We’re only moving six miles away but swapping a busy main road for quiet rural road will be like another world for us. It hasn’t been an easy journey on every level (that’s an entirely different blog post)but we’re on the home stretch and ALL we have to do now is the dreaded packing.
I’ve never denied being a “never know when it might come in handy” hoarder, self-confessed shoe addict and collector of ‘sheep’ themed(don’t ask) stuff and various vintage items aka tat by my sons (trendy now but naff when I first started raking round charity shops). I don’t travel light, EVER, so having to pack all my knick knacks has been an epic task. I set myself to declutter mode and halfway through the sifting through process, I unearthed an explanation as to why I have chosen to devote so much time and energy to pursuing my dream of being a published author. I found an old letter amongst the junk gems that proved that I’ve always loved to write and always needed to write.
My oldest pal, Gillian (we met outside the Co-op when we were four) recently returned a ‘letter’ I’d written to her when I was fourteen. After cringing and being amazed that my handwriting was once legible, I forgot all about the wee note. But rereading it made me realise that the need to put pen to paper has always been a part of who I am. I lived only streets away from Gillian and saw her pretty much every day at school or at home and yet I still felt the need to write her letters on a daily basis. I would give her the latest letter at the bus stop each morning, even although I could easily have told her the contents on the trip to high school.
Here’s a couple of excerpts with names omitted to spare the innocent,
“X has a bloody cheek…she can be a stuck-up little cow at times and she’s getting right up my nose these days. I’m feart to open my mouth or she’ll start arguing with me.”
“X is getting 3 bottles of Cider and she wants me to come ‘cos they’ll not drink it all themselves.”
Riveting stuff, eh?
P.S. I doubt you’ll be able to translate the French, you dosser!”
Charming! My defence is that I was finding my writing ‘voice’!
It seems that I always did have a way with words, thankfully, Gillian puts up with my ‘humour’ and we’re still pals forty years on. I must have written to Gillian hundreds of times growing up and the letters were always full of adolescent angst and teenage melodrama (I haven’t really changed at all). I wish Gillian had kept all the letters because there is bound to be something that I could use now in my writing (a female Adrian Mole with a Scottish twist?) or just to make me laugh.
Have you always felt the need to express yourself in words? Did you write a diary, letters, and stories or even pen your first novel as a child?