Alison Clink was one of last year’s Words for the Wounded’s Independent Author Book Award’s top three prize winners – with the fabulous The Man Who Didn’t Go To Newcastle, the biography of her brother.
Today I get up when I feel like it. Hey, I’ve brought up four children and had several careers. I’m into ‘me’ time now. Unless my granddaughter is staying over, which she isn’t today. Oh, and there’s two days in the week when I have to make sure I’m up at a decent time. Wednesdays when I teach a Creative Writing class in the sumptuous surroundings of Babington House, and Fridays when I have my weekly morning meeting with my own writing group. But today’s Monday and I can slouch around in my dressing gown, cook my daily breakfast of porridge, blueberries and honey which I always eat in the comfort of my warm and cosy, king-sized bed with my hot water bottle taking the chill off my toes. Unless it’s hot and bright sunshine outside – ie, I’m abroad.
Whilst slurping my porridge (I do like it thin) I check my phone for any text messages, then my laptop for emails, my facebook page, my website stats, bank balance, my book sales and google holidays in ridiculously hot places.
All this before actually opening the document I’m working on at the moment – my almost completed novel, Two Blackberry Lane. This is the document that means most to me, although I’m also working on a short story called ‘Hair and Chairs’.
When we first moved to our house and my children were little I used to sit in the living room every afternoon having lunch on the sofa, making phone calls and doing paperwork for the small cleaning business I ran from home before the kids got home.. We live in the country in a house that was built in 1858. I have the deeds to prove it. Every afternoon at about half past two I’d hear a clunk upstairs. On reflection it was probably something to do with the antiquated night storage heating system but instead of investigating the malfunction of pipes or electricity cables, my mind wandered to the list of names on the deeds of the people who’d lived here before us – and whether any of them had died, perchance at half past two in the afternoon – or at least fallen from their bed – maybe tripped on the corner of the linoleum, or even bumped their head on a beam? My imagination had already been fueled by this list of previous occupants. The first person to buy the house, Charles Lansdown in 1859, paid £50 for the privilege and took out a mortgage for that amount. The next, Edmund Crabb paid little more. The idea for my book took root. Two Blackberry Lane explores the relationships between six couples during the time they live in one half of a semi-detached cottage in the fictitious village of Lyde in Somerset. The book covers the years just after World War Two up until the present day and has been read by novelist, Emma Darwin – who gave wonderfully positive feedback. A literary agent has expressed interest in it and so at the moment I’m polishing up the final draft before sending it out into the world.
But before I start on my book, this morning one of my jobs is to draw up the short- list for the Frome Festival Short Story Competition . I have thirty stories which have been long-listed , to read which I have to reduce to ten for the celebrity judge. This is both relaxing and enjoyable since all the stories are of a very high standard.
After I’ve read ten of these I get up, manage to read a couple more downstairs in my study, and make notes before lunch time. After lunch I write bits of my short story as they come to me, then return to Two Blackberry Lane for a bit more editing.
Time for some physical exertion. I drive to the Great Elm duck pond where I walk Billy our West Highland White Terrier before carrying on up to Babington House for a swim. While I’m there I check the numbers of people who’ve signed up for my writing class on Wednesday and mull over the exercise I’ve planned for this week’s group. In the pool doing my twenty lengths I also think about Two Blackberry Lane. I have a warm feeling inside just realising how near it is to completion.
Alison’s granddaughter’s view of grandma
After dinner I get ready to go into Frome where I’m giving a talk about my memoir, The Man Who Didn’t Go To Newcastle which was published last year. A room full of writers gather to hear my thoughts on self-publishing. The audience is lively and ask lots of interesting questions. Most have already bought and read my book but I sell a few to those who haven’t.
As always, I end my day with the crossword. Codewords are my current addiction – and a few paragraphs of the book I’m reading, which at the moment is Rosie Jackson’s memoir, The Glass Mother.