Confessions of an Author

Hearing What Is Meant 2 When I was teaching at Limpsfield Infant School, I would very often look up from taking the morning register, to find a child standing next to me. “What’s the matter Tommy?” I would ask (though it might be Jane or Christopher or Matthew). “I’ve got a tummy ache,” they would reply. And I would guess that whatever the first subject of the day was, they found it difficult. Usually I would assure them that maths gave  me  a tummy ache too, and we would sit down together and try to sort it out. (Of course, sometimes they really did have a tummy ache, and I will never forget the day that a girl – whose name I remember clearly – vomited all over me. This was not helped when her mother – who I also remember – came to collect her and seemed to find it terribly funny, even though the child was ill because she’d just been taken to have vaccinations for a holiday. There is so much I could say here, but hey, I’m over it. Sort of.) Anyway, my point...

The Tale of a Portmeirion Mug 1 I found a packet of microwave salted caramel pudding in James’ bedroom. Becky gave it to him, and I have absolutely no idea why his bedroom was an ideal place to keep it, so I moved it to the kitchen. It sat there, in the cupboard, tempting me to eat it, while I waited several weeks for him to return from uni. When James eventually came home, I mentioned the pudding, and asked what his plan was. He said he’d forgotten all about it, but as I’d reminded him, perhaps I would like to share it. This seemed an excellent idea, so we read the instructions, and found it could all be made in a mug, it simply needed us to add some melted butter. I have some very nice mugs, bought ages ago, with flowers on, so we used those and followed the instructions. It wasn’t particularly difficult, and within moments I had a mug of delicious salted caramel pudding. However, when James lifted his own pudding from the microwave, the mug was full of cracks on the ...

Caution: Old(er) Woman Running It was Grandpa’s 80th birthday, so we invited the family round for cakes and scones. Those of you who remember that I am meant to be reducing my cholesterol levels, might be wondering how cakes and scones fit with this. But my mother told me to never answer questions like that. To be fair, I have tried to increase my exercise, and I have started to run. Opposite our house is a big field, about 25 miles in circumference, and when I walk the dog, I now jog for some of it. It’s nicely remote, so no one can see me, and I started to run just a few paces, then walk to recover, then run a little further. I can now jog around 3/4 of the field, which I think is pretty good going. I won’t be entering the marathon, as other people might measure distances differently. As soon as I start to run, the dog picks up a stick, and then trots in front of me, tail up, head forward, as if showing me that she thinks my speed is pathetic. When Son 2 is with me, I...

A Flaming Nuisance Sometimes life doesn’t go to plan, does it? In fact, sometimes, quite major things can go wrong, and part of life is deciding what to do next when disaster strikes. This week has been a little like that. One disaster was due to the hot weather we’ve been having. My mum, having survived a week in Camber with me, then phoned in bit of a panic, as the trees near her house were on fire. I went down to see if it was safe for her to stay there, and found the whole area filled with smoke and the smell of charred wood. There was a fire engine, and a lot of people, mainly neighbours who had come out to watch. The people who lived right next to the fire had been evacuated, and the other neighbours were finding them chairs and cups of tea, holding their hands and being generally helpful. Sometimes people are very nice. I decided to bring Mum to my house, mainly so she didn’t have to breathe all the fumes, and also so she could recover from the shock somewhere pe...

Writing About a Different Culture 2 It was with some trepidation that I began to write CLARA. I had recently returned from a visit to see the work of ActionAid in the slums of India. I had visited women who have incredibly tough lives, sat in their homes, listened to their stories, and it affected me. I wanted to tell the world what I had seen and heard, and weaving it into a story seemed the best way for me to do this. Over the next 18 months, I visited India several times. I contacted Tearfund, and they showed me the work they are doing amongst women in the Red Light District. I met women who had been trafficked, I chatted to sex workers, I wandered through slums. My eyes were hungry, as I absorbed what I was seeing. However, how does one write about a culture that is vastly different to ones own? Does an author even have the right to try and describe things that they have never experienced? Well, yes, obviously – otherwise all crime writers would be convicted crimi...