Writing History

I found it relatively easy, in Early Scribbles to explore my reading history and feelings towards books.

Writing is as much a passion for me as reading is, but my relationship with writing is more difficult to chart. Perhaps this is because it is much easier to share favourite books and characters than to discuss preferred pieces of writing.

I don't know if this is a real memory or one of those stories that is passed down in family folklore and becomes, by default, a memory. On my very first day at school, aged three, I wrote my name on a drawing I had done.  The nuns, (for it was a Catholic school) were in raptures, amazed that I was capable of such a thing.  I didn't really understand what all the fuss was about; I had been writing my name for a while. But they insisted on giving me a small cuddly toy in recognition of this 'feat', and my mother glowed with pride when she came to collect me.  There indeed was an early confirmation of the transforming power of the written word.

I wrote a story called 'The School Caretaker' when I was about five, that I also mentioned in that first post.  The narrative was simple: I wrote in the first person as the caretaker and described incredibly mundane tasks that I performed through the day - like changing a lightbulb and sweeping up in the locker area.  Again, my teachers enthused.  My grandmother kept the little exercise book in which the story was written until the day she died. There was further validation of how powerful writing could be in the reactions of the adults around me.

I recall gaining the final credit I needed for a Headteacher's Award for an essay on Maximilian Kolbe, and then a second one for an argumentative piece on the channel tunnel (before it had been built).  In the final year of middle school I won the History Prize for my 100-page project on the history of my local village.  I'd presented it chronologically, showing how it had grown from its first entry in the 1341 census, moving right towards the present day and including taped interviews with elderly residents who had talked about their own memories of the place changing. The prize was a book token, and I chose a book on British wildlife that I still have today.

So those amount to my early writing triumphs.  If there were public disasters, I have blotted them out. I was a furious diary writer from my early teens to my early twenties and I would have been mortified had anyone found and read those entries, so personal were they.  I no longer keep a journal but I do have a notebook that I am often scribbling in, though with nothing as formal as diary entires. And I have always written poetry, sporadically at times, but it is always there in the background.  I am also, in spite of this digital age, an avid letter-writer.  Nothing beats a hand-written letter.  Nothing shows quite how much you care for the recipient.  I have had pen-pals since school-days, and sustained a teenage romance by weekly letters when the object of my desire was at boarding school in Wales.  These have bee replaced now by  friends in far-flung corners of the earth.  Most of them in parts of Australia, where I was lucky enough to teach for a year, and tempting though it is to use email to keep in touch, I try as far as possible to write letters. 

I have had many fountain pens over the years. I prefer to write in real ink, but I don't have a special affinity with one particular writing implement.  I just replace my Parker every few years as it goes missing at school or starts to leak.  If I'm working on something creative my favourite place to go is a local cafe, sitting near the window. Well, it worked for J K Rowling, so who knows?

So, there you have it: some of my earliest memories to my current practices, and the kinds of writing that have played the most important part in my life.  How do you recall your own writing history?

The Queen's Diamond Jubilee, June 2012

I have to be honest, it has taken me a long time to work on my own Jubilee piece.  I found it difficult.  I really enjoyed all the different photographs that had been taken during lessons, but it was hard to choose a single image, and hard to link it with my own thoughts and feelings about the Jubilee celebrations.

I have enjoyed reading Carol Ann Duffy's Jubilee Lines anthology of poetry of the last sixty years.  The Royal Visit by Fleur Adcock and Carol Ann Duffy's own The Thames seemed particularly powerful.  Adcock's poem because of the personal significance of a royal moment and the interesting juxtapositions emphasised as a result, and Duffy's personification of the river to evoke all its rich and varied history.  Both seem to see the respective royal celebrations as something simultaneously significant and not.

I was eventually inspired by a photograph over at http://uptotheskiesanddownagain.blogspot.co.uk/ which showed a Union flag filtered by sunlight with trees behind.  The picture seemed to be somehow nostalgic.  It resonated with me and brought back memories of earlier royal celebrations: the Silver Jubilee in 1977 and the wedding of Prince Charles and Lady Diana in 1981.  The result is the poem below.  I have deliberately played with rhyme.  I wonder if readers can see how, and why.

The Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, June 2012

Sunlight strains through the trees above
(A welcome break from this endless rain)
And makes a Union Jack translucent
And I see right through it, child again,

To ’77 and a flurry of flags
A blurry bustle of colour and crowd
Coke with a straw and a bag of crisps
The picture is vague, the memory half-formed.

In ’81 the edges are sharper
More flags and waving for a new princess:
In an enchanted fairy-tale golden carriage
And miles and miles of wedding dress.

Now my daughter is five years old.
I engineer for her some memories too.
So we string the bunting across the house
And dress in red and white and blue.

There’s face-painting and parties galore
A commemorative mug given out at school;
The Thames flotilla on the television, and singing
God Save the Queen in our living room.

Why is it that I want her to remember
This jubilant moment of history in the making?
To own her own heritage, perhaps, and to be
A part of something bigger than ourselves.