کتاب هری پاتر و سنگ جادو در سال ۱۹۹۵ تکمیل شد و دست نوشته آن برای یافتن یک ناشر، توسط رولینگ به چند واسطه سپرده شد. دومین کارگزار، کریستوفر لیتل، پذیرفت تا آنرا به انتشارات بلومزبری بفرستد. بعد از آنکه هشت ناشر درخواست چاپ آنرا رد کردند، بلومزبری برای انتشار کتاب، مبلغ ۲۵۰۰ پوند را به عنوان پیش پرداخت به رولینگ اهدا نمود

زندگینامه رولینگ از زبان خودش دروب سایت رسمی رولینگ

پدر و مادر من ، هر دو اهل لندن بودند .آنها در قطار كه از ایستگاه كینگركراس لندن ، به آرجورات اسكاتلند می رفت با هم آشنا شدند . در آن موقع هر دو 18 سال داشتند . پدر من به اسكاتلند می رفت تا به « نیروی دریایی سلطنتی » ملحق شود . مادرم نیز به اسكاتلند رفت تا به«انجمن حقوق زنان بپیوندد مادر من در آن روز گفته بود كه سردش سردش شده است و پدرم كتش را به او داده بود تا گرم شود . آنها دقیقاً یك سال بعد از این ماجرا ، ازدواج كردند . زمانی كه آنها 19 ساله شدند ، پدرم از « نیروی دریایی سلطنتی » جدا شد و به حومه برستول ، در غرب انگلستان مهاجرت كرد . مادرم در بیست سالگی به من زندگی داد ، من یك بجه شیطون بودم .
فكر سنگ جادو ، از عكسهای بچگی ام كه در آنها به توپ مورد علاقه بادیم كه پوشیده از حبابهای رنگی بود به ذهنم رسید خواهرم « دی » یك سال و یازده ماه بعد از من متولد شد . روز تولد « دی » را خیلی راحت می توانم به یاد بیاورم . بهر حال من براحتی به یاد می آورم كه درآشپزخانه مشغول بازی كردن با اسباب بازی پلاستیكی ام بودم و پدرم مشغول قدم زدن در آشپزخانه بود . بعد بسوی اتاق خواب ،پیش مادرم رفت ، همان كسی كه به خواهرم در اتاق خواب زندگی داد . من خاطراتم را بطورصحیح بیاد ندارم اما بعد از مدتی ، من این خاطره را با مادرم چك كردم . همچنین من یك عكس سیاه و سفید دارم . از زمانی كه قدم زنان دست به دست پدرم به اتاق خواب رفتیم و مادرم را دیدم كه در لباس شب اش درست در كنار خواهرم خوابیده بود « دی » مانند مادرم موهایی كاملاً سیاه و چشمانی به رنگ قهوه ای تیره داشت. ( هنوز هم داره ) اون مطمئاً از من خیلی زیباتر بود. (هنوز هم هست ) من فكر می كنم ، والدینم تصمیم گرفتند كه من نور چشمشون باشم .وقتی دیدم كه كسی به به صورت زیبای « دی » توجهی نمی كند ، من به « دی » توجه كردم.ما بی شك مجبور بودیم كه سه قسمت از دوران بچگی مان را مثل گربه های وحشی درون یك قفس بسیار كوچك زندانی باشیم. « دی » كنار ابرویش زخم شد و این در زمانی اتفاق افتاد كه من از عصبانیت چیزی را به طرف او پرتاب كردم، اما هرگز انتظار نداشتم كه با « دی » اصابت كند. من سهی كردم عذرخواهی كنم و برای زخم او یخ آوردم ( برای اینكه درد زخمش آروم بشه، جوآن رفته و یخ آورده ). مادرم رو هیچ‌وقت اینقدر عصبانی ندیده بودم.
ما ویلامون و حومه‌ی بریستول را زمانی كه چهار سال داشتم ترك كردیم و به وینتربورن در یك خانه‌ی دوطبقه رفتیم. من و «دی» هر دو توافق داشتیم كه هیچ‌كداممان از آن خوشمان نمیآید. یادم می‌آید كه من و «دی» هیچ وقت با هم كلنجار نمی‌رفتیم، در واقع من و «دی» برای هم دوستان صمیمی بودیم. او معمولاً خودش از من درخواست می‌كرد كه برایش داستان بگویم و من برای او كلی داستان می‌گفتم. معمولاً داستان‌های من به شكل داستان‌هایی در می‌آمدند كه ما جای شخصیت‌های اصلی آن بازی می‌كردیم. معمولاً وقتی زیاد بازی می‌كردیم، من خسته می‌شدم ولی «دی» همیشه دوست بازی كند ( چون اغلب نقش‌های اصلی را به او می‌دادم). در محل جدید زندگی ما، تعداد زیادی بچه وجود داشت كه ما با آنها بازی می‌كردیم. در بین بچه‌ها خواهر و برادری بودند كه فامیل آنها «پاتر» بود. من همیشه فامیل آنها را دوست داشتم، حتی بیشتر از فامیل خودم رولینگ. آن برادره اسمش هری بود. مادرش ( مادر هری ) میگش كه من و هری سعی می‌كردیم كه شبیه به جادوگراها لباس بپوشیم. من نمی‌دونم كه كدوم یك از خاطرات درسته. من تنها چیزی كه یادم هست اینه كه یك پسر بود كه یك دوچرخه داشت كه همه‌ دوست داشتند سوار دوچرخه‌اش بشوند. یك روز « دی » از من درخواست كرد كه سوار دوچرخه بشه، ولی اون پسره با سنگ «دی» رو زد برای همین من اونو با یك شمشیر پلاستیكی محكم زدم ( من تنها كسی بود كه به طرف «دی» چیزی پرتاب می‌كردم ).
من از رفتن به مدرسه در وینتربورن لذت می‌بردم. مدرسه سرشار از سرگرمی‌های آرام‌بخش بود، مثلاً: كوزه‌گری، نقاشی و داستان كه برای من لذت‌بخش بود.
به هر حال والدینم همیشه دوست داشتند در طبیعت زندگی كنند. حدود 9 سالم بود كه به تاتشیل رفتیم. یك دهكده‌ی كوچك درست بعد از چپستو در ولِز.
مهاجرت ما درست مصادف شد با مرگ مادربزرگ محبوب من، اتلین، همان كسی كه اسم خودش را بر روی من گذاشته بود. شكی نیست كه احساس من در آن زمان اصلاً از مدرسه جدید خوشم نیاید. ما در تمام طول روز پشت میز خود نشسته بودیم و تخته سیاه را نگاه می‌كردیم. مدرسه‌ی من «وای‌دین»، جایی كه من یازده‌ساله بودم، جایی بود كه من با « سین هریس » آشنا شدم. همان كسی كه ایده‌ی حفره‌ی اسرار را در من به وجود آورد. او یك فورد آنجلیای اصل داشت. او اولین دوست من بود كه می‌توانست با ماشین سفیدش رانندگی كند و دور بزند و این یعنی آزادی. من از پدرم خواستم كه همین چیز را به من بده. چیزی كه بدترین چیز برای موقعی كه شما تینیجر هستید، هست. بعضی از شادترین خاطراتم برمی‌گرده به سال‌های تینیج‌ام در تاریكی ماشین سین. او اولین كسی بود كه به طور جدی، فكر نویسنده شدن را در سرم انداخت و تنها كسی بود كه باعث شد در این زمینه‌ موفق باشم و این ارزشش خیلی بیشتر از آن چیزی بود كه بهش گفتم. بدترین اتفاقی كه در دوران تینیجی‌ام افتاد این بود كه مادرم مریض شد، سیستم عصبی او دچار اختلال شده بود. در آن موقع 15 سال داشتم و شنیدن اینكه او به سختی بیمار شده برای من یك شك وحشتناك بود. من مدرسه را در سال 1983 ترك كردم و به تحصیل در دانشگاه اگزتر در جنوب سواحل انگلستان مشغول شدم. من فرانسوی یاد می‌گرفتم كه كار اشتباهی بود. من مجبور بودن زبان‌های زنده‌ی مدرن جهان را یاد بگیرم، ولی این كار به كجا منتهی شد؟ من یك سال زندگی‌ام را در شهر پاریس گذراندم. بعد از ترك دانشگاه من در لندن كشغول به كار شدم. طولانی‌ترین شغل من « عفو جهانی » بود. سازمانی كه علیه پایمال كردن حق انسان‌ها در تمام دنیا فعالیت می‌كرد، ویل در سال 1990 من و دوست‌پسرم تصمیم گرفتیم كه باهم به وینچستر برویم. آن موقع آخر هسته بود. من سوار یك قطار شلوغ در راه لندن بودم كه ناگهان فكر هری‌پاتر به سادگی به سرم افتاد. من از شش سالگی می‌نوشتم ولی هرگز به چنین چیزی فكر نكرده بودم. در آن موقع من خودكاری همراه نداشتم، به همین دلیل از دیگران برای قرض گرفتن خودكار سوال كردم. الان كه فكر می‌كنم می‌بینم كه واقعاً، به تاخیر افتادن حركت قطار كه باعث شد من چهار ساعت یك جا بنشینم و تمام افكارم رو سر هری پاتر متمركز كنم، واقعاً اتفاق خوبی بود. در همان زمان بود كه یك مو سیاهِ ( كسی كه موی سیاه دارد )، پیشانی‌ زخم در ذهنم متولد شد. پسری كه نمی‌دانست جادوگر است مرتب كامل‌تر و واقعی‌تر می‌شد. فكر می‌كنم كه اگر در آن روز خودكاری به همراه داشتم و می‌توانستم فكرهایم را به روی كاغذ بیاورم، الان می‌تونستم داستان رو خیلی جالبتر بنویسم. من تعجب می‌كنم كه به خاطر به همراه نداشتن یك خودكار كلی از تصوراتم را از دست دادم. من نوشتن سنگ‌جادو را شروع كردم. آنها اولین صفحاتی بودند كه بدون اینك هبرای پایان كتاب تصمیمی گرفته باشم می‌نوشتم. من همراه با افكارم به منچستر رفتم. افكار من مرتب در جهات عجیب و مختلف رشد می‌كرد كه تمام آنها در مورد هری بود كه در هاگوراتز تحصیل می‌كرد. ناگهان در 30 دسامبر 1990 اتفاقی افتاد كه دنیای هری مرا برای همیشه تغییر داد. مادر من مرد. دوران وحشتناكی بود. پدرم، من و دی از نظر روحیه ویران شده بودم. مادر من فقط 45 سال داشت و ما حتی تصور هم نمی كردیم كه مادر در این جوانی بمیره. احساس می‌كردم كه تحت فشار قرار گرفته‌ام و شكنجه را در قلبم حس می‌:ردم 9 ماه بعد برای اینكه افسردگی من از بین بره به پرتقال سفر كردم. من در یك موسسه زبان برای تدریس زبان انگلیسی كار گیر آوردم. من فكر هری‌پاتر را كه هنوز در حال رشد كردن بود با خودم برده بودم. امیدوارم كه ساعات كار جدیدم ( فكر می‌كنم ظهرها و غروب ) برای زخم ناشی از مرگ مادرم، مرهم باشد و در همان زمان بود كه حس مرگ والدین هری، در ،‌در ذهن من عمیق‌تر و واقعی‌تر شد. در هفته‌های اولی كه من در پرتقال بودم، قسمت مورد علاقه‌ام را نوشتم: « آینه‌ی حقیقت ( جادویی) ». امیدوار بودم زمانی كه از پرتقال بازمیگردم یك كتاب تمام شده در زیر بغلم داشته باشم. ولی در واقع چیز بهتری به دست آوردم: دخترم! من با یك مرد پرتقالی آشنا شدم و ازدواج كردم و حاصل این ازدواج جسیكا بود. من و جسیكا به ادینبورگ رفتیم، جایی كه خواهرم دی زندگی می‌كرد، درست در كریسمس 1994. من دوباره شروع به تدریس زبان انگلیسی كردم و می دانستم با وجود تدریس تمام وقت و آماده كردن درس قبل از كلاس و نگهداری از یك بچه‌ی كوچك اصلاً وقت نوشتن كتابم را نخواهم كرد. با این حال زمانی كه جسیكا در گهواره‌اش به خواب فرو می‌رفت، من به نزدیك‌ترین كافه می‌رفتم و دیوانه‌وار می‌نوشتم. من تقریبا هر روز عصر به نوشتن مشغول می‌شدم. گاهی اوقات از كتاب متنفر می‌شدم در عین حالی كه عاشقش بودم… بلاخره تمام شد. من سه قسمت اول كتاب را در یك پوشه‌ی پلاستیكی زیبا گذاشتم و برای یك نماینده فرستادم و او آنها را درست در همان روزی كه دریافت كرده بود، پس فرستاد… ولی نماینده‌ی دوم برای من یك نامه فرستاد و از من خواست تا فصل‌های بعدی كتاب را برایش بفرستم. نام او كریستوفر بود. او برای من تعداد زیادی ناشر پیدا كرد،‌ اما بیشتر آنها قبول نكردند. در آگوست 1996 كریستوفر، با من تماس گرفت:
نشر بلومسری قبول كرده!
گوش‌هایم حرف‌هایی را كه می‌شنید باور نمی‌كرد.
منظورت اینه كه كتاب برای چاپ میره؟
من احمقانه این سوال را تكرار می‌كردم.
آیا واقعاً در؟
بعد من از خوشحالی فریاد می‌زدم و به هوا پریدم. جسیكا در حالی كه بر روی صندلی پایه‌ بلندش نشسته بود از خوردن چای لذت می‌برد و بعدها فهمید چه اتفاقی افتاده است.

متن انگلیسی:
The idea that we could have a child who escapes from the confines of the adult world and goes somewhere where he ha⁳潰敷
s power, both literally and metaphorically, really appealed to me."
--JK Rowling
My mother and father were both Londoners. They met on a train travelling from King's Cross station to Arbroath in Scotland when they were both eighteen; my father was off to join the Royal Navy, my mother to join the W.R.E.N.s (the women's equivalent). My mother said she was cold, my mother offered a half share in his coat, and they got married just over a year later, when they were nineteen.
Both left the navy and moved to the outskirts of Bristol, in the West of England. My mother gave birth to me when she was twenty. I was a rotund baby. The description in 'Philosopher's Stone' of the photographs of 'what appeared to be a beach ball wearing different coloured bobble hats' would also apply to the pictures of my early years.
INCLUDEPICTURE \d \z
My sister Di arrived a year and eleven months after me. The day of her birth was my earliest memory, or my earliest datable memory, anyway. I distinctly remember playing with a bit of plasticine in the kitchen while my father rushed in and out of the room, hurrying backwards and fowards to my mother, who was giving birth in their bedroom. I know I didn't invent this memory because I checked the details later with my mother. I also have a vivid mental picture of walking into their bedroom a little while later, hand in hand with my father, and seeing my mother lying in bed in her nightdress next to my beaming sister, who is stark naked with a full head of hair and looks about five years old. Although I clearly basted together this bizarre false memroy out of bits of hearsay when I was a child, it is so vivid that it still comes to mind if I ever think about Di being born.
Di had - a still has - very dark, almost black hair, and dark brown eyes like my mother's, and she was considerably prettier than I was (and she still is). As compensation, I think, my parents decided that I must be 'the bright one.' We both resented our labels. I really wanted to be less freckly-beach-ball-like, and Di, who is now a lawyer, felt justifiably annoyed that nobody had noticed she was not just a pretty face. This undoubtedly contributed to the fact that we spent about three quarters of our childhood fighting like a pair of wildcats imprisoned together in a very small cage. To this day, Di bears a tiny scar just about her eyebrow from the cut I have her when I threw a battery at her - but I didn't expect to hit her, I thought she'd duck! (This excuse didn't cut much ice with my mother, who was angrier than I had ever seen her).
We left the bungalow when I was four and moved to Winterbourne, also on the outskirts of Bristol. Now we lived in a semi-detached house with STAIRS, which prompted Di and I to re-enact, over and over again, a clifftop drama in which one of us would 'dangle' from the topmost stair, holding hand with the other and pleading with them not to let go, offering all manner of bribery and blackmail, until falling to their 'death.' We found this endlessly amusing. I think the last time we played the cliff game was two Christmases ago; my nine-year-old daughter didn't find it nearly as funny as we did.
The small amount of time that we didn't spend fighting, Di and I were best friends. I told her a lot of stories and
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$؀ sometimes didn't even have to sit on her to make her stay and listen. Often the stories became games in which we both played regular characters. I was extremely bossy when I stage-managed these long-running plays but Di put up with it because I usually gave her star parts.
There were lots of children around our age living in our new street, among them a brother and sister whose surname was Potter. I always liked their name, wheras I wasn't very fond of my own; 'Rowling' (the first syllable of which is pronounced 'row' as in boat, rather than 'row' as in argument) lent itself to woeful jokes such as 'Rowling Stone,' 'Rowling pin,' and so on. Anyway, the brother has since cropped up in the press claiming to 'be' Harry. His mother has also told reports that he and I used to dress up as wizards. Neither of these claims is true; in fact, all I remember of the boy in question was that he rode a 'Chopper,' which was a bicycle everybody wanted in the seventies, and once threw a stone at Di, for which I hit him hard over the head with a plastic sword (I was the only one allowed to throw things at Di).
There were lots of children around our age living in our new street, among them a brother and sister whose surname was Potter. I always liked their name, wheras I wasn't very fond of my own; 'Rowling' (the first syllable of which is pronounced 'row' as in boat, rather than 'row' as in argument) lent itself to woeful jokes such as 'Rowling Stone,' 'Rowling pin,' and so on. Anyway, the brother has since cropped up in the press claiming to 'be' Harry. His mother has also told reports that he and I used to dress up as wizards. Neither of these claims is true; in fact, all I remember of the boy in question was that he rode a 'Chopper,' which was a bicycle everybody wanted in the seventies, and once threw a stone at Di, for which I hit him hard over the head with a plastic sword (I was the only one allowed to throw things at Di).
I enjoyed school in Winterbourne. It was a very relaxed environment; I remember lots of pottery making, drawing and story writing, which suited me perfectly. However, my parents had always harboured a dream of living in the country, and around my ninth birthday we moved for the last time, to Tutshill, a small village just outside Chepstow, in Wales.
I enjoyed school in Winterbourne. It was a very relaxed environment; I remember lots of pottery making, drawing and story writing, which suited me perfectly. However, my parents had always harboured a dream of living in the country, and around my ninth birthday we moved for the last time, to Tutshill, a small village just outside Chepstow, in Wales.
The move coincided almost exactly with the death of my favourite grandparent, Kathleen, whose name I later took when I needed an extra initial. No doubt the first bereavement of my life incluenced my feelings about my new school, which I didn't like at all. We sat all day at roll-top desks facing the blackboard. There were old inkwells set into the desktops. There was a second hold in my desk, which had been gouged out with the point of a compass by the boy who had sat there the year before. He had obviously worked away quietly out of the sight of the teacher. I tought this was a great achievement, and set to work enlarging the hole with my own compass, so that by the time I left that classroom you could comfortably wiggle your thumb through it.
The move coincided almost exactly with the death of my favourite grandparent, Kathleen, whose name I later took when I needed an extra initial. No doubt the first bereavement of my life incluenced my feelings about my new school, which I didn't like at all. We sat all day at roll-top desks facing the blackboard. There were old inkwells set into the desktops. There was a second hold in my desk, which had been gouged out with the point of a compass by the boy who had sat there the year before. He had obviously worked away quietly out of the sight of the teacher. I tought this was a great achievement, and set to work enlarging the hole with my own compass, so that by the time I left that classroom you could comfortably wiggle your thumb through it.
My secondary school, Wyedean, where I went when I was eleven, was the place I met Sean Harris, to whom Chamber of Secrets is dedicated and who owned the original Ford Anglia. He was the first of my friends to learn to drive and that turqoise and white car meant FREEDOM and no more having to ask my father to give me lifts, which is the worst thing about living in the countryside when you are a teenager. Some of the happiest memories of my teenage years involve zooming off into the darkness in Sean's car. He was the first person with whom I really discussed my serious ambition to be a writer and he was also the only person who though I was bound to be a success at it, which meant much more to me than I ever told him at the time.
My secondary school, Wyedean, where I went when I was eleven, was the place I met Sean Harris, to whom Chamber of Secrets is dedicated and who owned the original Ford Anglia. He was the first of my friends to learn to drive and that turqoise and white car meant FREEDOM and no more having to ask my father to give me lifts, which is the worst thing about living in the countryside when you are a teenager. Some of the happiest memories of my teenage years involve zooming off into the darkness in Sean's car. He was the first person with whom I really discussed my serious ambition to be a writer and he was also the only person who though I was bound to be a success at it, which meant much more to me than I ever told him at the time.
The worst thing that happened during my teenage years was my mother becoming ill. She was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, which is a disease of the central nervous system, when I was fifteen. Although most people with multiple sclerosis experience periods of remission - when their illness stopps progessing for a while, or even improves - Mum was unlucky; from the time of her diagnosis onwards she seemed to become slowly but steadily worse. I think most people believe, deep down, that their mothers are indestructible; it was a terrible shock to hear that she had an incurable illness, but even then, I did not fully realise what the diagnosis might mean.
The worst thing that happened during my teenage years was my mother becoming ill. She was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, which is a disease of the central nervous system, when I was fifteen. Although most people with multiple sclerosis experience periods of remission - when their illness stopps progessing for a while, or even improves - Mum was unlucky; from the time of her diagnosis onwards she seemed to become slowly but steadily worse. I think most people believe, deep down, that their mothers are indestructible; it was a terrible shock to hear that she had an incurable illness, but even then, I did not fully realise what the diagnosis might mean.
I left school in 1983 and went to study at the University of Exeter, on the south coast of England. I studied French, which was a mistake; I had succumbed to parental pressure to study 'useful' modern languages as opposed to 'but-where-will-it-lead?' English and really should have stood my ground. On the plus side, studying French meant that I had a year living in Paris as part of my course.
I left school in 1983 and went to study at the University of Exeter, on the south coast of England. I studied French, which was a mistake; I had succumbed to parental pressure to study 'useful' modern languages as opposed to 'but-where-will-it-lead?' English and really should have stood my ground. On the plus side, studying French meant that I had a year living in Paris as part of my course.
After leaving university I worked in London; my longest job was with Amnesty International, the organisation that campaigns against human rights abuses all over the world. But in 1990, my then boyfriend and I decided to move up to Manchester togehter. It was after a weekend's flat-hunting, when I was travelling back to London on my own on a crowded train, that the idea for Harry Potter simply fell into my head.
After leaving university I worked in London; my longest job was with Amnesty International, the organisation that campaigns against human rights abuses all over the world. But in 1990, my then boyfriend and I decided to move up to Manchester togehter. It was after a weekend's flat-hunting, when I was travelling back to London on my own on a crowded train, that the idea for Harry Potter simply fell into my head.
I had been writing almost continuously since the age of six but I had never been so excited about an idea before. To my immense frustration, I didn't have a functioning pen with me, and I was too shy to ask anybody if I could borrow one. I think, now, that this was probably a good thing, because I simply sat and thought, for four (delayed train) hours, and all the details bubbled up in my brain, and this scrawny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who didn't know he was a wizard became more and more real to me. I think that perhaps if I had had to slow down the ideas so that I could capture them on paper I might have stifled some of them (although sometimes I do wonder, idly, how much of what I imagined on that journey I had forgotten by the time I actually got my hands on a pen).
I had been writing almost continuously since the age of six but I had never been so excited about an idea before. To my immense frustration, I didn't have a functioning pen with me, and I was too shy to ask anybody if I could borrow one. I think, now, that this was probably a good thing, because I simply sat and thought, for four (delayed train) hours, and all the details bubbled up in my brain, and this scrawny, black-haired, bespectacled boy who didn't know he was a wizard became more and more real to me. I think that perhaps if I had had to slow down the ideas so that I could capture them on paper I might have stifled some of them (although sometimes I do wonder, idly, how much of what I imagined on that journey I had forgotten by the time I actually got my hands on a pen).
I began to write 'Philosopher's Stone' that very evening, although those first few pages bear no resemblance at all to anything in the finished book. I moved up to Manchester, taking the swelling manuscript with me, which was now growing in all sorts of strange directions, and including ideas for the rest of Harry's career at Hogwarts, not just his first year. Then, on December 30th 1990, something happened that changed both my world and Harry's forever: my mother died.
I began to write 'Philosopher's Stone' that very evening, although those first few pages bear no resemblance at all to anything in the finished book. I moved up to Manchester, taking the swelling manuscript with me, which was now growing in all sorts of strange directions, and including ideas for the rest of Harry's career at Hogwarts, not just his first year. Then, on December 30th 1990, something happened that changed both my world and Harry's forever: my mother died.
It was a terrible time. My father, Di and I were devastated; she was only forty five years old and we had never imagined - probably because we could not bear to contemplate the idea - that she could die so young. I remember feeling as though there was a paving slab pressing down upon my chest, a literal pain in my heart.
It was a terrible time. My father, Di and I were devastated; she was only forty five years old and we had never imagined - probably because we could not bear to contemplate the idea - that she could die so young. I remember feeling as though there was a paving slab pressing down upon my chest, a literal pain in my heart.
Nine months later, desperate to get away for a while, I left for Portugal, where I had got a job teaching English in a language institute. I took with me the still-growing manuscript of Harry Potter, hopeful that my new working hours (I taught in the afternoon and evening) would lend themselves to pressing on with my novel, which had changed a lot since my mother had died. Now, Harry's feelings about his dead parents had become much deeper, much more real. In my first weeks in Portugal I wrote my favourite chapter in Philosopher's Stone, The Mirror of Erised.
Nine months later, desperate to get away for a while, I left for Portugal, where I had got a job teaching English in a language institute. I took with me the still-growing manuscript of Harry Potter, hopeful that my new working hours (I taught in the afternoon and evening) would lend themselves to pressing on with my novel, which had changed a lot since my mother had died. Now, Harry's feelings about his dead parents had become much deeper, much more real. In my first weeks in Portugal I wrote my favourite chapter in Philosopher's Stone, The Mirror of Erised.
I hoped that when I returned from Portugal I would have a finished book under my arm. In fact, I had something even better: my daughter. I had met and married a Portuguese man, and although the marriage did not work out, it had given me the best thing in my life. Jessica and I arrived in Edinburgh, where my sister Di was living, just in time for Christmas 1994.
I hoped that when I returned from Portugal I would have a finished book under my arm. In fact, I had something even better: my daughter. I had met and married a Portuguese man, and although the marriage did not work out, it had given me the best thing in my life. Jessica and I arrived in Edinburgh, where my sister Di was living, just in time for Christmas 1994.
I intended to start teaching again and knew that unless I finished the book very soon, I might never finish it; I knew that full-time teaching, with all the marking and lesson planning, let alone with a small daughter to care for single-handedly, would leave me with absolutely no spare time at all. And so I set to work in a kind of frenzy, determined to finish the book and at least try and get it published. Whenever Jessica fell asleep in her pushchair I would dash to the nearest cafe and write like mad. I wrote nearly every evening. Then I had to type the whole thing out myself. Sometimes I actually hated the book, even while I loved it.
I intended to start teaching again and knew that unless I finished the book very soon, I might never finish it; I knew that full-time teaching, with all the marking and lesson planning, let alone with a small daughter to care for single-handedly, would leave me with absolutely no spare time at all. And so I set to work in a kind of frenzy, determined to finish the book and at least try and get it published. Whenever Jessica fell asleep in her pushchair I would dash to the nearest cafe and write like mad. I wrote nearly every evening. Then I had to type the whole thing out myself. Sometimes I actually hated the book, even while I loved it.
Finally it was done. I covered the first three chapters in a nice plastic folder and set them off to an agent, who returned them so fast they must have been sent back the same day they arrived. But the second agent I tried wrote back and asked to see the rest of the manuscript. It was far and away the best letter I had ever received in my life, and it was only two sentences long.
Finally it was done. I covered the first three chapters in a nice plastic folder and set them off to an agent, who returned them so fast they must have been sent back the same day they arrived. But the second agent I tried wrote back and asked to see the rest of the manuscript. It was far and away the best letter I had ever received in my life, and it was only two sentences long.
It took a year for my new agent, Christopher, to find a publisher. Lots of them turned it down. Then, finally, in August 1996, Christopher telephoned me and told me that Bloomsbury had 'made an offer.' I could not quite believe my ears. 'You mean it's going to be published?' I asked, rather stupidly. 'It's definitely going to be published?' After I had hung up, I screamed and jumped into the air; Jessica, who was sitting in her high-chair enjoying tea, looked thoroughly scared.
It took a year for my new agent, Christopher, to find a publisher. Lots of them turned it down. Then, finally, in August 1996, Christopher telephoned me and told me that Bloomsbury had 'made an offer.' I could not quite believe my ears. 'You mean it's going to be published?' I asked, rather stupidly. 'It's definitely going to be published?' After I had hung up, I screamed and jumped into the air; Jessica, who was sitting in her high-chair enjoying tea, looked thoroughly scared.
And you probably know what happened next.