Writing – Writing through the 90s and into the 00s.
I’d had my fill of rejection slips, nibbles, promises and cheques that never arrived. It was too much effort being turned down, messed around and let down.
I continued to write. The ideas kept coming. Meanwhile the teaching career took off. I had a car and my friends and I headed off to Roy Harper gigs, Nick Harper gigs and others.
Late at night and into the early hours I would type my books into my new Amstrad computer. At regular intervals disasters would occur.
Computers have a malicious side to them. Late one night at three o clock, following a particularly productive five hour session on a novel I had high hopes for, I accidentally pressed the wrong button and had to sit and listen while the old Amstrad, chuntering to itself, erased the nineteen pages I had typed.
The books built up. There were Rock books, Sci-fi, novels, biographical works. I was utterly free. I would write them and print them off. My collection of A4 bound tomes was filling a shelf or two. My wife and children paid little heed, friends stopped being interested. But the ideas flowed and the books appeared. I no longer bothered sending them off.
Occasionally someone would read one and say how good they found it.
I had no constraints. I wasn’t producing material that was aimed at a market or for a publisher. I had a career and we were no longer poor. My dream of subsistence living as a creative writer was long gone.
I wasn’t the writer I thought of myself as; I was a Headteacher. Only in my head was I a writer.