Fellow
writers of a certain age will remember the 1980s children’s TV programme, Why Don't You Just Switch Off Your Television
Set and Do Something Less Boring Instead? It was a great show, possibly a little low-key
for today’s audiences, but in a roundabout way it led me to become first an
avid reader, and then by natural evolution, an avid writer. Because, as
a child, when I switched off my television set, I would dive headfirst into a
book.
I’d
spend hours in my local library, browsing the shelves with a mixture of envy
and adoration, wanting be immersed in the worlds that would open up for me as
soon as I selected a book and took it to the counter to be stamped out. Who can
remember those lovely old-fashioned library tickets? Lounging on my bed with a
bar of Galaxy and a brand-new novel or big fat reference book was an absolute
treat. And today, just wandering around a bookshop will conjure all sorts of
ideas and nuggets that feed my imagination.
This
long-standing love for books was ignited in my childhood by seeing my mother
and older sister constantly reading. I was able to dip into novels beyond my
reading ability (broadening my mind and so pleasing my teachers no end). There
was nothing more comforting than seeing a stack of hardbacks from the library
by my mother’s chair waiting to be explored. From Jackie Collins to Jean
Plaidy, and Wilbur Smith and Mazo de la Roche (we didn’t have particularly
literary tastes), we would devour them, our reading list peppered with the odd
classic here and there. And almost by some sort of intellectual osmosis, I
found myself wanting to create my own stories, my own worlds just like the ones
I had been drawn into.
I began
to make books, prime little examples of juvenilia, from folded up pieces of
paper, stapled and scruffily illustrated. I progressed, as I reached my teens,
by investing in a typewriter (manual of course, this was the 1980s!). It was at
this point that I read the Brontes and knew that my course was set. I began tapping
away at bodice rippers and dreadful gothic romances that would make me blush
today if I hadn’t shredded the lot in the early 2000s.
My
first book, A Season of Leaves, was
published in 2008, so it was a long haul. Before this, I’d spent many years attempting
to write what I thought were reasonably mature contemporary novels. These early
works, I see now, were all part of the steep learning curve that writers must
navigate. A kind of really hard apprenticeship, if you will. When confidence
was high I’d trawl through the Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook for names of
suitable agents and publishers, send off submissions, enter ‘first novel’
competitions and then sit back to wait for the inevitable rejections to roll
in. When confidence was low, I’d escape into the private world of other
people’s books – my list of favourite authors includes Kate Atkinson, Barbara
Kingsolver and Mary Wesley – become inspired and the cycle would start again.
It was
hard to face these setbacks, but I like to think I
rose above them and allowed the harsh experiences to make me more determined.
And I’m sure this is what most writers find hard to pinpoint: where does this
drive come from and why do we keep going? I guess we must live to write, not
write to live, and tap into our creativity whenever and wherever we can. And,
first and foremost, switch off that television set!
Discover more of my novels at catherinelaw.co.uk
