Yeah, I’m Right-Brained. You?
If, as a person, I had to be categorised and filed away, you’d find me under ‘c’ for creative. For much of my life, writing’s had a magnetic hold on me, and I’ve been wondering, lately, what made me that way? Why not choose music or art? Why not design jewellery, create amazing things with clay, or sculpt?
Well, for starters, I’m not a fan of mess, and painting and crafts can be chaotic. I mean, you don’t have to clean up after clicking away on a keyboard, do you? The worst you have to deal with is some crumpled paper, and maybe a leaky ink cartridge or two. As for music, let’s just say my co-ordination and musical skills are in an early – and for that, read neanderthal – stage of development, but more on that later.
Looking back, I suspect, I didn’t choose writing, it was writing that chose me.
Cover of The Cat in the Hat
Even as a small child, books and I had a bit of a love affair going on. In the beginning, it was Dr Seuss and the Mister Men who captured my imagination, with bright pictures, quirky characters, and eccentric storylines. (And predictably, the slightly sinister, yet strangely alluring, Cat in the Hat, has crossed over in adult life, into my taste in men.) It was also around this time that you couldn’t keep me away from the spells, castles, and witches of Grimms’ Fairy Tales. And yes, I was that annoying kid at school that actually enjoyed Sally and Paul books.
But, by about seven or eight, something changed in the way I was reading. If I remember rightly, it was the Famous Five series and later, the Chronicles of Narnia that seduced me. Through Blyton and Lewis, reading became an adventure, where the characters’ personalities were more diverse, and the girls had their own minds – and, often misbehaved – like boys. In these books, kids were free, and by reading about them, I too, was unshackled from the confines of mundane family life.
Curiosity at the ready, I tiptoed, wide-eyed, into children’s classics: Alice In Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, What Katy Did, Black Beauty, Heidi, and Jane Eyre. Mesmerised by the stories, my imagination was free to roam, and experiment. One minute I’d be viewing society through the eyes of a horse (I always wanted to be able to morph into an animal, weird child that I was). In another moment, I’d see what it was to suffer a debilitating illness, or what life would be if everything was topsy-turvy, and the people around me talked in riddles (not so different from adult life). Reading gave me a sense of history outside my family and friendships. It gathered exciting worlds into the four walls of my bedroom. I loved the variety, the unpredicatablity. Reading drew me in. (And, just think what I might have been like, had the Harry Potter Chronicles existed then. I think I would have spontaneously combusted.)
Only-Child Syndrome Leads to…
Any psychologist would probably say that I immersed myself in books because I was an only child. I know that. But, it doesn’t matter. To me, books were more than just a past-time – they were my companions. Even now, when I sit with a good book, I get that same sense of comfort and warmth as I bask in the words. But, it has to be a real book, with real pages – it’s my age, you know? The echoes of childhood coziness can only be reborn with the touch of the paper on my fingers; when I see the wad of the pages I’ve already read, and the pages yet to read. An e-reader won’t do. The sense of satisfaction isn’t the same. On top of that, the glare hurts your eyes – books aren’t meant to be bright. And plastic doesn’t feel soft on your fingers, either.
So it’s clear where my love of reading comes from. But what is it that, throughout my life, has tickled the back of my neck, pushing me to write? One reason – I’m a little ashamed to say – isn’t so altruistic. If you come closer, I’ll whisper it in your ear…
… Attention Seeking Behaviour
I have, on occasion, been known to lose myself in that popular cliche of the fantasy world. You know, the one about being rich and famous and gaining the respect and admiration of the world at large? Yes, that one. Where you laud it up at a book signing, or a publicity event, and the crowd hangs onto your every word? At one point, someone might even gasp.
What? You mean you’ve never had that fantasy? Well, yes, I am embarrassed, and I do apologise… but it is only a dream. And it does remain in my head.
I’ve never hired real people to re-enact it.
Not yet, anyway.
In my own defence, I do know my limitations. I once had a similar fantasy about being a singer. That is, until the age of ten, when I heard myself on a tape recorder belting out Memory from Cats. Let’s just say, when I heard my singing, I realised it was within my capacity to give any alley-cat a run for its money. And, don’t worry, Barbara Streisand – your job is safe.
Really, It’s Not About the Glory
For all I’ve said, fame isn’t a focus for me, (though to earn an income from writing is a different matter). I’m just not outgoing enough. Yes, I’ve been an exhibitionist at times, but alcohol is usually to blame. Okay, I admit, I once did a Dirty Dancing-style double act at a party in front of hundreds of people, but this would never have happened if I’d been sober. I am, at heart, a shrinking violet.
Take, for example, my hatred of public-speaking. Me speaking, that is, not others. I’ve done it, but it’s not a pleasant experience – for me, or for those watching. Imagine Bridget Jones at the book launch of Kafka’s Motorbike, and you’ve got a slightly improved version of me.
But the worst thing, I find, is when I’m out socially with a group. I’m safely ensconced in a corner, talking to a close friend, when cruelly, my feeling of security is turned on its head. It’s that moment when I become aware that my private anecdote has caught the attention of our crowd. They turn, en-masse, to listen. As I’m not very good in the spotlight – not without the help of a large bottle of wine, anyway – their unexpected change of focus makes me veer off from my tale, which up to this point, was mildly entertaining. In an amazing feat of carcrash-storytelling, I stall my words, and inevitably smash the timing of the punchline. At this point, the story’s usually tailed off to nothing more than a shrug. And, do you know what’s worse? The collective mental sigh of their disappointment as I fluff my lines.
It’s About the Magic
So, if it’s not about the limelight, what is it that I get from writing? What do I want to achieve?
I suppose in part, writing is about the attention. It’s a chance to show off what you can do, but unlike a band on the stage, an author doesn’t have to appear as the front-man (or woman). Not unless they want to.
The words speak for themselves.
It’s the writing that’s the star.
Yes, readers might be interested in who a writer is; their life; their ideas; what motivates them. But it’s the writing that holds their attention – hopefully. This lets me off the hook a bit. As you know, I’m not very good if I’m put on the spot.
But my main motivation is that I want people to go out and choose to read my stories, and when they do, I want them to get so lost in the words, character, and plot, that they forget they are reading. I want them to get so absorbed, that they only come up for air when they need to eat, drink, pee, or remember that they’ve forgotten to pick up their children from school. I want someone to feel as I did, aged seven, when I read about a group of four siblings unexpectedly passing through the back of a wardrobe, into a magical world enchanted by a witch.
The Chronicles of Narnia (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
See, it doesn’t matter how old you are, to love books. With most things, as you grow older, you lose the freshness of life. Food doesn’t taste as good, travel is less exciting, new toys (or gadgets) quickly lose their appeal – but when you read a great book, it’s just like that first time. When you lose yourself in words – whether it be for fifteen minutes, an hour, or on a particularly long stint, an overnighter – you simply don’t want the book, or your adventure, to end.
It’s like lying on a bed as a child, book open, fiddling with the worn corners of a page. You’re not just reading about Narnia.
You are there.
It’s that feeling I want to recreate in the reader, when I write.
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