I feel I owe you an explanation. ‘You’, my friends and family, most of whom I don’t chat with or see enough, find yourselves pounced upon by me. As if a bouncy Tigger has suddenly knocked on your front door.
‘Remember me? Pay attention to me. I can write. Did you know I can write? Of course you didn’t. I can do lots of things. Let’s go.’
‘Where too?’ you might ask.
Indulge me a little and I’ll explain further.
I first tried writing daily when I was 11 years old. Dad received countless diaries at Christmas. He begrudgingly spared me one and I was able to start with good intentions in the new year. I never even made it to the end of January. I’d miss a day, it soon became two, three, a week. School days all seemed to blend into each other. The gradient of the slippery slope too steep to recover and I was done for another year.
Journalling
Over 40 years later, I started again on 16th October 2016. A handwritten A4 journal, a page a day. I’ll be writing today’s entry after I’ve finished this. I hand write with my fountain pen and Mont Blanc ink. The colour is currently ‘Royal Blue’ but I’m itching to try ‘Burgundy Red’, Christmas presents from Donna. (I don’t finish the whole inkwell before I start the next one. Who does that?).
When I was working at CitNOW, I wrote at 6.30 most mornings apart from Friday. I was nearly always driving to Bristol then and did it after the school run. I have fond memories of sitting all day in Boston Tea Party, a caff on Gloucester Road next door to the girl’s school. A full English breakfast would usually interrupt my first paragraph. I spent the rest of the day writing web copy, a video script or a new mailing in-between conference calls and other interruptions.
It all changed when we sold the company. My 100 yard dash, running headlong to the tape was over.
Now what?
After Mum died, I held onto a narrow manila envelope for years. It contained a Co-op life insurance policy, a practical vestige from her life. The policy was old, spent and irrelevant. It was the brief handwritten notes on the envelope which I cherished. Occasionally, I'd retrieve it from my biscuit tin, just to look at her handwriting. That connection inspired me enough to start writing my own story, a memoir for the children, anyone who’s interested really. They’ll have the option of seeing more or less of me when I’m gone.
I often get asked what I do with my time on the golf course. Oldies wondering how you’ve settled into retirement. I sometimes explain, often I don’t, concerned that it might be construed wrongly. Egotist and narcissistic spring to mind.
Inspiration
Fin’s school asked for entries to a writing competition a couple of years ago. It was open to parents as well as the school. Judged by a consensus of the sixth form and no more than a handful of entries, I won. More recently, I entered a short story competition with a thousand entries. I expect nothing, but the experience has encouraged me to explore further and now spend time learning how to write.
Graham Greene said, ‘I have no talent. It’s just a question of working, of being willing to put in the time.’ There’s some truth in that but a modicum of talent goes a long way too.
What’s the difference between a blog and a newsletter?
I don’t know either, unless those handwritten seasonal round-ups on a folded sheet of A4, surreptitiously slipped into the Christmas card count as newsletters?
I started writing a blog in January. Every Friday. The joy of writing is knowing that at least one person eventually reads it. I’ve realised from my research that the best way forward is to have a relationship with a loyal list of fans. Last week, my blog transformed into a newsletter. Rather than rely on the occasional, happenstance reader, I’m building a relationship for the weeks and months ahead, daren’t say years just yet. It becomes something to look forward to, a friend popping in, but not too often. You might even feel inspired and suggest others read it.
A rich variety of topics is the idea and your comments on any and everything are always welcome.
It’s also late in lockdown (hopefully). The sourdough recipes have been proven, the Saturday night quiz worn a bit thin; what better than a 5-minute monologue or less each Friday?
You’re special
Super special, I’ve known you for years.
Last week, I ambushed most of you, bouncing into your mailboxes unannounced with a somewhat dour reflection on Portobello Market. ‘Life in the old dog yet’ would have been a better start. C’est la vie.
Normal service resumes next week. Thanks for reading and as Kylie and Jason said …..
And now we're back together, together
I want to show you my heart is oh so true
And all the love I have is
Especially for you
Andrew’s secret love for writing is a secret no more....and all his love is especially for me?! Gonna write a book then? Go on! I’m rubbish a reading books but I’d make an exception (I must try harder)!