On the inside, looking out?
My room on the Arvon course at Moniack Mhor,
Two weeks ago I travelled to Scotland to work on a novel I've been trying to write for three years.
I think before I go into what happened on the Arvon course I might need to give you a bit of background.
This novel was inspired by the life of a woman I knew as a child, who was a writer. Like myself, she was born in to a large family in Tasmania (75 years earlier than me) and then came to England in her mid twenties with a desire for adventure and to live where the great poets and writers lived. She didn't bank on getting caught up in the second world war, however, nor on meeting a poet who became her husband. After barely surviving the war, they returned to Tasmania on an extended holiday but ended up staying there for the rest of their lives. As well as writing, they were campaigners for social justice and also heavily involved and interested in environmental causes which came into the spotlight in the 1970s. Her husband died in the early 1980s, the year I was born actually, and she mourned him the rest of her life.
I knew her only for three brief years. My family and I had moved into a house two doors down from hers when I was ten years old. I don’t really recall how we became a part of each other’s lives, but in the two years we lived in that house in Mount Stuart, she became as much of a friend to me as my school friends my own age – but more so. This was someone whose wisdom and experience and knowledge I was in awe of, and I soaked everything she told me up like a dry sponge. I used to run down to her house every afternoon after school and show her, with childish pride, my latest story or poem, and always, without fail, she would praise it, and make me think that one day, one day, I could see something I had written in a book too.
We became very close, even though the only way we communicated was through writing things down (she had lost her hearing through illness some fifteen years earlier). I remember her house being filled with paper, like a park is filled with golden leaves in the autumn. Everywhere you looked, there was paper.
Ruth was my first mentor, and the person who made me want to be a writer. She passed away when I was thirteen. I was devastated. Yet somehow, I knew her spirit had not left.
Fast forward to 2006. I am nearly 25. I started writing a short story, and the voice that came out of it was unmistakably Ruth's. I had not consciously thought of her for many years at that point. But as I tried to write about the love story, her meeting her husband in London in the last golden years of the thirties, my own world was collapsing. Writing about a wonderful marriage when my own had reached its inevitable painful end, and writing about someone following their dreams when I was too scared to walk into a travel agent to book a ticket to London, was a harder task than I could manage. The story was put away.
2007. I am in London. I have started my first job, in Bloomsbury, and I find myself thinking about Ruth all the time. I get out the book she compiled in tribute to her husband, Forty Friends, which I have for some reason brought with me. I discover that her place of work, in the late 1930s, was only a block away from my own. The story is brought out again. It is full of holes and gaps. But I write and write and write, try to get blood out of the stone.
There were so many coincidences and uncanny twists of fate that led me closer to Ruth's story. I was so convinced that I had found my life's purpose. I lived on the same street as she had, at one point (unknowingly). The story was there. I was literally walking around in it. And yet writing it was harder than I had ever thought it would be.
There have been many obstacles and barriers to writing this novel, some not appropriate to mention in a public forum such as this. Not that I fear any repercussions, you understand, it's just that in writing this novel I've begun to understand how protective people are about their memories, and their versions of the truth. The ironic thing is that I didn't set out to tell the truth, just a story. But somehow my mind got knotted and lost. My imagination got confused about what it was supposed to be doing - telling the truth, or making something up. It abandoned me, fed up with all my empty promises. I think writing a novel based on a true story is so much harder than writing something you completely imagine. You get caught in the crossfire between accuracy and authenticity.
There were epiphanies though, over the last two years. There were nights where I woke up, reached for a pen and some paper in a half asleep state, and scrawled the title of the novel as it has come to me in a dream, over and over, for fear the pen might have no ink in it. There were photos my father found. There was an LP with Ruth's voice on it, found on some obscure website for £10.
And still the words would not come.
I tell myself that life has got in the way. Love, marathons, travelling, a full time job in publishing, a penchant for the Kings Road on a Sunday. If only I had time and space, and no distractions. If I tell myself that often enough I start to believe it.
Now it is 2010. The novel has not been touched for many months.
I read the description for an Arvon course for those with a "work in progress". Fall in love with your novel again, it promises. That is exactly what I need. I need to find out what the hell I'm doing with this beast of a story, and whether it wants to be told. I need to find the love that motivated me to tell this story in the first place. So after some deliberation, I book on the course with money my beloved grandmother left me, hoping she would approve. I toast to my bravery and hopeful success. As the weeks fly past and the course draws closer I feel equal amounts of terror and excitement. I know that once I've stepped through that door I cannot go back.
At 7.55am, on Monday April 5th, the train leaves Kings Cross station, bound for Inverness. It does not leave from Platform 9 and 3/4, though I hope that magic is in the air. I will need all the help I can get.
To be continued.....