Write here, write now

Partly inspired by the talent of a good friend, I suddenly had an urge the other day to try writing a short story.  I used to write a lot as a kid, and my favourite part of my favourite lesson at school was when we had to write ‘compositions’ in English.  I read a lot too, loads more than I do now, and got so captivated and obsessed by these books that I always wanted to create my own version – be it of Watership Down (with foxes instead of rabbits) or Anne of Green Gables (set in Cornwall) or Stig Of The Dump (‘Dick of the Den’).   I never finished any.

This time a basic plot came into my head, (and I’m not quite sure where from but it’s none of the above) as did the names of the key characters and their backgrounds.  It’s a long while since I’ve written anything straight from the imagination but I thought I’d give it a go.  It’s not that I want to do anything with it, in fact I might never show it to another soul – I’m under no illusion that anyone else would want to read it.  I just wanted to see what would happen.  I knew it would have to be something a little dark, and definitely something quite adult, to contrast with the light-hearted, child-friendly illustrations I work on the rest of the time.

I didn’t know that, once I finally got started (and that was the hardest part…), it would become so all-consuming.  I began yesterday lunchtime and worked on it sporadically throughout the rest of the day.  Then I carried on into the evening, and again into the night, only running out of steam some time past midnight.  I lay in bed, so so tired but unable to sleep, as my brain continued to re-write paragraphs and come up with new ones.  I couldn’t wait to get up and continue with it today, as I have done.  Not that I’ve got very far -  I keep going back, changing bits, retracing my steps, being taken down routes I didn't even realise were there, getting stuck, and re-reading, re-reading, re-reading.  It’s starting to drive me slightly mad and it’s not even a good story.  I’m already feeling completely spaced out by putting myself into this imaginary world, and into the heads of my made-up characters, and I’m only six pages in.  It’s as if the fictional domain has become my actual one, and my real life feels less so!  How the hell do authors do it?

A page from an early (unfinished) 'novel', circa 1975.

A bit angsty. 

Apple for the teacher

My mum liked to regale my sister and me with a tale of how she got into trouble at school once for a piece she wrote for her English class.  Given free rein to come up with something as imaginative as possible, she composed a gory and explicit horror story about a girl who accidentally swallowed an apple pip.  The pip germinated in the girl’s stomach and slowly grew into a tree inside her, eventually killing its host in a particularly agonising and gruesome way (I think it was when the branches started to poke their way out of her ears and eye sockets that it got especially grisly).   My mum told us that she took great relish in describing this as vividly  as possible – as requested in the teacher’s brief - and it sounds like something Roald Dahl could have come up with for ‘Tales Of The Unexpected’.  However, the teacher didn’t see it in such a positive light and gave her 14-year old pupil a severe reprimand, as well as having words with my grandparents expressing concern about the “inappropriately” unpleasant subject matter.  It was as if she had committed some cardinal sin.

We used to laugh at this reminiscence, my mum’s eyes gleaming mischievously as she explained the reaction her teenage story had provoked, which was clearly still very memorable to her.  Luckily it didn’t put her off writing, and as an adult she used her imagination and gift for words whenever she could; perhaps she would have blogged if this medium had been around while she was alive.  But her experience set me thinking about the effects that teachers can have – how some can absolutely bring out the best in you and be an inspiration, but others can really set you back.

My first English teacher at secondary school fell into the latter category.  I’d come out of primary school with a real love of reading and creative writing, getting good marks and being eager to learn more.  So when I started nervously at the big school with its long corridors and scary timetables and even scarier teachers, I hoped I would at least be within my comfort zone when it came to English.

Unfortunately Miss B seemed to have it in for me from the start.  She wasn’t a likeable person, with a cold, hard air about her which accentuated her extremely unfeminine presence.  I can picture her now: steely grey cropped hair, shapeless red trousers and chunky knitted patterned cardigans, sitting on the edge of the desk with her legs apart (thank god for the red trousers), looking out at her class of 12-year-old girls.  She was unable to meet the eyes of any one of us, even less able to turn the corners of her mouth up into something remotely resembling a smile.

She was American, and seemed fixated on cowboy stories.  So when she taught us grammar, the examples she gave were always along the lines of, "The cowboy (subject) rode (verb) his brown (adjective) horse (object)".  Always.  Whenever I hear the word 'posse' (not often, I grant you) I see Miss B in her red trousers chalking stick-drawings of cowboys on the blackboard. She loved that word.

I tackled each English assignment with gusto but my efforts were frequently met with humiliation.  Maybe I deserved the low marks she gave me - or perhaps it was my lack of reference to cowboys - but there was never any guidance or positivity to go with them.    And it’s one thing to encourage a reserved child to speak in front of the class to help them overcome their shyness, quite another to pick on them time and time again and then draw attention to their discomfort.  I started to dread English lessons.  I kept trying to prove myself to Miss B but it felt as if I was battling against the odds; she was never going to like nor nurture me.  Looking back I just feel disdain for her.  I know teaching isn't an easy profession but... I wasn't a troublesome pupil.  She didn't need to make me feel like crap.

Thank god, then, that she left after my second year (possibly under a cloud) and the lovely, young, warm-hearted Miss McM took her place.  Under her empathetic and inspiring mentorship I regained some confidence; English became a subject to enjoy again and I looked forward to each opportunity to write.  It didn’t matter what about – ghost stories or politics or what we did at the weekend, but never cowboys - every composition was marked with care and included encouraging comments offering constructive advice.  Thank you, Miss McM. I have a feeling you would have loved my mum’s tale of the apple pip girl. 

Beware of the pips