A Society for Woman (and men too) by Ann Evans

I'm sure that quite a few Sassies are also members of the Society of Women Writers and Journalists (SWWJ). It's the UK's longest-established Society for professional woman writers and has members based all around the globe.

It was founded in 1894 so next year sees it's 120th anniversary. Oddly enough it wasn't founded by a woman. It was newspaper proprietor and entrepreneur Joseph Snell Wood who recognised the need for women journalists back in those Victorian times to have their own organisation that supported them and which could establish and safeguard their rights.

And so he established the Society of Woman Journalists. In 1951 it changed its name to the present title, adding in the words 'Women Writers' to meet the changing needs of its membership. Then in 2004 the Society made the decision to invite men who are published writers to join as Associate Members.

The origins of the Society can be found in Sylvia Kent's book The Woman Writer published in 2010, but as a snapshot into the Society's history I found it interesting to note that in its early days a reception was arranged for its members to meet Sarah Bernhardt, one of the most famous actresses of all time. Within two months more than 200 women had applied to join.

Over the years it has attracted countless famous literary and society names. To mention just a few, members and Presidents have included Ursula Bloom, a prolific writer with some 500 books published, many under pseudonyms; crime writer Margery Allingham, Catherine Cookson, who has sold 100 million copies of her books; Richmal Crompton, famous for her Just William books;

Lady Longford was their Honorary Life President for 25 years. Joyce Grenfell was the Society's President for 22 years, followed by novelist Nina Bawden who was President from 1980 until her death in August 2012. 

It's an awe inspiring and possibly daunting line up, nevertheless the SWWJ – just like our SAS is friendly and welcoming.

I joined back in 1994. It actually comes as a bit of a shock to think I've been a member for so long. But it must be because I remember going to one of their Centenary celebration events as a new member.

The aims of the SWWJ include the encouragement of literary achievement (which I'm still striving towards!) the upholding of professional standards, and social contact with fellow writers and others in the writing business, such as editors, agents, publishers and broadcasters.

The social contact with fellow writers is something we all appreciate, although I must admit I haven't been to that many SWWJ events. However 18 months ago I went to a writers' retreat in Gozo near Malta which had been organised by a SWWJ member. That was fun with writing workshops every morning leaving the afternoons and evenings free to explore, get inspired – and of course lots of sand, sun, sea, cocktails and good food, to get those creative juices flowing.

A band of SWWJ folk in Gozo

There's lots of benefits from being a member. There are regular events such as workshops and visits to places of literary interest. There are seasonal get togethers which often feature big-name guest speakers. There are informal regional meetings. Just a few weeks ago, the Society held it's first Midlands regional meeting, and for me it was nice to put faces to names - and to meet up with a fellow Gozo writer again, Jean Morris.

Other benefits of being a member are that you receive the magazine The Woman Writer five times a year which is packed full of news, articles, competitions, markets and more. You receive a Press Card, which will get you into places and behind the scenes at countless events and venues - that alone is worth the very reasonable annual membership fee. Plus there are different levels of entry - but you can check out all the details of membership on their website.

There's a lot of benefits of belonging to the SWWJ. It might be right for you. Why not visit them at: www.swwj.co.uk And you can find them on Facebook.

Or visit my website: www.annevansbooks.co.uk

A Grimy Literary Heritage and a Small Pink Potty

Last week, my longsuffering partner Paul and I got stuck into the backbreaking and heartrending task of clearing my parents' loft, after the sad death of my dad in June.

I was staggered to discover that my parents appear to have kept everything they ever owned and everything that belonged to me as a child - toys, books, clothes, schoolwork, exam papers, posters... All the stuff I thought had disappeared long ago and now resided only in my memory was suddenly spread out before me in all its dusty, grimy (lack of) glory... evoking a range of emotions I can't begin, just yet, to describe.

Some of it, I would far rather not have seen. My memories had been clear and colourful, but these remnants were old and decaying, bringing it home to me just how many years it is since I played with that toy dog with the now-crumbling head.

The books, though... It was good to be reminded of the things I read as a child. Although some of them I would now regard as rubbish, they all helped me develop a love of reading and a desire to write. I'd kept a selection of my favourites anyway, but here were more... dozens of Elinor M. Brent-Dyer's Chalet School Books reprinted by Armada Press (half a crown a each from W.H. Smith's - that's where my pocket money went every week). Pony books by the dozen, my favourites being the Jill series by Ruby Ferguson. These had the advantage of being funny as well as stuffed with horses. She was a witty writer and I think they will bear reading again. The school stories - Malory Towers and St Clare's - of Enid Blyton, which I see are now in print again, with several new ones to fill in the missing years (what happened in the third year at St Clare's that Enid Blyton could never bring herself to write about? I always wondered, and now, it seems, I have the chance to find out...)

My all-time favourites were, and still are, the William books by Richmal Crompton. I discovered my first one, William the Conquerer, in a musty box of old books in the store cupboard of my classroom at school. This was for the kids who finished their classwork early. 'Go and find yourself a book to read.' It was a depressing-looking collection. None had jackets, all were ancient hardbacks dating back, as likely as not, to the 1930s - the depths of pre-history when my parents were at school. I thought William The Conquerer was a boring old history book and I don't know what made me look inside and start reading. Perhaps the Thomas Henry illustrations caught my attention. Whatever it was, I never looked back, and was delighted to discover how many William books there were. And Richmal Crompton very thoughtfully continued to bring out a new one for me every year, right up to 1969, when I believe she died. Now that's commitment to one's readership...

Not long after this, I discovered Frank Richards and his Billy Bunter books, set in Greyfriars School where the boys only ever seemed to study Latin, lucky things. These tales were funny, too. They were set in a world of tuck shops, prep and dorms almost unimaginably different from my own, but they were about 'real people' nonetheless, as opposed to goblins, fairies and trolls. I always preferred my fiction to be realistic and, in the main, still do, though I was willing to make an exception for Tove Jansson's Moomins (who are real people, after all).

Anyway, what has come out of the this trip down memory lane (or up memory loft) for me is a reminder of where my intense love of books began. I lived in a house full of them, which was a great help, and spent hours of my life, as an only child, immersed in made-up worlds. Very few of those worlds were anything like my own. I never went to boarding school and (much to my regret) never had a pony. Nor did I have brothers, sisters and cousins who took me off on holidays to have adventures. Today I still like books that take me into unfamiliar worlds, as long as the characters are recognisably people like myself. And the books I love best are the ones where you can tell that the author absolutely loved writing them. And you can tell. Kids can tell, grown-ups can tell. A novel can be about anything at all as long as the writer loved his or her subject and wrote because they desperately wanted to. That's worth remembering, when I write my own.

Finally, in case you're wondering about the title - one of the last things we unearthed from 50-odd years of stuff in my parents' loft was a small pink plastic potty. Somewhat worryingly, I can just about remember using it. Let's say I have very early memories, as opposed to being tardy on the toilet-training front...


It was good to laugh, anyway, in among the sadness, as well as to be reminded of the little girl who loved books and still does.
 

Best wishes,
Ros


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