Writer, reader, traveller, runner, nutcase
That’s how I summarise myself on my Facebook page.
Being a writer is the newest of my traits. I’ve been the rest most of my life.
I grew up a ferocious, precocious, unstoppable reader. New books being a rarity in our house I became reliant upon my local library in Welling, South East London. I can still see it. A soft-grey stone building, the entrance a dark-wood, glass-panelled revolving door that never failed to elicit a burst of delight as I span myself around and in with a whoosh, pushing against the polished brass bar as hard as I could. Inside a shiny wooden floor, the desk straight ahead, the children’s section a glass and wood partitioned area to the right. My other home.
A traveller I’ve also been most of my life. As soon as I could crawl I wanted to explore the other end of the cot, floor, room, world. As I grew older I took buses everywhere. I owned my first Ordnance Survey topographical map at 10. When I met my wife, both 17, we travelled across the country on very little money. We used to go to Heathrow and stare at the departures board and plan. At 22, married, we went to live in Australia for three years. Whereas others spent their money on cars, clothes and a big house… and children, we saved up for flights and backpacks and wild camping tents. Nepal, Kilimanjaro, Newfoundland, South Korea, Zanzibar, Australia, New Zealand to name but a few; we were unstoppable.
Running and fitness have also always been important to me. I joined a running club, Cambridge Harriers, at 11. I played squash for twenty years. I used to run home from work in central London, 11 miles or so, three times a week. I’ve ran a 90 minute half marathon. But in moving up to Cumbria in 2003 I discovered fell running. Basically, running up hills and then throwing yourself back down them. Exhilarating.
Nutcase? Well of course, I’m a writer. The old cliché – you don’t need to be mad to be whatever, but it helps. With writing it’s a prerequisite. What sound mind would spend two years of hard graft to produce a single piece of work, the ‘success’ of which is totally unknown.
I’ve only been writing for about six years. It began, one seemingly normal day, as most adventures do, with me sitting down in front of my computer at home. I was recovering from two major surgeries in three months and needed something to get my teeth into. So, I began writing a short story for my wife. It was about a young, naive man who was sent to Japan (we’ve been there) by his employer. There he had all sorts of saucy adventures with the owner of a ryokan—a small bed and breakfast. After about 21,000 words I realised I wasn’t writing a story, I was writing a soap opera. It was just an endless collection of scenes, with no real plot. Although, saying that, I could summarise more than a few published novels in that way!
But I did realise a couple of things.
First, I was having the time of my life. When writing you are transported into your own creation, that of your story. The ‘real’ world disappears. Completely. And you can be anywhere your imagination takes you.
Second, I realised that I needed to learn—must learn—how to do this properly. So I enrolled on the only writing course that I’ve ever done, 10 weeks with the Oxford University. It was good. It was fun. But most of all it made me realise that I wasn’t a duffer. OK, no Shakespeare, but I could hold my own. After that I read many books on the art and craft, including On Writing, by Stephen King. There I learnt the only piece of advice that every writer needs to memorise. Read a lot; write a lot. That’s it. So, ever since, I have.
I wrote my first book, Blackmailed.
A blackmailer who falls in love with her victim,
a mother who hates children
and a husband who loves them both.
Did I really expect it to get published. Of course not.
Did I hope with all my heart that it would get published. Of course I did.
Did it get published? Of course not. The first book I’d ever written!
So, I’m currently writing my second. And it’s nearly done.
My third is already in my head.
Then the fourth.
I can’t see it ever stopping.
Writers don’t retire.
Enjoy the blog.
