Charles Dickens was awfully fond of pudding. Also gravy and tweed. But not altogether. That’s besides the point. He seemed like a normal enough fellow at first, scribbling away on endless sheets of paper seemed only mildly eccentric, but once he started back-flipping down the path, his neighbors got concerned. There were many whispered discussions over fence posts.
The more superstitious among them secretly wondered at Charles Dickens’ meteoric rise to success. Wondered what kind of deals he’s made, and with whom, while making warding signs against evil eyes and other dark forces. Old Scratch was known for taking an interest, they muttered darkly, in those who thought they could take on the role of creator. I mean, all the same, they still raced down to the tobacconists every Thursday for the latest on Little Nell, the Heeps, Micawber, Pickwick, and Durpledorper. Faustian bargain or no, that Dickens was a damn fine writer. Funny too!
Meanwhile, Dickens kept on scribbling furiously. Keen observer of human nature that he was, he totally missed all that neighborly concern. Really, the giant pentagram around his house should have clued him in, but Charles Dickens was oblivious.
He just kept on writing and playing with his kids.