Colin
Johnson
So
far in this series, I’ve showcased the talented writers Ruth Loten, Jane
Langan, Beck Collett, Ron Hardwick, L.N.Hunter, Katherine Blessan and Jill Saudek. You can find all these showcases by scrolling
back through the material on this blog.
October’s
showcase turns the spotlight onto Colin Johnson, who is a member of the Twenty-Twenty Club, a
writing group formed by alumni of the cohort of students who graduated from the
Open University’s Masters in Creative Writing in 2020. Colin recently won joint
First Prize in our ‘Alice In Wonderland’ Competition!
Biography
Colin began creative writing with a series of articles in medical magazines. After a forty-year gap (writing many scientific papers, chapters and reviews), he resumed his ambition to write short stories. Like a beginner in any activity, he needed training in the techniques, so he enrolled for an MA at the OU. There he met many creative and supportive writers, including the other members of the 20-20 Club. He is one of the contributors to their upcoming Anthology Words From Wonderland [published by Castle Priory - website @www.castlepriorypress.com. They are aiming for publication on the 14th of November but keep an eye on their social media @c.p.press on Instagram and @CP_Press on Twitter for updates].
Cover for 'Words From Wonderland', an anthology of writing by the 20-20 Club
Colin is primarily interested in character, and the relationships between
characters, as the driving forces of a narrative. His main motivation is
creating short stories, but one idea has led him into a novel, now in the
final stages of editing.
His stories have been published in Earlyworks Anthology [2019]. Lymington
Anthology [2020], and online in Turnpike [January, 2020] and Makarelle [2022] .
His most exciting experience as a writer was winning a competition for a
story to celebrate 300 years since Keats stayed in Winchester, during which
time he wrote ‘Ode To Autumn’. Colin’s piece, ‘The Picking Party’,
was read and dramatized at a celebratory event at Winchester Theatre Royal, in
September 2019.
His publications are listed here:
https://lymingtonwriters.wordpress.com/about/colin-johnson/
******
Here are two extracts from Colin’s work….
Single vision
Nice of you to come, mate. Thanks.
It started
when we was on holiday – Malaga – nice place, plenty of sunshine, even in
October.
Yeah, we got back just before this new
lockdown. Started while we was there. I could see okay most of the time – the
hotel pool, people in the bar, the bar staff. I could still read the labels on
the bottles lined up at the back. So at first, I just rubbed me eyes a bit, and
had another beer. Don’t worry, I said to myself. Relax. Unwind.
Hard to
unwind though, if you can’t take it all in – the people swimming, the girls in
their bikinis. The women laughing together underneath a sunshade.
Don’t get
me wrong, I was still enjoying sitting by the pool. It was just the people –
well, it was odd.
Not a lot
of staff in the hotel. Couldn’t figure it out – the room was done each morning,
nice as you like, but I never saw a cleaner. Same in the restaurant, hardly
anybody working. The waiter on our table every night was fine, though –
cheerful, always a little joke and a smile. Left him a decent tip.
Coming
home, it was worse. When we checked in at the airport, I was all ready with the
passports, put them down on the desk. Thought the girl must’ve gone to get
something. It seemed like there was no one there, then she asked me to put a
bag on the belt. That threw me, I can tell you. I felt a real wally, waiting to
be asked to do that, then looking round to see who had spoken, before I picked
up the bag. My face went all hot, then, and it weren’t the sunburn.
Well, I
didn’t tell Barbara, did I?. No need to worry her, not then. But I could tell
it was gettin’ worse. Even she was gettin’ a bit fuzzy.
On the way
home, I couldn’t hardly see the cabin crew. There was just a grey blur where
their faces and shoulders should’ve been. Makes you wonder, something like
that, what’s going on.
Couldn’t
ask for nothing on the plane, didn’t have nothing to eat, not even a drink. I
just couldn’t work out how you talk to a voice, when you can’t see where it’s
coming from.
A couple of days after we
got home, we were sitting watching the news – that’s when I told Barbara. Had
to, didn't I? She made some comment about that Emily woman that reads the
headlines, you know, before the specialists come on and explain what's really
happened. Barbara said her neckline was a bit low for the BBC, wasn't it?
She always
gets huffy, if I say someone on TV has a short skirt or a good figure, like I’m
not supposed to notice stuff like that. But it's okay for Barbara to find fault
with their necklines.
‘I can't
see nothing wrong with it, love,’ I said. ‘In fact, I can't see her at all.’
Well, the
shit hit the fan then, didn't it?
– How long’s it been going on?
– Why haven't you told me?
– Could I see her, Barbara?
To tell the
truth, mate, her face was all blurred out, but her outline was clear, so I
blagged it a bit. Told her I could see her okay, but I'd still go down to the
optician next day.
Well, they
put me straight. Loss of sight, that's an emergency.
Barbara was
out, of course. Coffee with friends, as usual, every Tuesday morning. God knows
what they find to talk about, week after week. Thought I'd better not drive,
not with eye problems, so I walked round to the doctor’s and explained to the
receptionist – or to the grey cloud floating there, where I knew she was
sitting. Then I waited for an emergency appointment with the GP registrar. Nice
chap, sharp dresser, none of that stubbly beard some of them have these days.
Seemed to know what's what.
‘Eyes,’ he
said, looking right at me. ‘need specialist care.’
‘Get to the
Eye Hospital quick as you can,’ he said.
He sounded
like a school teacher talking to a slow learner. ‘You need to go to the Eye
Hospital now. I'll call you a taxi.’
Well, I've
been called some funny things in my life, but I wasn't gonna to tell him that.
I was holding onto that chair so hard, my knuckles cracked. I could feel the
plastic cover, cold and sweaty in my hands.
‘You really
need to get there now,’ the doc said again.
At the hospital,
everything happened real fast. Lights in the eyes. Up to the ward. Scan.
Fancier scan. All this Corona virus going on, and they were giving me the red
carpet treatment.
When they’d
done all the tests, the consultant herself come to see me. The nurse had just
brought a plate of macaroni cheese for my tea. Smelt good, too, but now it was
going cold. The grey cloud was telling me what they’d found. My eyes were okay,
the problem was in my brain. Some fancy name, she gave it. Agynopsia, I think she said.
There’s me,
shit-scared I’m going blind, and she’s giving me some medical bullshit, and
saying it’s all in my head. If I could’ve seen her face, I might have had a
better chance of working out what was going on.
Calm voice,
she had, though. Firm.
She told me
how your brain has like a screen on each side, at the back of your head.
Pictures from both eyes go to both screens. Then some fancy wiring matches them
up – so you can see 3-D. Complicated, ain't it? Well, in my brain, they'd found
this ‘abnormal activity’ next to my right ear. She reckoned it was sending out
signals that spoiled the pictures.
By now I
was in a right state, I can tell you. The old ticker took off like Usain Bolt
on speed. I started with the heavy breathing. Then I was smacking the side of
my head, hard, with my hand.
‘Please
don’t do that,’ she said, ‘it won't help.’ And she took a hold of my wrist. I
saw her hand before it went blurry – I hadn’t realised ‘til then, she was
Indian or something. Sounded English, see?
So, like
she explained, the only treatment is surgery. On my brain. They can't cut out
the place where the interference starts. Too big, too deep inside.
The way she
put it, I've got a choice. I gotta decide.
I can wait, see if things get better. Or I can let them try and fix it.
What’s
that, mate? Yeah, they can try, she
said. No guarantees.
They can
cut the wiring that crosses over, left to right and right to left. That way,
she says, one eye, one screen. The other eye, the other screen.
Or I can
wait and see, maybe try some tablets. It might get better. She didn’t sound
hopeful. I reckon they’re as much in the dark as me.
Sounds
simple, don’t it? But it ain’t.
Yeah, I can
see you’ve got that. Makes you think, though, don’t it? The world’d be a funny
old place without any women. If you’d asked me a month ago, how I’d feel if I
never saw Barbara again – well, I might have laughed, and taken a shot at that,
y’know. But not now. Now I seen her turn into a grey cloud – well, it ain’t
right.
Oh, thanks
love. Gasping for a cuppa. You got one for matey here? Lovely stuff, thanks.
Which one
was that, mate? All I seen was the cup appearing on top of the locker, and I heard
the footsteps. Couldn’t tell you if it were the cleaner or the ward sister.
I'd like to know what
that doc was thinking, you know, when she told me – but I couldn't see her face,
could I? It's a fifty-fifty chance, she says. Depends which screen my brain
decides to look at. It’ll make a quick choice, then it’ll stick to that side,
always.
One side
normal. The other side all these grey blanks.
‘Think
about it,’ she said. ‘I’ll come back tomorrow.’
I tried to
talk it over with Barbara. She sounded like she had tears in her eyes. I
couldn't see. Dunno if she was hopeful or afraid. She squeezed my hand, but the
rest of her was a blur.
Well, thanks for coming,
mate. It’s been good to talk to you. No, don’t say no more. It’s up to me. I
gotta decide. I can wait and see. It
might get better. If I go for it, it's fifty-fifty. Cure or permanent.
The Picking Party
‘Good,’ said Tony. ‘We
pick tomorrow.’
They rose
in the night, to clean fermentation tanks, fill bacon baguettes, make coffee.
The picking began as soon as they could see, before the sun brought welcome
heat for stiff fingers. A haze hung above them, then disappeared.
Sophie had
helped Tony with the planting, for eight days that first March, in the rain and
the wind. Cold, cold fingers. Bend, push a stick into the ground, one step,
bend…
Pruning was
worse – whole days bent over the low vines. The February cold ate into her
soul. She had wondered if they would ever make any wine.
People came to see them
in the summer, of course. ‘Oh, vines! How romantic, can we do anything?’
But summer is for spraying, and Tony drove the tractor.
She had
worried how they would manage, alone, for their first full harvest. The
professionals have machines, but Tony wanted to pick by hand. They couldn’t
afford a team of Moroccans, so she had posted photos of vine flowers on
Instagram, and emailed her family. Jo and Michael called immediately – ‘Could
we come in September? When exactly do you…’
Emma offered to bring her sister…
Sophie moved along her
row, gathering heavy dark bunches, each blue-black grape dusted with a bloom of
yeast.
At two,
they stopped for lunch. Crusty white bread from the village, fragrant goat’s
cheese, saucisson smelling of mushrooms and ripe flesh.
‘How much
more to pick?’ she asked Tony.
He looked
up at her quickly, then smiled. ‘It’s all done, Sophie. It’s all in!’
In the tanks, grapes ooze juice, skins release purple aromas of plums and blackcurrant. In the orange glow of evening, twelve workers unite over stew and stories. Laughter echoes from the trees. They talk of fermentation, maturation, sheltered winter stillness. They will return.
******
And finally we come to The Big
Interview, where Colin kindly answers
writing-related questions and lets us
into some of his
writing secrets...
How old were you when you first knew you wanted to be a writer, and what set you off down that journey?
Well, that’s a tough one for a starter! Tough because I can’t answer with a number. At school and university, I wrote a lot of essays in science subjects. I enjoyed the process of understanding the material and assembling it in a logical, pleasing order.
But creative writing – that began with a brief flirtation in my
twenties. I wrote 400 words I can now call CNF, published in the British
Medical Journal on their Materia Non Medica page, and I was hooked.
After that, I wrote several pieces for World Medicine, a monthly aimed at
doctors who liked to think about, and laugh at, their profession. I still have
the cartoon of overbearing examiners, drawn by Graham Garden, that was printed
with a collection of funny stories that happened in oral exams.
Then postgraduate exams and arduous on-call
rotas intervened, and I had to get on the publishing treadmill, producing
surgical research papers to build my CV. I never lost the excitement of seeing
my name on a printed page, and I learned the importance of precision and
concision – how to edit for maximum clarity. That stays with me in fiction.
As I approached retirement, I began thinking again
about creative writing. I’ve always loved short stories, since reading
Maupassant for A level. Stories by Tessa Hadley, Hemingway, Ali Smith, Graham
Swift and others were inspiring, but I needed to learn how to master this art.
Back to school, and then the OU.
Tell us about the books and writers that have shaped your life and your writing career.
Any short story I read shows me a little more about how it’s done. Finding Wendy Erskine was mind-opening. I love her oblique narratives, the way she creates ambiguity – Does that mean? … Or is it…? When I have tried to use her approach of writing maybe 14000 words, then editing it down to 4000 – well, it does create density of meaning and it leaves a lot of gaps that the reader can fill. I must mention DBC Pierre’s Release the Bats: Writing Your Way Out of It which is partly a writing manual, partly autobiography. I read this before I had heard the phrase ‘Show don’t tell’ and that is exactly what the book does. Brilliant. Entertaining.
Have
your children, other family members, friends or teachers inspired any of your
writing? In what way?
My first published story, A Violin for Mary, was given to me by a
friend – at least some bare facts were. I filled in the substantial gaps from
my imagination – it is definitely a work of fiction. (published in Unsafe
Spaces – Earlyworks Anthology 2019).
On the CNF module at the OU, I wrote about a friend who left the UK to live in India, when ashram life was fashionable. We lost touch, then he appeared in my inbox one day about ten years ago. That was probably the only useful contact I made through my (employing) university webpage. He was due to visit the UK, so he came to stay with us for a couple of days. I had written to him in 1979 that I’d made some wine from mulberries on a tree near my flat, and I’d keep a bottle for when we met next. I still had it. It tasted vile.
I tried to write the story of his progress from the
ashram to Alaska to California where he now runs a landscaping company staffed
by “illegals”. That piece of writing turned out to be fiction too, and I
haven’t tried again to write CNF.
Does
the place you live have any impact on your writing? Is there another place that
inspires you to write?
I’m really much more interested in character and relationships than
place. That said, while I can invent places, or combine two or more to suit the
narrative, my short story A New Life is deeply interwoven with the sense
of place. On a short Word Factory course, Cathy Galvin encouraged us to
build a story from a found object, and to develop the sense of place. The
setting of that story is a place I love, and I tried to make it an additional
character.
How
would you describe your own writing? Do you tend to write in a particular
genre, style or form?
Within the world of writing and publishing, I think I probably fit in
‘Accessible Literary’. Saying that to people outside the writing world can
sound a little pretentious, and, if you aren’t in a book club, then ‘Book Club
Fiction’ is meaningless. I write fiction, which is not in any specific genre.
Are
there certain themes that draw you to them when you are writing?
Relationships. Power (im)balances between people, and how individuals
manage conflicts feature strongly in my novel, which I hope is in its final
draft.
Tell
us about how you approach your writing. Are you a planner or a pantser?
I like to identify a conflict or challenge, and see how the character(s)
respond, so I need to know a lot about the characters before I start. I don’t
plan a whole story. Often it will develop from a single scene. For me, an
important part of the process is thinking about what is happening in the scene,
consciously and unconsciously, before starting to write. So I might jot down
300-500 words, then leave it for a week or two. Something happens in my brain
while I’m not focused on the story, and one day I sit down and write a longer
chunk…
Do
you have any advice for someone who might be thinking about starting to write
creatively?
Don’t think about it. Do it.
And sign up for some long-term, high-quality learning.
What
do you think is the value of writing groups?
Peer review is an essential part of
publishing academic research, so I am well used to receiving and giving it.
Friendly feedback from other writers is very similar, and I value it
enormously. Maybe the academic experience has helped me deal with negatives,
but almost all the feedback from other writers comes with an obvious desire to
help and improve the writing. It is invaluable.
I
began creative writing at a face-to-face writing class at a local college,
which was a good start, and which I remained part of until recently. The best
feedback comes from two groups that share work by email, both of which have
come out of MA courses at the OU and elsewhere. I have good writing friends in
both groups, and look forward to their thoughts on my work, although I have
only met two of them in the flesh.
One
group sends work, and comments on two pieces, every month. During the pandemic,
we started monthly Zoom meetings, to talk about writing, or to read and discuss
stories. This helped us get to know each other better, and the meetings have
continued. But the main value is in the reviews we receive on work in progress.
What
do you think you learned from the Open University’s MA in Writing course, and
other such courses?
I studied for an MA at the OU. After part 1, there was very little
information about Part 2, except the cost – about twice the cost of the first
year, so I postponed signing up for that until I knew that I needed to do it. I
still haven’t decided, and my student registration remains open.
I’ve done several short
courses, and workshops, to cover specific aspects, and enjoyed the Fish Short
Story course. The Word Factory is a great place to get insights into how
first-class writers put together their stories, and Jericho Writers is a huge resource
of writing technique and publishing information. Lots of Jericho is free, and
you can pay for full access when you need it.
What
do you think about getting feedback on your work from other writers and/or
non-writers?
I act upon suggestions made by feedbackers or beta-readers whenever they
are right, or have spotted something that has niggled me but which I hadn’t changed
– which I still do too often.
Sometimes a reader misunderstands, or hasn’t picked up
on something earlier that is relevant, so it may mean an edit elsewhere. And
sometimes (especially with commas) I’ve written it that way because I want to
write it like that.
If
you have experience of self-publishing, what have been its challenges and
rewards? Do you have any advice for
anyone who is thinking of starting their own literary journal, or
self-publishing their own work?
I self-published an Anthology of short stories, hoping to raise funds
for a Community Centre. We covered the costs. After all the mechanics of page
layout and proofing, cover design, and so on, you need time, energy and skill
to market the product.
The consensus seems to be that self-pub works for genre fiction
(historical, crime, sci-fi). Success often goes to writers who produce a
series, and who love online networking. I’m going to stick to competitions for
stories, and trying to get an agent for my novel.
Where
do you get your ideas from?
If I knew that, I’d go there every day! Louise inspired my story Alice
in Lyndhurst, when she suggested writing something related to Alice in
Wonderland. The model for Alice lived in Lyndhurst after she married, and
is buried in the churchyard there (see photos below). As
soon as Louise suggested the topic, I knew I wanted to write her story.
Sometimes an idea comes from people talking about their friends or family, sometimes from a place or an object, sometimes from a prompt in a competition or writing group. Recently, in Jazz à Minuit, I put together two characters from my novel who hadn’t met in any existing draft, just to see what would happen between them.
They
say that successful writers need to be selfish. How far do you agree with
this?
Maybe prolific writers need to be selfish with their time, to get
all the writing done. Harper Lee was hugely successful on a list of one novel.
But in general, anyone who rises to the national/international level has to be
self-motivated and self-sufficient, whether they are in politics, business,
sport – or writing.
I write for pleasure, when I can find time. The
satisfaction comes from a story that feels complete. Competition success (when
it happens) is a delicious extra.
So really, I fit the writing into the gaps between
the demands of family and other activities.
Beyond
your family and your writing, what other things do you do?
I have always enjoyed running, on and off the footpaths of the New
Forest. After I retired, I joined a running group at the local triathlon club.
We run every Friday morning, then have coffee and cake. It’s great to add a
social side to a fairly solitary sport. I used to play cricket, too, but now I
make do with watching England on TV.
Would
you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person?
I enjoy the theatre, and used to go regularly to the Nuffield Theatre in
Southampton. They had a varied programme of classics and modern plays, and it
is sadly missed. Amateur dramatics was a big thing for me over many years,
ranging from A Midsummer’s Night Dream to A Streetcar Named Desire. I
especially enjoyed playing a camp reindeer in a
Christmas play.
I read general fiction, but usually avoid
defined genre fiction. I enjoy intelligent writing, illuminating imagery and
characters that are complex. Books with too many pages and too many adverbs
usually fail to hold my attention.
The most ‘literary’ thing I’ve written is probably Single Vision [reproduced in the ‘example of writer’s work’ section above] which contains an extended metaphor of partial blindness that prevented the narrator seeing half the population. It appeared online in Makarelle.
Are
you interested in history and if so does it impact on your writing?
The answer to almost all these questions is No. but I do think that a
story is usually improved – made more believable – by authentic incidental
cultural references.
There
is a lot of talk at the moment. in the publishing world and elsewhere, about
political correctness, the Woke movement, cultural appropriation, ‘cancel
culture’, ‘trigger warnings’, sensitivity readers and the importance of
diversity. What are your thoughts on this, with regard to writing?
Lemn Cissay addressed this point at Winchester Writers Festival a few years ago. He looked at examples of writing across cultural divides, making the point that the important authenticity is in the writing. If you know the culture and understand the people, then you can write well about them.
Think for a moment: How many female authors have written about male
protagonists?
I would not try to write a character of an
indigenous Brazilian woman – I don’t think I’ve ever met one. But I’m happy to
write British woman characters, from a variety of backgrounds. Perhaps the key
is that if the reader finds it authentic, then it’s okay.
As Lemn Cissay said, being creative involves
imagining how another person thinks and reacts. It’s what we writers do.
Sensitivity readers are/should be part of the process of getting it right.
Where would you place your own writing, on a continuum with PURE FANTASY at one end and COMPLETE REALISM at the other?
I am far too literal-minded to write fantasy. It is hard enough to build
a character and a conflict, without having to imagine a different reality as
well. As a reader, I prefer to find out about people solving their problems in
ways that I recognise, without recourse to mythical beings or superpowers. Good
writing (including the best in any genre) usually involves character and
conflict.
If
you have anything else you’d like to tell us, not covered by these questions,
feel free to add it here.
Phew! You’ve asked it all! But I’d like to add that my most exciting experience as a writer was winning an open competition for a story to celebrate 300 years since Keats stayed in Winchester, when he wrote Ode to Autumn. It was spine-tingling to hear my words and see them dramatized at Winchester Theatre Royal, in September 2019. The Picking Party [See ‘example of writing’ section above].
*****
Thank you very much, Colin, for a fascinating showcase.
In November, I will showcase
the wonderful writer and member of the
20-20 Club
Sue Davnall
Not to be missed!
