A couple of weeks ago I met with a local writer, a really lovely guy, who will be holding the ‘in conversation’ part of the Future’s End book launch next month. We talked about our mutual backgrounds in film, and how we see our ideas as a visual before turning them into words. We talked about the insular process of writing, and how it spins you to face the real world when your book becomes a tangible object. I must have apologised about 200 times; for having a book, for giving him a copy of the book, for eating a croissant, for existing.
From this encounter, it hit me that I babble a steady stream of sorrys to anyone who says anything nice. As if I’m ashamed to be found out, that I might be able to Do Things.
(Pre-order links for said Done Things are at the bottom of the newsletter)
F**k’s sake, methinks. Sort your s**t out. How about you share your first piece of writing, the piece that started it all (shopping lists notwithstanding)? As a bridge between your past-past and your writing-past? This is it - A Nice Man from the BBC.
Ooops… before I leave you be, I need to mention that I will be live (live!!) on Substack with the brilliant
North Wales. Mid 80s. A Grade II listed corn mill – Wern Mill.
Wern Mill had its own squelchy marsh, a small stream and plenty of woodland. In one of the larger wooded clearings – which we rather unimaginatively called Swallowdale – the 8 year old me built herself a sanctuary out of branches, sticks and greenery. The forked trunk of the tree was just the right height to trigger my den building neurons. I’d always wanted to build myself a wooden nest in the forest.
It felt remote, independent and very exciting, if you ignored the hum from the A4085.
The Mill was, I think, a renovation project for my parents. I either don’t remember or was never told why we moved so quickly – but I do remember an old abandoned static caravan in one of the fields. It smelled of musty curtains and rotten varnish, the only surviving item of interest an old chess set. This was our – my two sisters and I – playroom, until one day dad hired a digger, dug a big hole and buried it. Easier than moving it. Apparently.
So, back in Swallowdale, my very own den was constructed using a combination of Arthur Ransome acquired knowledge and genetically acquired OCD; one long strut leaning into the fork, sticks of decreasing height lent diagonally against it, starting at head height by the doorway and gently sloping down to ground level. I stuffed the gaps between the sticks with moss.
All three of us built dens in Swallowdale. We were home-educated and spent most days in the woods. We used to pretend the rotting wood from old stumps was meat, and hack it on to stone plates with twig knives. My toy animals used to visit, notably Hedgy and Basil.
There was a token nod towards some formal education, mostly from dad. He was a good teacher, although he didn’t / couldn’t waver far from geology and the Industrial Revolution.
I had my own room for the first time at Wern Mill. Shortly after moving in, half the ceiling collapsed in a stinking cascade of water, wood and old plaster. There was also a dodgy false ceiling in the kitchen, which, when removed, gave us a shower of mummified mice and ancient corn. The original floorboards revealed a peep hole into the kitchen from the upstairs bedroom. Viewing was disappointing though, and we soon got bored of spying on either a high octane parental row, or a birds eye view of dad with his head in his hands.
At Swallowdale, Hedgy and Basil were settling in nicely. They loved their rotten wood meat dinners, and the mini-dens built next to the main structure to accommodate them. Leaves for bedding, pebbles for toys. They almost camped out, but the thought of their little eyes staring, uncomforted, at the starlight disturbed me too much to leave them alone overnight. They needed their cuddles.
Towards the end of our time at Wern Mill the arguments were getting more regular, and we would be stuffed randomly into dad’s red VW Golf and driven around local schools, including a Steiner School. But life at home after these emotionally intense escapades would plod on as if nothing had happened, and the feral adventures in Swallowdale continued.
My den only existed for two summers, I visited in winter to repair it, and make good any damage from the weather. By accident rather than design, the trunk of the tree protected my little house from the prevailing winds. It was almost a living structure by now, the moss and grass growing in and around the stick frame walls.
Then all of a sudden, we didn’t live there anymore. A nice man from the BBC bought the mill. We wanted to show him Swallowdale, but grown-ups can be a bit boring.
Me with Hedgy and Basil, some 30 years later…
The Incredible Machines of Thinkery: dates and links
