How I Became a Writer
Every interview with an author features the big question: "Why are you a writer?" For the record, it should be a 'how' rather than a 'why' - it's not as though we're bitten by a radioactive insect and decide to embark upon this isolated, frustrating but wonderful career. So here's my how rather than why.
I was seven years old. My parents were going through a particularly acrimonious breakup. My father was a narcissist who viewed my sister and I as weapons to hurt my mum. I haven't the heart to recount the vile things he said and did. Suffice to say, I spent much of my childhood in therapy.
I was a hellcat in those days. I was anti authoritarian and anti religion even as a child; I practically lived outside the headmaster's office. I hadn't been diagnosed as dyspraxic yet, so my poor social skills and constant state of simmer were a source of misery and confusion, especially to Mum. She must have wondered how she had produced Jane - a model pupil who was never in trouble - and this anarchic hoyden. I might have served as a billboard for the dismal effects of a broken home. My teachers had already written me off.
Then we were given the assignment. Who knows why it affected me so powerfully. Perhaps it's because we were asked to be creative - our previous essays had been along the lines of "Describe your last holiday", or, at a stretch, "You're in the Roman army. How do you feel?" (I still smart at being told the sentence, 'Me, the army and the elephants' didn't make sense. Perhaps that explains my loathing of Write Your Own History tasks). Mrs O'Brien only had two directives: we could write about whatever we liked and it had to be original.
I suspect that if I read 'In the Haunted House' today, I'd die of embarrassment. Probably Mum has it stashed away somewhere. At the time it was the most joyful thing I had done. Drawing upon Roald Dahl, my favourite writer, and illustrated by Jane, it ran to twenty eight pages. The scene with the giant spider was agreed to be the highlight.
The effect of this project - which I'd loved doing - was astounding. It was read aloud to the other classes; even old enemies on the staff congratulated me. My thoughts were reeling. I could get this much praise from writing a story? Had I found something I was actually good at?
They say music can soothe the savage beast. I wouldn't know - I'm virtually tone deaf. But writing changed me from an underachieving ankle biter to someone with a passion, a vocation.
Some creations were more durable than others. Gloria the genie (a drag queen before I'd even seen one) was blasted for continually using the word 'frigging', which I innocently thought meant 'very'. I asked what it meant and my teacher refused to tell me. Ziggy, my beloved imaginary dragon friend, appeared in every format from diaries to scripts. There were comics, plays, rock operas (blame Andrew Lloyd Webber) and half written books. I managed to finish two, So Faithful a Follower and The Fortnum Files. They were both sent to publishers.
With fourteen years' distance I can see they made the right decision. Who'd publish something by a half formed teenager? (It didn't help that The Fortnum Files, a vehicle for Ziggy, had gone to a press that specialised in erotica). But at fifteen I had no sense of perspective and a humongous ego. I'd swing between thinking they were cowboys with no appreciation of my genius (!) to lamenting my lost talent, and planning to bid it farewell in a symbolic ceremony. I was a pretentious little git.
When I learned you could study creative writing at uni, I was stunned. I immediately applied to the two that provided it, Warwick and Lancaster. Warwick was a no go - I hadn't passed my Maths GCSE at that point - but Lancaster made a provisional offer for 3 Bs.
The rest is history.
I was seven years old. My parents were going through a particularly acrimonious breakup. My father was a narcissist who viewed my sister and I as weapons to hurt my mum. I haven't the heart to recount the vile things he said and did. Suffice to say, I spent much of my childhood in therapy.
I was a hellcat in those days. I was anti authoritarian and anti religion even as a child; I practically lived outside the headmaster's office. I hadn't been diagnosed as dyspraxic yet, so my poor social skills and constant state of simmer were a source of misery and confusion, especially to Mum. She must have wondered how she had produced Jane - a model pupil who was never in trouble - and this anarchic hoyden. I might have served as a billboard for the dismal effects of a broken home. My teachers had already written me off.
Then we were given the assignment. Who knows why it affected me so powerfully. Perhaps it's because we were asked to be creative - our previous essays had been along the lines of "Describe your last holiday", or, at a stretch, "You're in the Roman army. How do you feel?" (I still smart at being told the sentence, 'Me, the army and the elephants' didn't make sense. Perhaps that explains my loathing of Write Your Own History tasks). Mrs O'Brien only had two directives: we could write about whatever we liked and it had to be original.
I suspect that if I read 'In the Haunted House' today, I'd die of embarrassment. Probably Mum has it stashed away somewhere. At the time it was the most joyful thing I had done. Drawing upon Roald Dahl, my favourite writer, and illustrated by Jane, it ran to twenty eight pages. The scene with the giant spider was agreed to be the highlight.
The effect of this project - which I'd loved doing - was astounding. It was read aloud to the other classes; even old enemies on the staff congratulated me. My thoughts were reeling. I could get this much praise from writing a story? Had I found something I was actually good at?
They say music can soothe the savage beast. I wouldn't know - I'm virtually tone deaf. But writing changed me from an underachieving ankle biter to someone with a passion, a vocation.
Some creations were more durable than others. Gloria the genie (a drag queen before I'd even seen one) was blasted for continually using the word 'frigging', which I innocently thought meant 'very'. I asked what it meant and my teacher refused to tell me. Ziggy, my beloved imaginary dragon friend, appeared in every format from diaries to scripts. There were comics, plays, rock operas (blame Andrew Lloyd Webber) and half written books. I managed to finish two, So Faithful a Follower and The Fortnum Files. They were both sent to publishers.
With fourteen years' distance I can see they made the right decision. Who'd publish something by a half formed teenager? (It didn't help that The Fortnum Files, a vehicle for Ziggy, had gone to a press that specialised in erotica). But at fifteen I had no sense of perspective and a humongous ego. I'd swing between thinking they were cowboys with no appreciation of my genius (!) to lamenting my lost talent, and planning to bid it farewell in a symbolic ceremony. I was a pretentious little git.
When I learned you could study creative writing at uni, I was stunned. I immediately applied to the two that provided it, Warwick and Lancaster. Warwick was a no go - I hadn't passed my Maths GCSE at that point - but Lancaster made a provisional offer for 3 Bs.
The rest is history.
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