Rebecca Audrey Johnson has worked in the UK and abroad as a freelance translator, and has prior professional experience at various organisations linked to international affairs. She has a BA in French and Hispanic Studies (2002) and an MA in International Relations (2008) from the University of Birmingham. In 2013, she commenced her AHRC-funded doctoral research in Translation and Intercultural Studies at the University of Manchester.
Rebecca turned to creative writing following an unexpected MS diagnosis in December 2016, in the final stages of her PhD. She discontinued her academic career after graduating; got herself a dog and a camper van; and is currently working on her first novel, with additional plans for a novella and a collection of short stories. She became a member of the Tindal Street Fiction Group in Birmingham in September 2018.
Q: Is there a book that you keep going back to, and if so, how many times have you read it?
A: All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. I’ve been halfway through it for over a decade because I find the writing so intensely powerful that I always have to take a break and start over again from the beginning – and I enjoy it more each time. It’s definitely my favourite book, but I still haven’t finished it!
Q: What superpower would you like to have and why?
A: To be able to fly. Because it would be amazingly fun, and because aeroplanes make me nervous.
Q: If you could teleport yourself anywhere, real or fictional, where would it be and why?
A: Easter Island. Because it’s too small and too far away from anywhere else to justify travelling to, but still such a beguiling mystery.
The car, an old black Vauxhall Corsa – here called an Opel Corsa – was much lower to the ground than she’d expected and she’d landed too heavily in the driver seat. She went to check it was in neutral before turning the key, only to find that the piece indicating the numbers had fallen …
Rebecca Audrey Johnson She woke suddenly, cheated by the shade. It had seemed the perfect spot, accessed via an alleyway running behind her, now hidden from view. Halfway down the narrow passage, which was really more of a space between corrugated iron sheets than a real passageway with meaning or direction of its own, …
Angela stood at the window, watching her daughter watching the chickens. She carefully rubbed a china plate clean. The girl had always been more like her father, not like Angela at all. And it was possibly her own doing, because from the first moment she’d clutched that delicate and infinitely precious living body to her …