The Storyteller

I couldn't tell you the first story I wrote, and even less the first I conjured up in my fevered imagination. I remember one at primary school, which featured two princesses who'd dyed their hair pink and purple. I remember I wrote something else when I was eight or nine that got me in trouble at school because I used swear words (oh, the unspeakable anarchy of rebellion!). I remember The Story of Tottenham Teddy, which was technically a collaboration with a boy in my class called Lee, but written by me because I took over and he lost interest.

I remember my Mammy teaching me to type on our Amstrad computer, and I used this skill to write the hopefully lost secret diary of a girl called Dannii.

I know that such creative writing was the only homework I ever put any effort into at secondary school. I remember something about a Marilyn who was shipwrecked on an island or something which featured clipart (went overboard when we got a Windows PC. It was all flouncy fonts, clipart and colour for about a year and a half.) There was also an aborted attempt to write a 'Return to Pepperland' which died when I couldn't bring myself to write real people - The Beatles - which is still something I won't do.

There was another Secret Diary (I liked the form) of an English girl who was orphaned and sent to California to live with her aunt. She was called Sarina, I recall. It occupied my bored hours over a few years, took over 100 pages and her daughter's diary. It included mafia killings, betrayal, affairs, teenage pregnancy and worst of all names likes Venezia, Venus, Unity and whatever old bollocks I'd picked up from here and there. It featured whatever I'd read or seen at that time, so it was like Sweet Valley written by Mario Puzo. Worse actually, it was The Godfather ghostwritten for Francine Pascal. It was absolute rubbish and the corruption of the .doc files was merciful I'm sure.

That said, I couldn't not write it. I had the idea and I wrote it. That's how it's always been. I have ideas and I write them down. I rarely finish, but I write... I write because I can't do otherwise. I wonder if 'normal' human beings get ideas and just ignore them, or if I'm the odd one.

Perhaps it's that as children we have these flights of fancy and learn to ignore them... except that I never ignored them. Perhaps other people just don't get ideas... I don't know.

Once I wanted to be a movie star who also wrote, or a rock star who also wrote. It never occurred to me that my one absolute constant is writing. I mean, I love music deeply and with huge passion, but I can leave my guitar untouched for weeks. I don't seem to stop writing. I never have - it used to get me in trouble at school. I got so absorbed in sneakily scribbling a story during English once that I didn't hear what Mr Maidment was saying, nor when he asked me a question. I was writing at my grandfather's death bed, when it was just me and him there, when all there was to do was wait.

I started writing once, so long ago that I don't remember, and I haven't stopped since. This is not to say I'm any good. I may not be. I'm certainly not trained as those who did it at school or university are.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it's what I'm meant to be doing after all. Perhaps I'm suppoesd to be the writer who sings, not the singer who writes. At least then I could work at home.

I suppose now all I need is to finish something that other humans would want to read, then find an agent and a publisher and readers. No sweat, right?

The thing is, it makes no nevermind. If nobody were ever to read, it wouldn't stop me writing. Is that, do you suppose, the thing that should prove where my ultimate destiny lies?

The Storyteller

I couldn't tell you the first story I wrote, and even less the first I conjured up in my fevered imagination. I remember one at primary school, which featured two princesses who'd dyed their hair pink and purple. I remember I wrote something else when I was eight or nine that got me in trouble at school because I used swear words (oh, the unspeakable anarchy of rebellion!). I remember The Story of Tottenham Teddy, which was technically a collaboration with a boy in my class called Lee, but written by me because I took over and he lost interest.

I remember my Mammy teaching me to type on our Amstrad computer, and I used this skill to write the hopefully lost secret diary of a girl called Dannii.

I know that such creative writing was the only homework I ever put any effort into at secondary school. I remember something about a Marilyn who was shipwrecked on an island or something which featured clipart (went overboard when we got a Windows PC. It was all flouncy fonts, clipart and colour for about a year and a half.) There was also an aborted attempt to write a 'Return to Pepperland' which died when I couldn't bring myself to write real people - The Beatles - which is still something I won't do.

There was another Secret Diary (I liked the form) of an English girl who was orphaned and sent to California to live with her aunt. She was called Sarina, I recall. It occupied my bored hours over a few years, took over 100 pages and her daughter's diary. It included mafia killings, betrayal, affairs, teenage pregnancy and worst of all names likes Venezia, Venus, Unity and whatever old bollocks I'd picked up from here and there. It featured whatever I'd read or seen at that time, so it was like Sweet Valley written by Mario Puzo. Worse actually, it was The Godfather ghostwritten for Francine Pascal. It was absolute rubbish and the corruption of the .doc files was merciful I'm sure.

That said, I couldn't not write it. I had the idea and I wrote it. That's how it's always been. I have ideas and I write them down. I rarely finish, but I write... I write because I can't do otherwise. I wonder if 'normal' human beings get ideas and just ignore them, or if I'm the odd one.

Perhaps it's that as children we have these flights of fancy and learn to ignore them... except that I never ignored them. Perhaps other people just don't get ideas... I don't know.

Once I wanted to be a movie star who also wrote, or a rock star who also wrote. It never occurred to me that my one absolute constant is writing. I mean, I love music deeply and with huge passion, but I can leave my guitar untouched for weeks. I don't seem to stop writing. I never have - it used to get me in trouble at school. I got so absorbed in sneakily scribbling a story during English once that I didn't hear what Mr Maidment was saying, nor when he asked me a question. I was writing at my grandfather's death bed, when it was just me and him there, when all there was to do was wait.

I started writing once, so long ago that I don't remember, and I haven't stopped since. This is not to say I'm any good. I may not be. I'm certainly not trained as those who did it at school or university are.

Perhaps, just perhaps, it's what I'm meant to be doing after all. Perhaps I'm suppoesd to be the writer who sings, not the singer who writes. At least then I could work at home.

I suppose now all I need is to finish something that other humans would want to read, then find an agent and a publisher and readers. No sweat, right?

The thing is, it makes no nevermind. If nobody were ever to read, it wouldn't stop me writing. Is that, do you suppose, the thing that should prove where my ultimate destiny lies?