Writing What You Know

Image from Pixabay

They say that everyone has a novel in them. As a factual freelance writer, I wasn’t sure that I did, but a couple of years ago, I had a strange experience.  Navigating the wiggly road from Worlingworth to Framlingham, a sentence dropped into my head. “I am a very lucky little girl.”

Sitting having a cuppa with my husband, I wondered aloud where this sentence came from and what it could mean. He’d been hearing about it all week, so he gave me a piece of excellent advice. “You’re a writer. Sit down and write.”

I sat down and turned on my laptop. I opened a new Word document and typed the sentence. I didn’t stop typing. I sat there writing and writing. I didn’t stop until I’d written 10 pages. I looked up. My husband was gazing at me. “What was that???” “Search me”, I replied, “but I’ve written something.” That night, I could hardly wait to get the children to bed so that I could write some more.

I sat down at about 9.00. I’d only meant to write a little more, but next time I looked at the clock, it was 3.00 in the morning. By Monday I’d written 10,000 words and by the following Friday, it was up to 50,000. I had the beginnings of a novel and I hadn’t thought about it, planned it or agonised over it. It had simply come tumbling out. I had to keep writing because I knew these people and what they were up to and I had to get it down quick.

About halfway through, I realised that I’d written what I know. For 13 years, I’ve been immersed in school life. Our eldest started nursery at our village primary school in April 2006. All three children have gone there. My youngest is in her final year. My life has revolved around the school run, the playground, homework, book bags, classroom dynamics, parents’ evening and all the stuff that goes on at the school gate. So naturally, my lucky little girl was at primary school, writing about her life.

My heroine, Kitty, is a 10-year old girl in Year 5. I’ve written exactly what I know, to the extent that my daughter reading over my shoulder recognised several of her classmates in Kitty’s year. I hadn’t realised that everything I’ve observed over the past few years had made it into the novel, as well as a good chunk of completely made-up stuff and some memories from my own time at primary school.

Kitty chats artlessly about what she sees. The point of the novel is that she’s a child and some of the things she’s describing should make the reader worried, or uncomfortable, as they see something she can’t.

My experiences of being on the PTA have made it into the book too. After an event, Kitty says: “There had been hundreds of people at the school fête, but when it was time to tidy up, they all remembered they had to go home.” Every PTA since time began has struggled to find volunteers, given untold hours for the good of the children, begged for cake donations and found themselves picking Haribos off the gym floor at 9 o’clock at night.

Nothing changes. There will always be the late mum rushing up the path (I’ve been her many times), the teacher marching across the playground eyeballing a quailing parent to talk about challenging behaviour, the cliques, the huddle of PTA members talking about how to get volunteers and who’s going to wear the elf costume at the Christmas Fair this year.

My book is about this life. It’s a world within a world. This very Saturday, our own PTA are putting on a Christmas Shopping event. I know, without knowing, that they’ll be up late compiling lists and working out who does what, lying awake worrying about whether the stall holders will turn up and if they do, if there will be anyone coming through the doors. It has always been so, and probably always will be.

I used to ask myself, “Why did I think that was a good idea?” as I looked back over my three years on the PTA. It was hard, and tiring and sometimes discouraging. But if nothing else (and there were good things too) it gave me a whole world of experience to draw on to write my own book.

So maybe it is true. A novel in all of us, even the tired, stressed, perennially late parents at the school gates. Life is copy, friends, whatever that life might be.

Image from Pixabay

Hitting the high notes

I can’t sing. You know when people say that and you’re expected to disagree with them. “Yes, you can. You have a beautiful voice. You shouldn’t be so modest.”

No. Honestly. I really can’t. The only time I sing (and I use that word advisedly) is in the car by myself with the windows tightly closed and on the way to gymnastics in Ipswich on a Monday night with my 11-year old daughter. She doesn’t mind, or doesn’t notice that I can’t carry a tune.

I’m always incredibly impressed by anyone who can stand up on a stage, open their mouth and sing. I can’t imagine what that might feel like and I very much doubt I will ever get the chance to find out.

One of our favourite CDs is “Blessings” by Christina Johnston. At some point, my daughter will always turn to me and say, “Mummy, how does she make those noises with her voice?” And I reply, “Practice. And a whole lot of talent.” Or words to that effect.

Christina is a Suffolk girl who has become an internationally celebrated coloratura soprano. I didn’t know what that meant either. It’s someone who is able to sing elaborate melodies with runs, trills and leaps. To hear what I mean, click here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DMUTFkrj_bI.

Christina is not only an incredibly talented singer, she is a kind, generous and giving person too. She’s one of Framlingham’s greatest exports (along with Ed Sheeran, Matthew Sheeran and Laura Wright – is there something in the water?) In spite of a dazzling CV including singing for many world leaders, appearing on stage, making an album with Matt Sheeran and being personally invited by Jose Carreras to sing with him at his farewell concert, Christina has come back home to live in Suffolk and gives of her talent generously to help good causes.

One of these is the amazing work done by my friends Jane and Alan Hutt at The Beehive Nakuru. https://beehiveafrica.org/. They left Suffolk to go and set up a loving family home for very young girls and their babies six years ago. They know Christina from church and she is kindly giving a concert in Ipswich this Saturday to help them.

Believe me when I tell you that listening to Christina is like hearing an angel sing. That’s not my trademark hyperbole. At her last concert in Framlingham, I was wandering around setting everything up while she was practicing, and her beautiful voice soaring up to the rafters brought tears to my eyes. I’m not a crier, and while I love music, it doesn’t usually touch me like that. Writing and poetry, yes. Music, not usually. But there’s something about Christina and her God-given talent that does move me to tears. Listening to her hitting the high notes (and she really, really does) is a beautiful and uplifting experience.

If you’d like to come and hear her for yourself, please click on this link: https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=10162411839520052&set=gm.722999778200766&type=3&theater

There are still a few tickets left. Last time Christina sang for us, we sold out. It was standing room only and with good reason. Let me know if you’d like me to reserve some tickets. She’s inspired me to write at least two pieces so far and I can’t wait to hear her sing again on Saturday.

I can’t sing. Honestly. I can’t. But I can write and I hope my words will give you the chance to listen to a voice which has no equal, in my humble opinion.

It's all completely fabulous!

Here is my first blog on the ACW blog More Than Writers. I feel so proud to have been asked to contribute alongside some amazing writers.

https://morethanwriters.blogspot.com/2019/11/its-all-completely-fabulous-by-ruth.html

How I Became A Writer

Let me take you back in time to Theydon Bois County Primary School, nestled in Epping Forest, West Essex. It’s 1972. I’m six years old, sitting in Mrs Camus’s class. I’ve just made a fantastic discovery. Using our standard issue chunky crayons, I’m able to create a pleasing shade of pink on my drawing by using first red, then white.

Mrs Camus asked us all to write something down in our writing books (we didn’t call it literacy then). I drew a picture of a lady wearing a pink dress using my new two crayon technique, then carefully wrote these words in wobbly writing. “My aunt came round. We went out.”

That day, sitting on my little wooden chair in Class Three, I became a writer. My aunt had not come round. I had actually never met her due to an exciting family feud. We had not gone out. We rarely went out. It was all made up. It was the first time I realised that you could write something which was not true and get a gold star for it. Mrs Camus was very pleased.

Back then, our young minds were formed by reading about the lives of Janet and John. When you could prove that you were a confident reader, you graduated to the gender specific world of Peter and Jane. Life was simple. Mum stayed at home and cooked and cleaned, aided by Jane, while Dad went out to work then came home and flew a kite with Peter. They may have had a dog[1]. I could barely count to ten and was useless at sport, but when it came to reading and writing, I was a prodigy. I whizzed through each misogynistic tale at top speed, finding that I could read twice as fast as everyone else and still retain every word in my memory.

In the long hot summer of 1977, I was in my last year at Theydon. We sweltered through the days with the smell of chalk dust and powder paint in the air. One day, we were asked to write a poem. I was delighted and immediately set to composing some verses.

I produced a poem about the forest. A few days later, a strange man appeared in our classroom accompanied by the Headmistress. Most unusually, our teacher seemed nervous and there was lots of frowning and head shaking at the quartet of spirited boys on the table by the glockenspiels.

I suppose the man was the 1970s equivalent of an Ofsted inspector. There was certainly a lot of bowing and scraping going on. Suddenly, he loomed up behind me and asked to read my poem. I didn’t really have a choice, so I muttered something and sat there with my cheeks burning while he read it. He made approving noises and the Headmistress murmured, “That’s a remarkable poem for a child of her age.” I seemed to have passed some kind of test. It felt pretty good.

Life went on. I passed the Eleven Plus which meant that I ended up at the local girls’ grammar. I hated it and pushed the idea of being a writer to the back of my head. I had enough to do getting through the days without wasting energy on a dream which was never going to come true.

My twenties and thirties were the usual whirl of work, making friends and finding out who I might be. I was pretty hazy on the latter, but deep down, somewhere in that busy life, a little voice would occasionally remind me that I was a writer. I ignored it, naturally. People would sometimes talk about following their dreams, but I had no idea what that meant. To me, giving a voice to that six-year old girl with her green notebook and crayons was tantamount to offering a fragile Christmas ornament to an angry rhino. Why would you?

Two years ago, four things happened in one week. None of them were huge, in the grand scheme of things, but they conspired to send me into a spiral of enormous sadness. I felt helpless. Life was grey. I went to see a counsellor.

On my second appointment, we talked about writing. I told him the story I’ve just told you. He said, “Ruth, you’re a writer.” I snorted in disbelief.

And yet. Driving home, a sentence dropped into my brain and wouldn’t go away. I sat down and wrote 10,000 words in a day. Then another 40,000. In five days, I wrote 70,000. I didn’t even have to think. A whole world came tumbling out, peopled with characters I seemed to know. Then I started writing poems. Again, I didn’t think. They simply fell out of my heart.

And that is how I became a writer. Through pain, low self-esteem, hope, sadness and doubt. One of my favourite quotes is this: “Writing is easy. You just sit down and open a vein.”

I don’t use crayons any more. It’s been a while since I did a drawing of a lady. However, I am, most certainly and without doubt, a writer. Thank you, Mrs Camus.

---

[1] They did. Pat.