Exciting news arrived recently that an old mate has published a book. It’s quite a thrill when someone you know produces writings that impress a publisher sufficiently to pay real cash to gather them into a glossy volume, and to market said volume to the masses in the conviction that it will repay their investment. Mulling over the news, I realised that a surprising number of Corner Cottage’s family and friends have managed this feat.
The need to see their words in print has a long and chequered history in my family. We count a couple of 19th-century newspapermen among our forebears. My uncle has written books about wine, whisky and gin, including a number of useful guides based on the principle that there’s no room for snobbery in drinking and that booze should be rated according to its bang per buck. My grandfather wrote a novel about a young boy growing up on an African farm; the manuscript hung around for years after he died and we’d idly discuss seeing if anyone would publish it. Then we read it. Sorry gramps, but those kinds of opinions aren’t really acceptable in this day and age.
A good few literary friends are academics whose scholarly tomes populate university libraries across the globe (one ruefully displays his royalty cheques, usually denominated in the tens of pennies, to illustrate the specialist appeal of his works); but even this subgenre of writers contains a good number whose work is marketed to the general public as a jolly good read.
Most of the people in this group at one stage or another attended what we called ‘the posse’: a loose group of friends who would gather for a curry on Saturday nights in north London. For some of us during the ‘90s, it was pretty much every Saturday night; others would come and go – girlfriends or boyfriends; cricket teammates; and people with better things to do.
It became a rite of passage for new love interests to attend and survive a posse. And in reward for his tireless efforts in organising a decade or more of custom, our ringleader had his name immortalised in the menu of our favourite eatery with the creation of a new dish. There was a time when through impecuniousness we’d split the bill strictly according to what we’d ordered, rather than going for equal shares – it wasn’t the Algonquin round table, but it did spawn a number of successful scribes.
One posse member spent years buried in the French Army archives and wrote an engaging volume putting the battle of the Somme into a whole new context; another came out with a fascinating illustrated book of architectural history; a third has produced readable material for both academic philosophers and children. The ringleader has produced learned articles on everything from gravestone inscriptions in country churchyards to the symbolism of a particular painting in the Long Room at Lord’s. He also writes songs.
They say you should write what you know, and a few friends have written personal accounts over the years. My English teacher from high school has penned a number of lovely accounts of the coming of change to Zimbabwe and that quintessential Zimbabwean experience, being transplanted to another country – in her case, Ireland.
A uni housemate, running pal and cycling chum (all one person) wrote a humorous account of his tenure as headmaster at an exclusive private school, skilfully melding insights into education with eyebrow-raising anecdotes recounting the kinds of things you always suspected went on after hours at school, but could never prove. I was particularly glad to see this one appear, as we’d gone through the agonies of postgrad literary studies together and it was proof that the experience hadn’t crushed his creativity.
And on it goes: a journalist I used to flak stories to about foreign exchange trading has published two historical novels to enthusiastic reviews; a bloke in my first-year philosophy tutorial later produced a sensitive account of boyhood on an African farm; one of my students, massively surpassing her teacher, has published definitive works on modern South African literature.
Some claim that everyone has a book in them. I’m not sure about the accuracy of that, given some of the books you see around these days – but there’s a certain reverence that goes with the published word. Maybe it’s the many lonely hours battling the tyranny of the blank page, or the very likely prospect of rejection by successive publishing houses, or that a published book means you’ve satisfied a bunch of eggheads that your outpourings have merit. Or it could be that once your book is out, you’ve joined the pantheon of ‘real’ writers, and your words will be read long after you’ve ascended to the great reading room in the sky.
As for this worshipper of the written word, there’s just time to point out that for those who have the intention but lack the skill or application, blogging’s pretty good. I thoroughly recommend it.