With the sudden death of my Mum last week, I nearly cancelled the event I’d planned for World Book Night on Tuesday. I wasn’t sure I was in the right frame of mind to host a short story slam or to perform my “on-the-spot writing” shtick. But I’m glad I went ahead with it.
For one, I know my Mum would have wanted me to carry on as planned. She’d have hated her passing to have inconvenienced anyone. And I didn’t want to let the organisers down; something Mum – and Dad – instilled in me when I was growing up.
So off I went to Guildford library. First, I helped to introduce a group of “rising star” writers to an audience of 130 eager readers. Later in the evening, I was interviewed by the local radio station and I hosted the story slam – both were great fun. But it was how I spent the time in between that I want to blog about.
I’d been asked to repeat the challenge I took on last summer, when I was resident in a Whitstable bookshop, writing stories for whoever came in that day – and doing it fast enough so that I could perform a quick reading of the story and give it to the customer to take away.
I wandered around the library, notebook in hand, approaching people at random and saying, “I’m a writer, would you please inspire me?”
The first person I met was Noreen. The easiest way you can inspire me, I said, is to tell me your favourite word. She didn’t even have to think about it: “sleep”, she said. Why? She has a young son and is studying in her “spare” time to get the qualifications she needs to change her career. Why does she want to change her career? Because it will help her find meaning in her life, she said.
That begged a question I felt I had to ask: do you feel your life lacks meaning at the moment? She reflected on this for a while. Then she smiled and said no, it doesn’t. Her child gives it meaning. But she wanted more, perhaps some meaning she’d made herself. Hence she was studying.
I thanked her, found a quiet corner, and started scribbling. Here is Noreen, with the words she inspired:
|It wasn’t enough, but she knew it wouldn’t be. Each evening at 7.30 she put him to bed. And then she started her search. Beneath the cushions, behind the sofa, buried in the laundry pile: where was it, that person she used to be?|
Next I went and sat with a man called David. I started to explain why I wanted to talk to him, but he interrupted and went off on a beautiful riff of his own. First, he told me why his nose was bloodied: he’d come straight from the youth club where, chasing some of the kids around, he’d tripped over a plastic box and landed on his face. With that explanation out of the way, he told me about his interest in depression, the consequences of a Baptist upbringing, his role in the introduction of factory fishing to British waters, and the risks of offending family members when writing memoir (he’s working on one, sometimes using an alter-ego he calls Doug).
He was sitting with his wife, Stevie, who finished off a few of his sentences and corrected any errors of fact or exaggeration. He called himself Dave, she preferred David. They reminded me of my Mum and Dad.
As with Noreen, I thanked David, found a quiet corner, and tried to write a few words inspired by what he had shared with me. Here he is, with his words:
I found both Noreen and David later in the evening, read them the words they’d inspired and gave them my pencil version, written on the back of a card like this:
I don’t make any claims about the quality of the words I wrote in such haste; perhaps the value is in the process. I felt I made a connection with both David and Noreen, and that please me. Always when writing, I’m trying to make a connection that moves the reader. But it’s easy to forget that good “writing” moves the writer, too – and that the word “writing” applies to the process as much as the end result. It’s a verb as much as a noun. A more specific word than connection would be bridge: the traffic can flow in both directions.