During one of my writing breaks this week I watched the latest celebrity recruit to the world of children’s literature, Peter Andre, talking on TV. He spoke passionately about the need for parents to read to children at bedtime and to make up their own stories using the illustrations in picture books if they weren’t confident readers themselves. He was charming and modest about being approached by Ladybird Books. It was hard not to like him. His appearances in book shops will bring in new customers and hopefully they will also buy some of the brilliant books written by Sassies.The rest of the interview was mainly concerned with his music career and whether or not he should appear next on ‘The Bachelor’ TV show. Writing a children’s book was only a part of his portfolio.
It was the words ‘As told by..’ on the cover of his books that got me thinking…….
I am not short of ideas. They are literally bursting out of me. What I am short of is that special mixture of time, solitude, self belief and humour to wrestle my sentences into submission on the page. Writing for me is a physical struggle that often leaves me punchdrunk and dazed. Sometimes it feels like torture. It certainly is for poor Frugal Husband who has to put up with my moods.
So I allowed myself a ‘Barbara Cartland’ moment imagining myself bedecked in jewels lying on a sofa dictating my ideas to an earnest Creative writng MA graduate who was now working for me – as an unpaid intern of course.
‘Just finish off that chapter Orlando I have a box set of The Killing to watch!’After all ‘daybed’ is one of my favourite words.
NO, NO, NO. This won’t do at all.
I can’t tell my story to someone.
If I told my story to somebody else it would dissolve in the telling.
If I told my story to somebody else I would miss out on those magic writing moments like the one I had on Monday. After staring at a picture in the Wallace Collection the elusive words of an opening chapter began to take shape. My lips are sealed for the moment.
It’s my story to tell.
I can’t tell my story to someone.
If I told my story to somebody else it would dissolve in the telling.
If I told my story to somebody else I would miss out on those magic writing moments like the one I had on Monday. After staring at a picture in the Wallace Collection the elusive words of an opening chapter began to take shape. My lips are sealed for the moment.
It’s my story to tell.
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