Hot Cross Buns

There were five of us.  Jacquie, Owen, Nellie, Tommy and me.  We were about seven or eight years old and we absolutely ruled the whole length of Beach Road in our tiny village near Porthcawl, in South Wales.

Our village consisted of the Dotted Duck pub by the bus stop on the "big road" to Porthcawl.  Right opposite was Howard's Farm where we brought the cows down from the fields for milking.  Further along Beach Road, in the center of the village, was Bardolph's General Store where endless supplies of Tizer pop and Cadbury's chocs were to be found.  Next door was Mrs. Craggert's riding stable at the top of Rope Lane.  We went to school in Porthcawl but that was a foreign land as far as we were concerned.

Beach Road was about a quarter of a mile long.  It was our home base and our respective houses were strategically stationed along its whole length.  For the last one hundred yards or so it became a steep slope down to the village and turned sharp right towards the Dotted Duck.  We had hair-raising races on our bikes and roller skates that always ended in front of or, in case of miscalculation, just inside, Mr. Bardolph's shop.  The wild screams of the victorious and violent protestations of the vanquished were usually mixed with Mr. Bardolph's own cries of outrage and alarm.  A stand full of bottles was once knocked over and they all smashed.  We were duly reported to unduly concerned parents and our bikes and roller skates were taken away for a whole week.

Write What You Know?

Courtesy miratelinc.com

I recently had lunch with a good friend whom I had not seen for many years.  We discussed all the usual things: family, friends, the world going to hell, memories of our work together in the "old days" and, finally, what we were really doing.  I told him that I had been trying to write a novel for some time but had become a bit bogged down in recent months.

These words seemed to strike a chord.  Without any hint of irony, he told me that he was also trying to write a novel--about a British regiment fighting in France during the First World War--and that he had come to a grinding halt after four chapters.  I was secretly thinking that getting bogged down in a novel about the First World War would be a real asset.  You would definitely be channeling the conditions that your characters confronted.

We ruminated on how and why we had chosen the stories we were trying to tell and, in particular, whether we had chosen our subjects wisely.  We were definitely not writing about things that we had experienced.  My friend asked whether we might be encountering difficulties because we had ignored that familiar admonition to aspiring writers: "Write what you know”.

A Novel Approach

For the last two years--on and off, but mostly off--I have been trying to write a novel.  No big deal, you may think.  People write novels all the time.  They've been doing it since Thomas Malory penned (quilled?) Morte d'Arthur some time in the 15th century.

There are libraries full of novels so it can't be too difficult, right?  I mean, Newt Gingrich has written several novels and he's not exactly Tolstoy.  Stephen King seems to churn them out all the time like they're the Yellow Pages being dropped in your driveway.  Small children are writing novels.  Prisoners in Egypt are writing novels.  People who are dying are writing novels.  Hell, there are even ghost writers out there.

If writing a novel is such a relatively simple task, can anyone please explain why I am having such difficulty putting pen to paper and coming up with some Pulitzer Prize-winning novel?  OK, maybe not the Pulitzer but certainly the Man Booker or the National Book Award or even the Peggy V. Helmerich Distinguished Author Award.  I have all the prizes figured out.  I am successfully envisioning the awards ceremonies.  It is the writing part of the whole process that seems to be eluding me.