. The article was still open. Arthur’s photo stared back—eyes bright, a glint of defiance behind his glasses.
It was easy now to cast him as the villain. But even knowing what he’d done, Alex couldn’t stop the memories. The passion in Arthur’s lectures, his reverence for the craft. Writing is an invitation, he’d always said, to lead readers to a deeper understanding of humanity.
It was hard to condemn someone who believed that—regardless of how he failed to live up to it.
Alex’s eyes moved to his bookshelf, filled with his own novels. It looked like a monument to commercial success. But where, in any of it, had he aimed for something deeper?
Daniel’s words echoed in his head.
Could Arthur have stolen words from him?
Would he have cared?
Alex pictured his words in Arthur’s voice, published under Arthur’s name.
No. He would’ve been proud.
*
Alex turned up his collar against the biting wind. The temperature had fallen below freezing point and the pavement was slick from last night's rain. Usually, Shila took care of Mum’s Christmas presents, but she had messaged him this morning about a last-minute work trip she had to make. It came at the worst possible time, as he was stuck in the final edits of The Streets of My Youth. But his sister was almost a saint in how she took care of Paul and their children, of Mum, and even of him, while juggling a full-time job as a solicitor. He just couldn’t let her down.
As he turned around the corner of an enormous, white-stoned Victorian building, he almost collided with a couple approaching from the other side. His eyes interlocked with those of the woman—an identical shade of green reflected back at him.
"Shit," she mumbled, letting go of her partner's hand. "Shit, shit, shit."
"What the hell…" Alex had a hard time processing what he was seeing. The guy next to her was tall and blonde, not slender and dark as he would have expected.
"Paul?" the stranger asked, his expression calm but alert.
The woman exhaled, pressing her hand against her brow. "Err, Theo, this is Alex, my brother. Alex, this is—"
Alex grabbed her by the arm, dragging her behind him down the street.
"Stop! Alex!" She planted her feet firmly on the ground, and he almost slipped on the treacherous surface. "Please, let me explain."
He turned around, a mixture of irritation and indignation battling in him. "Don't tell me that it's not what it looks like."
"I won't." Shila’s cheeks turned red. "Theo and I... he is very important to me."
Alex snorted. "What about your kids? Your husband?"
"I would never want to hurt them!" Tears gathered in her eyes. "But Paul… most of the time it feels like he's looking right through me."
"So this is about attention?"
"No! I tried so hard, I begged him to listen. Do you have any idea how degrading that is?" Tears ran down her cheek. "I became someone I didn’t recognise. And then I found..." She trailed off, her eyes downcast to the slippery stones beneath her shoes.
“What did you find?”
She hesitated. “Strange messages. I couldn’t really make sense of them. And it’s useless asking him.”
Alex pictured his brother-in-law—impeccably dressed, meticulous, closed-off. In their more light-hearted moments, he and Shila had nicknamed Paul the Fortress: nothing gets in, nothing gets out.
“I suppose he'll never tell you,” he said quietly.
Shila gave a little laugh that ended in a sob and shrugged her shoulders.
Alex looked at her. He’d always thought her one of those rare people who were beautiful all the way through. Beams of compassion pierced through the fog of indignation that had clouded his mind. He fished a tissue out of his pocket and gave it to her.
"But why didn't you talk to me?"
Shila dabbed her eyes and blew her nose with a rough sniff. "I love you, Alex. But my life isn’t one of your stories. And I guess..." — she hesitated, chewing her lip — "I guess I just didn’t want you to see me as a bad person."
His chest tightened. "How could you think that?"
Theo approached, placing a gentle hand on her back. "It's freezing. Maybe this isn’t the best place for all this," he said softly, though there was firmness in his tone.
Shila nodded and leaned in, brushing a kiss against Alex’s cheek. "I'll call you when I can."
Alex watched them being swallowed by the city bustle.
He drifted through M&S in a daze, barely registering the items he placed in his basket. As he stepped into his flat some hours later, bags filled to the brim, he had no idea what he had actually bought.
The argument with Shila lingered, tugging at him. What a stranger had hurled in anger, his sister had revealed in pain — and that made it harder to ignore.
Without hesitation, he reached for his laptop. Within minutes, the message that had haunted him for months glowed back at him from the screen.
...judgemental thinking prick! Makes me wonder about the author's worldview... Sometimes acting against the Law is the only right thing, Mr. Comrad! This doesn’t make me a bad person, Mr. Comrad!...
The words on the screen seemed to pulse, each one burning itself into Alex’s consciousness as he read and re-read the message. He didn’t dare to read his reply. He knew he would feel ashamed by it now.
Instead, he clicked on the folder with his manuscript of The Streets of My Youth, opened the first chapter and started to work.
*
Alex felt ready as he picked up the phone. He'd been expecting the call for hours, but it was nonetheless a relief when it finally rang.
"Happy New Year, Daniel."
"I did my best to be patient with you, we’ve been through rough patches before, but this... this feels different. I'm worried we're reaching a breaking point... I can't say this any nicer, but if you're determined to burn your career down, don't drag me into the fire with you!"
"Well, thank you. What a lovely thing to hear."
"I’ve been in this business a long time, Alex. Trust me when I say this protagonist... he's not going to win any popularity contests. We need readers to connect with him, not despise him—"
"He's real now. Flawed, complex, struggling... exactly the kind of character I’ve always wanted to write."
"Please. Let’s use the old manuscript and we can talk about minor adjustments, but we can’t go with this version."
Alex exhaled noisily. "I’m sorry, but I'm firm in my decision. I believe this book offers something new to my readers, a deeper insight which I should have provided much sooner. I’m sure they will appreciate it."
There was nothing but slow breaths on the other line; as Daniel appeared to find the right words. When he spoke again, his voice sounded pressed but calmer.
"Your readership will hate it. This is not what they expect when they buy one of your books. CPT will terminate your contract." Daniel made a dramatic pause. "And we will be finished as well."
His agent didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. Alex had spent sleepless nights over the consequences of his edits. The Streets of My Youth had changed dramatically, with James being a deeply flawed character, who made questionable decisions and had a propensity for immoral actions. Not because he was bad, but because he was human.
His experiences of the last months had made it undoubtedly clear to him that one couldn’t be the one without being the other.
"I agree with you. Maybe this year it's time for a change for all of us."
"Don’t make any hasty decisions. I wouldn’t want you to regret it."
A strange mix of fear and exhilaration coursed through Alex, making his fingers tremble as he gripped the phone. "All the best, Daniel. It was almost a pleasure to work with you."
Then he hung up.
JuliaReadsFiction ★★★★★
3 November 2021
Honestly, I didn’t want to read this book, but the abysmal reviews kinda made me curious. The Streets of My Youth is definitely not like Comrad’s other novels. The protagonist is a real piece of work—one day he is perfectly lovely, the other day he stabs you in the back. And while I read it, I see my little sister in him, and I think, wow, okay, I understand it.
This is RRR-Fiction.
Real. Relatable. Rememberable.
P.S. I want to be clear here, the dedication didn’t influence my rating!
P.P.S. Much appreciated, though...
The Streets of My Youth
By Alexander Comrad
For Arthur, Shila, and Julia, who reads Fiction.
Thank you for opening my eyes.
