How Do We Write?

[Moonraker]

If I had the talent to write a novel, I would certainly use my real name. Just imagine, seeing your name on a book cover! Is there a reason for your anonymity, Julie?

Congratulations, by the way.

[Julie2owlsdene]

Yes, there is really, Nigel, I'd like to keep it, anonymity, that is!

I'm not a person who likes to push myself forward or be in the limelight, as it were. I'm already having the collywobbles about any book signing. It's not compulsory of course, but hubby did book signings, and thinks I should too.

But we are a long way off that yet.

[Rob Houghton]

Funny how we're all different - if I was lucky enough to get published, I'd be sticking my name all over it and letting everyone know! I bought a few copies of my People's Friend story and also arranged the People's Friend magazine I appeared in all along the front of the display in WHSmiths, lol!!

[Julie2owlsdene]

I've done that with Stephen's books. When I've seen them in Smith's etc, I've picked them up and put them to the front of the shelf!

Maybe someone else will do that for mine.

[Rob Houghton]

Not a great photo, and difficult to post at a good size on here due to size restrictions - but here's the first page of my short story published in 'The People's Friend' -

[Eddie Muir]

I've done that with Stephen's books. When I've seen them in Smith's etc, I've picked them up and put them to the front of the shelf!

Maybe someone else will do that for mine.

I'll be happy to put all the copies of your book at the front of the bookshop display, Julie.

[Julie2owlsdene]

You're a good friend, Eddie.

[Courtenay]

Just so long as you let us know what pen name you're using, Julie, or we won't know which one your book is...

[Moonraker]

Stephen's books were usually spine-on. I always displayed them face-on, moving other titles to the side.

[Julie2owlsdene]

So did I Nigel.

Just so long as you let us know what pen name you're using, Julie, or we won't know which one your book is...

It's my maiden name of Robinson, Courtenay. Enid used her maiden name, so that's good enough for me too.

[Daisy]

I was going to suggest you would have to practise your new name Julie, but in that case, probably not! Good luck to you.

[Anita Bensoussane]

Good luck with your book, Julie!

It must have been lovely to have a story published in The People's Friend, Rob, as they illustrate things so beautifully.

[Rob Houghton]

Thanks Anita! It really was - although it was bitter-sweet. It was based on my mom and dad's childhood meeting and the fact it was their 50th anniversary. It was accepted in September 2008 - and my mom was very proud as was everyone - but unfortunately by the time it was published, in December 2009, she had sadly died.

[Rob Houghton]

Apologies to those who have seen this before - Chapter One of a 'children's book I wrote a few years back - 'The Cobweb Door'.

It's pretty long, but now we have this thread, I thought 'why not!'

Chapter one

George and Colour Magenta Philips were cousins who lived together because Colour’s parents were dead. At least, her father was dead, of that everyone was certain, and there was a gravestone in the local cemetery to prove it. Six years later he was only a misty memory to the child who was learning to call her uncle ‘Dad’.

Colour’s mother had been a science teacher at the secondary school in the next town. She had been pretty and clever and full of life, as they say on the news whenever anybody goes missing or dies, but nearly twelve months ago she had vanished on her way to work. She had set out that morning, loaded her red mini up with science books that had been marked, dropped Colour at her primary school and then had completely disappeared. She had never arrived at work and her car was found a fortnight later at the bottom of Little Grindley Quarry, filled with water and swollen science books. Despite further dredging, no other clues, not even a body, had been found.

That was forty-six weeks and three days ago and now Colour had finally resigned herself to the fact that she was an orphan. She’d felt like one ever since her paternal grandparents had picked her up from school on that first grey October afternoon and broken the news to her. Somehow she had always felt that wherever her mother had gone, she wasn’t coming back. She also knew that she hadn’t deserted her: Mum would have had a good reason to disappear or else she never would have gone in the first place, because since her fathers death they had been more like sisters than mother and daughter. So, as the police sent out helicopters and searched the moors and the quarry, and the stiff-lipped newsreaders told their story on the television and her grandparents discussed what they should do with her if the worst happened, Colour quietly sorted out her toys and her books and clothes and filled boxes and bags with what she wanted to keep, ready to leave.

Lying in the darkness, she would listen to her grandparents’ whispered conversations at the top of the stairs and then pull the covers up over her head when she heard them coming to check on her. She would snore softly as they opened the bedroom door, not wanting to see their anguished faces or feel their pity. And she wrote in her diary every night without fail: ‘I love you Mum – wherever you are.’

When the big move had finally come, her uncle Pat, with his red face and large hands piling things into his clapped-out Cortina and her Aunt Debbie clicking the seatbelt protectively around her waist and her cousin George smiling uncomfortably at her from the back seat, she had realised it was over. Any hope she had secretly harboured of her mother coming back was suddenly dashed as the car jerked away, the tires screeching on the sodden road. She had leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, letting the cold reality seep over her like treacle.

Little Grindley, where they lived, was a small town somewhere in what used to be called ‘the industrial midlands’. It used to be a smoky, grey sort of place, surrounded by the mines which gave the town people their income; but now the mines were closed and the pitheads stood like frozen giants against the skyline. Most children had a relative of some sort who had given their best years to the pit: George and Colour’s great granddad had worked there all his life, until the dust got into his lungs. Now he was at rest in the little churchyard at the bottom of the hill and Granny Philips said she would put fresh flowers on his grave every week for as long as her legs would still take her there.

It was a typical grey and wet Little Grindley day when Colour, who was late for school, almost collided with an old lady and her life changed forever. She was late because she had had to turn back halfway to school and run home for her PE kit, which she had forgotten. George had carried on without her, and now she was thudding back along the road, past the supermarket, hoping to catch up with him again. It was raining, and her face was wet with the drops, which also trickled uncomfortably down her hair, turning it to rat’s tails. She was so intent on making up time that she wasn’t really taking much notice of the people who passed by, until the old lady stepped out right in front of her and they almost collided. That was the point things began to change: to become clearer for Colour, though she didn’t really know it at the time.

The strangest thing was that nobody else seemed to notice. The road was busy just there, with mothers walking their kids to the local playgroup and people doing early-morning shopping, and yet when colour knocked the old lady against the wall, not one of them shouted at her to mind her manners or even came to see if the old lady was all right. Coloyr swung round to apologise. The old lady smiled at her, taking something out of her pocket.

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ she asked, her voice hushed and faraway, ‘take it – quickly, Colour. Keep it safe.’

And then, pressing a tiny purple drawstring bag into Colour’s hands, she was off again, hurrying into the crowd outside Shop-Cutter’s and disappearing round the corner. Colour stared after her, and then stared vacantly down at the tiny velvet bag. She was just about to open it when a sudden cry from somewhere ahead made her jump.

‘There she is! There! Hurry and get her!’

Charging down the street towards her came a crowd of angry-looking men dressed almost entirely in black and grey and sporting the bushiest, reddest beards Colour had ever seen. Colour gasped, something in her heart telling her that it was her they wanted. She dodged away into the supermarket doorway, pushing the tiny velvet bag deep into her coat pocket. The men rushed past, not even noticing her crouching there behind the bubblegum machine, and it was then she realised that they were chasing the old lady and not her after all.

Colour straightened up and squeezed the velvet bag in her hand. There was something hard and flat inside it, maybe made of metal. She was about to take the bag out and open it when she heard a sarcastic voice behind her and plunged her hand back again. Russell Fox stood behind her blowing bubblegum bubbles into the back of her neck.

‘Whatcha doin’ here, weirdo?’ he asked, ‘Hidin’ from the fairies?’

‘No. I – I dropped twenty pence, that’s all. Can’t find it now. Don’t matter anyhow.’

‘Nah – don’t matter. Y’ Mom can soon make some more – oh, oops!’ and Russell clasped his filthy hand over his mouth in pretend shock, ‘sorry – you haven’t got a mommy, have you? Not no more. You aint got a mommy and you ain’t got a Daddy. Boo-hoo-hoo.’

Colour scowled and turned away. ‘Uncle Pat’s as good as a Dad. Least he’s not in prison.’

She walked away in silence, relief flooding over her that the bully didn’t follow. Russell waited for his sister Kat to come out of the supermarket then they both ran after her and caught her up easily. Russell had obviously told Kat how he had come across Colour crouching weirdly in the doorway. Apparently it was one of the funniest things Kat had ever heard.

‘Pickin’ up other people’s rubbish, were you?’ Kat asked, as they drew level, ‘God you’re weird, Colour Magenta.’

‘And your matey cousin George. Where’s he today? Been abducted by weirdo aliens?’

Colour walked on in silence. When she was little, her dad, whom she had always held in such high regard, had told her to ‘turn the other cheek’, and now that he was no longer around she felt it would somehow be dishonouring his memory not to continue doing so. But it was true what George always said: ‘If you turn the other cheek you’ll just get that slapped too.’ Russell pulled at her school bag, getting it off her shoulder and managing to scatter the contents of her lunch box across the pavement. ‘She’s got chocky spread, chocky spread, chocky spread!’ he chanted, dancing around her, ‘Did Auntie Debbie make it for you then?’ He stared at her challengingly, ‘Tell us what you got in your pocket and we’ll leave you alone.’

Colour scrabbled about in the gutter trying to save her sandwiches from Russell’s boots. But it was too late. He came down hard on them, chocolate spread bursting like blood through the cling-film. Colour rescued her orange and piece of cake and piled them hurriedly into her bag. She turned away to hide her tears. Her aunt had made those sandwiches, and now they were spoiled.

Kat reached out and grabbed her face. She yanked it round to stare into it, rubbing Colour’s tears roughly with her fingers. She pulled Colour’s arm behind her back and tried to reach into her coat pocket. ‘Show us what’s in your pocket and we’ll leave you alone.’

‘No I ain’t givin’ it to you. Get away!’ and she kicked out, catching Kat on the shin.

‘Now you’re for it, twerp.’ Kat snarled to hide her pain and pulled Colour round by her hair until she was facing her, Show us what’s in your pocket. Show us now.’
‘Nowt.’
‘Saw it. It was purple.’
‘No it wasn’t.’
‘Was!’
‘Wasn’t!’ Colour looked along the road and saw George waiting for her by the gate. She wriggled out of Kat’s grasp, pushed past them both and rushed up to him thankfully. The bell began to ring as they both turned in at the gate.

‘You all right?’ George looked at his cousin quizzically as they went up the steps into the school building, ‘Russell and Kat giving you a hard time again?’

Colour shook her head. ‘I don’t care about them,’ she said, ‘And I don’t need you to fight my battles thanks very much. They’ll get fed up soon.’

‘When? After they’re in the ‘paper for kicking you to death?’

‘Don’t be daft.’

‘Well, when?’

‘Soon. They’ll get fed up soon.’

They hung up their bags in the cloak room and then went to line up outside the classroom door. Russell and Kat were in other classes, so it really was a case of being ‘saved by the bell’. Colour could breath again until playtime.

‘You should tell Mom and Dad,’ George went on, determined to make his cousin see sense, ‘Bullying isn’t tolerated in this school.’ It was like he’d memorised the whole school booklet by heart. Colour shrugged. It was easy for George to say ‘tell Mom and Dad’, but they weren’t her Mom and Dad to tell. Life was sometimes more complicated than George seemed to realise. Sometimes Colour felt that the bullying was justified in some way: like she deserved it for having no parents. And she could bring her problems to Auntie Debbie and Uncle Pat. They’d been good enough to accept her into their family, let alone take on all her problems too. She felt alone because she was alone, despite being fostered out to relations.

When Colour had taken off her coat she had slipped the little purple velvet bag into her trouser pocket instead, and now she was burning to see what was inside. She was burning to tell George about it too, but his self-righteousness had spoiled it. Now everyone was going into the classroom, buzzing about the weekend and the trip to the zoo organised for July. There was no opportunity left to tell George anything, let alone show him. It would have to wait until they were alone: Really alone.

Ever since the old lady had handed her the bag and she had dived into the supermarket doorway, Colour had had the strangest feeling that she was being watched. She did not know by whom or what, but even during school time the feeling did not go away.

Sitting in assembly she saw a new teacher whom she had never seen before, sitting talking to the Head. The new teacher wore a brown suit and black tie and sported a bright red beard. He stared at Colour all the way through assembly, his small round eyes studying her face as the minutes ticked away.

Colour felt his eyes boring into the side of her head all the way through assembly and even when she closed her eyes during prayers. She felt so eager to leave the hall and the man’s gaze that she stood up before the rest of the class and made a right fool of herself. She heard Russell Fox sniggering at her from the back row as she sat hurriedly back down again. When she looked back to the new teacher again she saw that he had gone: the Head sat alone. But the empty chair next to him had two wet footprints under it, showing where someone’s wet shoes had once been.

At break time, as they sipped their cartons of milk, Colour went to sit by George on the hot water pipes.

‘Did you see that new teacher in assembly?’

George shook his head. ‘Didn’t know there was a new teacher,’ he said, ‘no room.’

‘Perhaps I was wrong…’ Colour finished her milk. It was a wet playtime and so she sorted out the box of comics and scrap paper for drawing on, which was her job, and then she went to join George at the window. They watched the rain spattering the glass: saw the grey buildings outside gradually blurr together as the rivulets raced down the pane. Little Grindley was a depressing place in weather like this.

Wet playtimes were a bore, but Colour was glad of the break from Russell Foxe’s never-ending jibing and his sisters gormless expressions. She opened her comic, then remembered the purple drawstring bag. She ran her hand across the outside of her trouser pocket and felt it there. She wished she could get it out and open the bag but she knew it was too risky. The other kids would see, and questions would be asked. It might be something you weren’t supposed to bring into school and then she would be in Deep Trouble. So she just sat there staring vacantly out of the window at the greyness of the weather outside.

Two men stood at the bus stop, staring up at the school almost as if they were watching for something. Two men with wide brimmed hats pulled down over their noses, and scarves pulled around the collars of their long black overcoats. Between the overhanging brims and the upturned collars Colour saw the unmistakable splash of colour which meant they were sporting bright red beards. She blinked and looked again, her chest tightening over her heart.

‘Look George – outside, by the bus stop…’

George looked. ‘So?’

‘Can’t you see them? Two men in black with hats on and –‘

‘There’s no-one there.’ George put out his hand and felt Colour’s forehead with more than a hint of mockery, ‘Are you sure you’re feeling all right?’

‘Perfectly.’ Colour screwed up her face. It must be to do with the purple drawstring bag, or whatever was inside it. She fiddled in her trouser pocket, taking out the bag carefully and pushing it gently into George’s blazer pocket. She looked out into the sodden street in front of her. The bus stop was empty now, as she had supposed it would be. She nudged George, eager to complete her experiment.

‘Can you see them now?’ she asked, making him look out of the window for a second time. ‘Look harder. By the bus stop.’

George looked again, impatiently. His mouth dropped ever-so-slowly open. ‘They weren’t there before. I don’t get it…How could you describe them so clearly when they weren’t there before?’

Colour stared at him, her lips quivering. Then it was true. Whatever it was in the velvet drawstring bag it was helping her to see things that other people could not. Now that it was in George’s blazer pocket he saw them too, though now she could not.
‘I don’t get it.’ George repeated, ‘How did you describe them so well before they’d even arrived?’

‘They had already arrived for me.’ Colour said, ‘look, it’s to do with a bag I was given by an old lady on the way to school…’ and she slipped it from George’s blazer pocket and put it safely back into hers, letting him see it only fleetingly. ‘I don’t even know what’s in it, and we darent look until it’s safe. Someone might see something they’re not supposed to.

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Stop saying that!’ Colour screwed her lips up thoughtfully, ‘I’ll tell you all about it when we can be sure there’s no one about…’ She stared back into the street.

One of the men by the bus stop was speaking on a mobile phone now, his head slanted as he held it against one ear. He was talking earnestly into the mouthpiece, his free hand moving up and down in agitation. The other man kept his eyes fixed firmly upon Colour: a silhouette against the brightly lit classroom window. In that one, lingering glance, Colour felt all of the evil, the maliciousness, the malevolence of those eyes boring deep into her very mind: her very soul. She felt her hands going cold. She sat on them to warm them up and forced her gaze away from the men and back to the brightly coloured pages of her comic.

When she finally plucked up enough courage to look at the bus stop again, the men had gone.

[Anita Bensoussane]

Thanks Anita! It really was - although it was bitter-sweet. It was based on my mom and dad's childhood meeting and the fact it was their 50th anniversary. It was accepted in September 2008 - and my mom was very proud as was everyone - but unfortunately by the time it was published, in December 2009, she had sadly died.

Oh, it's sad that your mom didn't get to see the story in print. What a pity there was such a long gap between acceptance and publication. It must have meant a lot to your mom and dad that you based the story on their childhood meeting. A magazine to treasure.