Judith Worham
Our seventh showcase of 2024 turns the spotlight on writer Judy Worham. She is a writer of fiction and non-fiction, and she even wrote a sitcom with myself and another friend, many years ago, that was unfortunately never commissioned [but it was very funny!]. I have known Judy for many years and consider her to be a close friend, even though we communicate mostly these days by email and old-fashioned letters - she is warm-hearted, funny and great company, and I am very pleased to be able to showcase her writing here this month.
Biography
Judy Worham
[nee Roberts] was born in the main operating theatre of the largest hospital in
reach of her parents’ address in Kent. Trainee and qualified obstetricians came
from miles away to watch the birth, as triplets were a rarity. Judy was the
first born of the triplets and the only survivor into adulthood.
She grew up
with her two older brothers, both grammar school boys. Judy always had a
light-hearted approach to school. One report said, ‘Tries to make the rest of
the class laugh.’ She left school with meagre qualifications and joined the
Civil Service, working in the Concorde Project Office, followed by other
departments, including the Hercules C130 department. Marriage and three daughters
followed. Judy began attending evening classes, eventually gaining a place at
UCL to read English. After her degree, she moved to Kings College London to
study for a PGCE and became a fully qualified secondary school teacher.
She worked
for twenty years at a Further Education College. She and a former colleague have since produced
three self-published books about their joint travels along the London
Underground. She belongs to several writing groups, a book group, is an avid
reader and enjoys plays and films. When she’s not writing, she enjoys jigsaw
puzzles and spending time with friends, particularly her ex-colleagues. One of
her favourite times of year is Halloween, when the local children know that she
will trick them. She also enjoys magic tricks and can perform some.
Links:
You can download 'Down the Tube The Northern Line' and 'Down the Tube the Jubilee Line' on Amazon Kindle
Paper versions of 'Down the Tube the Jubilee Line' and 'Down the Tube the Hammersmith and City Line' can be bought direct from Judy's email address: judy.worham@hotmail.co.uk. She has no copies of the Northern Line for sale as they've run out and it's not economically viable to produce more.
******
Judith has sent us several lovely pieces, all of which I'm sure you'll enjoy. The first is a short piece of drama, which I think is a first for this showcase series:
Hamlet, Act III scene i ‘To be or not to be’
HAMLET (looking
at his mobile.) Ok, Siri, to be or
not to be?
SIRI That is the question?
HAMLET Yeah, it’s the biggy.
SIRI Something large then.
HAMLET Massive.
SIRI So,
a large mass. Albert Einstein first predicted the existence of black holes and they are the biggest thing known to mankind.
HAMLET Black holes? Never heard of them.
I’m talking about death.
SIRI Death
occurs when a person’s heart stops beating leading to a cessation of
breath. Urine is released from the bladder and faeces from the…
HAMLET (shouting) Too much information. Look, there’s
stuff going on here in Elsinore, big stuff, so, I want to know if I should just
hang in there, or - and this is the real question - stop it, like, from
happening to me.
SIRI Like what?
HAMLET Aren’t you supposed to be
intelligent?
SIRI It’s artificial.
HAMLET Okay, I’ll try to be clear. (He frowns, looks up to
the ceiling, walks about a bit.)
Right, my life’s a total mess, so should I, like, end it and escape any more
suffering? Will death be like sleep?
SIRI That’s two questions.
HAMLET I’ll go with the sleep one because I’ve been having these
awful dreams. Will death be like my dreams?
SIRI Describe your dreams.
HAMLET Mate, they’re grim. I dream about bad things like getting
old, being victimised by those in power, not being successful in love - but mostly, it’s the general
weariness of life, its inevitable toils. So, Siri, why put up with all that
misery?
SIRI What’s your name?
HAMLET Hamlet.
SIRI Are you the Prince of
Denmark?
HAMLET Yeah.
SIRI Just stop overthinking
everything.
HAMLET (Stares at his phone, then puts
it on the floor and jumps up and down on it.)
(Enter
Ophelia looking worried.)
The second piece is a story with a strange title...
Inchmahome
Two dark figures stood on the jetty, the older woman silent and grim-faced, plying her rosary, her eyes shut. The younger woman looked out to the island across the lake, at the still grey waters reflecting the overcast sky. She knew the water in all its moods, had seen the mist rising from it in the early dawn; watched it troubled and agitated as the wind whipped up its surface; seen sunbeams dance and dazzle in the afternoon light; admired it as the sun went down, red and fiery, casting its orange glow across the water. In winter, she had seen the silver cast of the moon rippling across the mere.
In the distance, she could see the black
Friar pushing the boat out from the island, taking the oars in his hand and
beginning to row. Soon she would be imprisoned there. Her head ached; her wimple
had been bound too tightly by the nuns dressing her after her vows. Complaint
would have been futile. Her life was to be one of punishment, of suffering in
atonement for her sin.
A car drew up at the hotel.
‘This
is lovely,’ the mother said, gazing at the view of the lake before her, her
hands twisting nervously belying her cheerful tone. ‘Look, Ellen, there’s the
island we’re going to visit this afternoon.’ The teenage girl sitting in the
back made no response.
‘But
first, lunch,’ the father said. ‘This hotel has a first-class reputation for
its cuisine.’ Getting out of the car, the mother cast an anxious glance at her
daughter’s pale face. Wrapped in layers of loose clothes, she hid her body but
her face told all, the pallid skin tightly stretched showing her fine bones.
As the young nun stood, waiting patiently, the sounds
of the oars barely reaching her, her mind wandered back to her childhood. To
the living in the croft beside the lake where her father had fished and tended
his crops. She had helped her mother to bake and clean; to gather berries in
the autumn; to fetch kindling to keep the hearth-fire warm in the winter; to
search for plovers’ eggs hiding in the undergrowth in the spring. In the summer
months, she pulled weeds, fetched water and helped to harvest their crops. She
remembered her mother cooking the porridge over the fire, stirring until it
became creamy and thick.
And then the famine came as the crops
failed, withered and died. The lake froze over during the long winter months.
Her mother grew pale and silent, sharing out the food, always giving herself
the smallest portion. There was little sleep at night when the hunger pains
were on her. In desperation, her father made a hole in the ice and fished. For
a short while they fed well. She remembered that terrible day when the ice
cracked and with a brief cry he disappeared. When the thaw came, their
neighbours brought his body home and laid him out on the table.
In the spring, her mother sent her to
the castle for they were looking for a wench to work in the kitchen. On her
last night, Bess went to her room and made up a bundle of her meagre
possessions. She spent the evening at the side of the lake.
The waitress placed the menus on the table. Ellen ran her eyes down the list of food.
There was nothing she could eat.
‘What
would you like, darling?’ the mother asked, a little too brightly. The girl
pulled a face. ‘There’s soup.’ Ellen shook her head. It would be too rich, full
of cream and butter in a place like this. Just the thought of it made her feel
ill.
‘I’m
not hungry,’ she said.
‘You
didn’t eat anything at breakfast,’ the father said. The mother put a
restraining hand on his arm.
‘Perhaps
they’d do you a salad.’
‘All
right, a small one, no dressing.’
The castle kitchen was warm. A boy turned the meat on a spit. The store cupboards had peas and beans and herbs aplenty. Hunters brought in rabbit, hare and wild boar. The gardens provided vegetables. It was her task to help make the bread, so she was up before it was light. There was much to prepare and the hours were long and arduous. In return, there was food and she ate heartily, cleaning her trencher with the soda bread she made. Bess’s skin began to glow and her black hair became lustrous. In the hall, she sat far away from the top table, taking only occasional glances at Sir John, his lady and their four strapping sons. The kitchen boy sat nearby and tried to speak to her, but she had been warned by her mother and kept her eyes averted.
Early one morning she found the boy
lighting the fire, and
giving her sideways glances. She went to the flour store with her bowl
and he followed.
‘I
like you, Mistress,’ he said, his voice thick with passion. She scooped the
flour into her bowl, measuring it carefully as she had been taught, turning her
back to the young lad. He put his hands on her waist and bent his head to her
neck. She could feel the heat of his foetid breath and smell his sweat. ‘I have
a great desire for you.’ She twisted out of his grasp and, leaving her bowl,
ran from him. He followed as she ran up the stairs and along a passage. He was
closing and she could hear his panting breath. ‘I’ll have you,’ he said. She
stopped suddenly and, as he grasped her, she turned to face him and gave him an
almighty shove.
‘No.
I will not be your fool, your plaything. You will not frighten me. If you force
me, God will punish you in hell fire and your screams will resound up to heaven
where I will glory in your pain.’
The
young man stood stock still, his mouth open and gaping.
‘Well said, lassie,’ said a voice
coming from behind her. ‘And you, boy, if you wish to avoid a whipping, you
will leave this maid alone or you’ll have me to answer to.’
Bess
turned and saw Malcolm, the youngest of Sir John’s sons, a tall well-made youth,
muscular and strong. She bobbed a curtsey to him and, muttering her thanks,
returned to her duties.
The father finished his meal and sat back, satisfied. Ellen
had pushed the salad around her plate, the little she ate had been consumed
painfully, slowly. She tried to hide what she had left under her knife and fork
and had secreted some in her napkin.
‘I need the loo,’ she said.
‘It’s getting serious,’ the mother said to
her husband as she watched her daughter’s retreating form. ‘She’s gone to throw
up what she’s just eaten.’
‘Take her to that psychiatrist when we get
back from holiday,’ he said.
The father paid the bill and they
wandered down the road to the jetty. The only means of reaching the island was
via a boat and the way to alert the boat was to turn a board on a swivel from
its black painted side to its white painted side.
‘I
wonder how long we’ll have to wait,’ the mother said. Ellen gazed out over the
silky grey water to the distant island.
‘What’s the point of going there?’ she asked,
her tone sulky.
‘It’s a beautiful spot with some interesting
history. Mary Queen of Scots was hidden there as a girl and there’s a ruined
priory on the island,’ the mother said. She had done her research.
‘So?’
the girl said.
‘Don’t be rude to your mother,’ the father
said. Ellen watched as the boat chugged out from its island mooring, gliding
across the rippling water towards her.
In the hall that evening, as Bess sat with her food
before her, she gave surreptitious glances in the direction of the high table.
There he was, Malcolm, the young man who had spoken to her that morning. He was
looking at her. Their eyes met. She felt her cheeks become hot under his
scrutiny, so she looked away. The kitchen boy watched her intently.
Malcolm sought her out, or met her by
chance. She blushed and stammered at first, but in time she became accustomed
to passing the time of day with this young man, so far above her in rank. He
persuaded her to meet him in the kitchen garden, and took her beyond the wall.
He said kind words, praised her beauty, ran his fingers through her hair, bent
and kissed her lips. She felt dizzy, lost in the sweetness of his scent. He was
gentle with her, touching her body lightly as feelings stirred in her that she
had been taught were sinful. The second time they met, he took her deep into
the trees and bid her lay with him awhile. The third time she could not help
but let him do his bidding and, afterwards, she ran back to the kitchen, no
longer a maid.
‘Careful, darling,’ the mother said and put her hand
out to help her daughter into the boat. Ellen ignored her mother’s hand and
stepped in, sitting as far away from her parents as possible. They chugged
across the water in silence. Stepping on the island, the girl shivered.
‘Are
you cold?’ the mother asked. Normally she would have responded sharply, telling
her mother not to fuss, but instead she shook her head.
‘No,
it’s not cold, it’s – ’ she paused, at a loss, ‘ – I don’t know.’
She walked towards the ruined priory and
began reading the information set out on colourful boards, her mind imagining
the lives of the fifteen or so men who lived under the strictures of
Augustinian rule. She became absorbed and persuaded her mother to buy her a guide
of the history of this tiny island.
It was the day she was to tell him she was with child.
She ran lightly to their place. He was waiting his arms open, smiling, calling
her tender names as they lay together.
‘I
have news,’ she said, as he caressed her and pulled at her bodice.
‘Tell
it me later, for I have great need of you now.’ Obediently, she lifted her
skirts as he entered her. She looked at the branches above her and then heard
shouts and running feet. She began to push him away but he was at his climax
and unable to stop. Thus it was Sir John and his huntsmen came upon them.
Later, she learnt the kitchen boy had led his lord
there. He exulted in her misery and watched as she walked from the castle to
the nunnery where she was to be kept in a cell until her time was due. She made
no noise during the birth as the grim-faced nun, her jailor, spoke of her sin,
her waywardness, how she deserved to burn in hell for all eternity. The
boy-child didn’t cry either as he was taken away.
‘You
are not fit to be in this nunnery,’ the Mother Superior said. ‘After you have
taken your vows, you will be taken to Inchmahome. There you will live for the
rest of your days in silence and penitence.’
Bess
bowed her head, accepting her dreadful sentence. ‘My mother, I would like to
see my mother one more time.’ She looked up and met the hard eyes of the older
woman.
‘She
died from grief at your disgrace some weeks ago.’
The girl once more bent her head to hide
the tears streaming down her face.
‘Your father’s had enough. He says the next boat will
go in a few minutes.’
Ellen
looked up from her guide book. ‘Can we catch the next boat? I’ve got to visit
this bit of the island.’
‘Why?’
the mother asked.
‘It’s
where the sinning nun is buried. It says they buried her standing up. That’s
awful. I really want to see the place.’
The
mother looked at her husband pacing up and down, impatient to leave the island.
She took him to one side.
‘There’s
something she wants to see. It’s the first time in ages she’s been interested
in anything. Go back to the hotel and have a drink and we’ll meet you there. We
won’t be long.’
The rain began to fall as the boat reached the island.
The two nuns stepped off.
‘I
will show you to your cell and then I will leave. The Prior has granted you
permission to attend mass once a week but you are to sit at the back of the
nave and not raise your eyes. You will speak to nobody. You may walk in the
afternoon. Your food will be delivered at matins. That is all. I will return in
a year, and pray God forgive you your wantonness.’
The cell was damp and cold. A musty straw
pallet lay on the ground. She lay down wearily and loosened her wimple. There
was no one to see her now, no human contact, no more caresses and sweet words.
The food came each day, left outside her cell. She emptied the bowl into her
habit and fed it to the pigs as she walked. She attended the service, looked at
no one and sat with her head bowed. One morning, she was too weak to open her
door. The hunger pains that had been so hard to bear disappeared. Her head was
light, her thoughts confused. She hoped it meant that her great torment would
soon be at an end.
‘It’s here,’ Ellen said. ‘I can’t get over them
burying her standing up. It’s retribution after death, no putting to rest. Why
would they do such a thing?’ The tears ran down her cheeks. ‘The sinning nun,
it says here, but that’s all. What did she do that made them treat her so
badly?’
‘I
expect she became pregnant. It was a shameful thing for a nun in those long
distant days.’ The mother put her arms round her daughter’s thin shoulders.
‘I
bet she was exploited in some way. Raped, or talked into it by some powerful
man and then left to suffer. I wonder what happened to the baby if there was
one.’ Ellen’s face was alive, animated in a way it hadn’t been for months. She
brushed her tears away as she knelt on the small mound in the ground and put
her face close to the earth. ‘I will come here again and I will think of you
often.’ The air was very still, the island silent. The girl ran her hands over
the grass and then stood. ‘Okay, let’s get back. Dad’s at that hotel, isn’t he?
Perhaps they’ll have an apple I can eat.’ Mother and daughter turned and made
their way back to the jetty to the boat that would take them back over the
darkening waters.
The End
The third piece is the beginning of a novel based on the life of Shakespeare's wife, Anne Hathaway:
Chapter
1
January,1564 Marriage
Bartholomew
9, Anne 7, Catherine 5 months
The child stood by
the side of the bed, her fingers splayed on the embroidered counterpane, seldom
used, something valuable her mother had bought from her home. It felt stiff and
cold to the touch. She bent over and buried her nose in the covers, sniffed
twice; nothing. It had gone. There had been so little time since her mother had
bid her be good, care for her baby sister and help her father, then she closed
her eyes and spoke no more. Now her scent was no more. She shivered a little,
for the room was cold.
She
turned as the door opened; the room darkened as her father filled the frame,
blocking out the little light coming from the casement by the stair. ‘What are
you doing in here, Anne?’ Anne could not see the look on his face, but his
voice told her of his displeasure.
‘You
must not come to this room; did I not tell you so? Come away at once.’ He
turned, but then turned back. ‘My wife that I have wed this day is downstairs
waiting to meet you. You must say those words you have learnt. Do as I bid you,
they are both to honour and welcome her. She will be a great benefit to our
house.’ He softened his voice a little. ‘Come, she will be a mother to you.’
Anne
took a last lingering look at the bed where her mother had died, where her
step-mother would now sleep under the counterpane. She followed her father,
took two steps on the stairs and looked down. She could see the woman’s neck,
her wide shoulders and long black hair hanging lose. She took two more steps
and the back of the woman’s head came into view. She turned and stared up at
Anne. Two more steps and Anne was at eye level. She stopped and put her head to
one side. This woman was nothing like her own mother who had been small and
delicate, pretty with golden hair and green eyes. Her father’s new wife had
thick black brows and a ruddy face. She smelt of something. Anne frowned; she
didn’t know this smell, but knew it to be wrong. As Anne reached the bottom
step, she saw that the woman was large. She hurried to stand next to her
brother, Bartholomew. The woman tapped her foot. Anne looked to her father, who
was smiling. He nodded at both the children. ‘Remember what you must say.’
Bartholomew
stepped forward. ‘I bid you welcome, Madam, to Hewlands Farm which is now your
home. We wish you well and happy, and may God bless your union with our
father.’ He hesitated, took Anne’s hand and squeezed it. ‘We are happy now that
you are our mother.’
‘Thank
you, Bartholomew, that is well said.’ Anne’s father nodded at Anne. It was her
turn to greet this woman, but she was not ready, the memory of her mother still
so vivid in her mind. How could she speak truly, and was she not told it was a
sin to lie? The woman turned to Anne and raised her eyebrows, nodded in
expectation of what she had to say.
From
outside came the sound of running feet followed by banging on the door and it
being flung open. Young Tom Whittington stepped forward, twisting his cap in
his hands. ‘I wish you well, Master. My father has sent me to say the cow has
fallen and slipped down on to the frozen river, and we need your help to
recover the beast.’
Richard
took the woman’s hand. ‘I am right sorry but I must leave. I will return to you
with all speed. I pray you will forgive my absence, but as you see, I am much
needed.’ He took off his Sunday jacket, took his working coat from the hook and
stepped out the door, banging it shut behind him. The room fell silent.
Anne
stared at the woman’s intimidating eyebrows. Why were they so thick and heavy?
The woman’s foot began to tap once more.
‘Your turn, Anne. Come, child,
what say you?’ Anne looked up at her step-mother and shook her head. She could
not say the words.
‘I know you are not dumb; your
father tells me you chatter and laugh merrily all day long when you are in
spirits.’ A wailing sound came from the cot and Anne moved towards the crib to
attend to her baby sister, Catherine.
‘No.’
Anne stopped and looked at the woman. Her voice had been one of command. She
was puzzled. ‘Why forbid me?’
‘The baby must wait. First,
you must give me my due.’
Anne frowned and shook her
head. ‘My mother would not like this. It was her dying wish that I care for my
sister.’ She watched as the woman’s face changed, two red spots appearing on
her cheeks.
She walked towards Anne. ‘I am
now your mother, and you will never ever speak to me so. You must welcome me as
your brother has.’
Anne
knew she had done wrong because the woman was angry. Her mouth felt dry as she
took a step forward to speak. She looked up into the dark eyes of the red-faced
woman, swallowed, and opened her mouth to speak, but the words would not come.
She could not say them for she did not want this woman to be a mother to her.
Her own mother was in heaven looking down at her. Anne bit her lip in her
effort to stem the tears that threatened to fill her eyes and spill down her
face. She would not cry. She looked down as the woman’s foot began once more to
tap.
‘I am waiting. Again, I ask, what say
you?’
Anne shook her head and clutched her hands together for she was now afraid.
‘Nothing,’ she whispered.
‘Speak a little lest you mar your fortune.’
Anne looked up and noted the woman’s lips set in a thin line. What should she
do? She remembered her mother had told her to always tell the truth. ‘I cannot
make the
words come from my
mouth.’
‘Very well,’ the woman said,
her face now very red, crouched down to be on a level with Anne. ‘I will
remember this. I will do my duty by you and I will make you do your duty to me.
You will learn my ways and how to help in this house, but – ’ the woman paused.
‘You must call me mother.’
Anne nodded. ‘I will, very
soon, but forgive me, I cannot today.’ The woman raised her hand as if to
strike her. Bartholomew took Anne’s arm and pulled her back. ‘Mother, she is
seven years old and has much to learn.’
‘Very well. I see how things
are.’
The
baby began to cry in earnest. Anne glanced at the crib. The woman shook her
head. ‘Go to the dairy and wait there until you are summoned.’ Anne began to
shake, knowing she had offended this woman and made her angry. It was a
struggle to bite back the tears that threatened to well up in her eyes. She
began to tremble.
‘Go!’
Anne turned and fled, pulling
at the back door and closing the latch behind her, leaving her warm shawl
inside. She stood still awhile as the piteous wailing of her baby sister filled
her ears.
And, as if that wasn't enough, Judy has sent us a poem [talk about versatile!]:
A wife’s perspective
Did you compare me to a summer’s day?
No. Immortal lines were not to be my fate.
Some darling stranger stole your heart away,
A lovely face and eyes so bright the bait.
And he who has those lines that should be mine,
Now takes your time and I am left bereft.
Your soul, tis for your master mistress pines,
And I for you? Have scant love in my breast.
But in revenge, I will
not play the jade
Nor speak to say what I of your love know’st,
Nor through deed or look show I am betrayed.
Concealing all within, for that I ow’st.
So long each time at home we can
agree,
So long your secret safe will ever be.
******
And finally we come to The Big
Interview, in which Judith kindly
answers writing-related
questions and lets us into
some of her writing secrets...
How old were you when you first
knew you wanted to be a writer and what set you off on that journey?
I was about
ten when I won a writing competition. I had to finish a story that began ‘And
the little dog disappeared through the gap in the hedge’. I received a book
token for 7/6d – a small fortune to give to a child at a time when a generous
amount of pocket money would be 6d.a week. I bought a book of fairy tales and I
can still see the illustrations, some in colour, others in black and white. I
particularly remember a picture of a woman who had been abandoned and parted
from the man she loved and had her magnificent long hair cut. In the picture, the
woman had short hair, but had triumphed as she was now cradling her baby.
Tell us about the books and
writers that have shaped your life and your writing career.
I grew up on Enid Blyton, Just William stories
by Richmal Crompton and Just Jane by Evadne Price. The character of Jane
was written in response to the character of William Brown, hero of the Just
William stories. I remember Jane staring at an old lady who rebukes her
sharply for her behaviour. She says, ‘But I’m jus thinking about yer loverly
teeth, all yellow and bunched up and bent over like them skulls in the museum.’
Jane was not as funny as William, and certainly more brutal. I loved it. My
father, himself a keen reader, bought me all sorts of books from the sickly
‘Bobbsey Twins’ to ‘Hathoo of the Elephants’ I liked exciting stories where the
children triumphed and saved the day. I am a big fan of Dickens and an even
bigger fan of Shakespeare’s plays and poetry. I belong to a book group and we
read modern fiction. Two that have stood out are, Still Life by Sarah
Winman, and The Reader on the 6.27 by Jean-Paul Didier laurent.
Have your children, other family
members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing. In what way?
My inspiration is a tragic one. My eldest
brother broke his neck in a motorcycling accident when he was 38. I was 33. I
visited him in hospital as often as I could. He was strapped to a bed that moved
up and down and at various angles. It helped to prevent bedsores. His accident
left him paralysed from the chest down. When I came away from seeing him, I
thought about what I would miss if I found myself in his position. There were
two things: my university degree, and the other, never having tried to write. I
studied English at UCL, gained a PGCE from Kings College, and became a teacher
in a Further Education College. That’s where I had the good fortune to meet
Louise. Together with Carole Blacher, we began to write a sitcom. We entered a
BBC sitcom writing competition and received a very positive reply. They wanted
us to submit a different script. We wrote some six episodes and then Louise
absconded to the north. By the time we were able to submit our next project, the
commissioning editor had changed. I’ve spent ages trying to turn our second
story into a novel and will soon publish it on Amazon Kindle under the title, Writers
and Wrongs by Judy Roberts.
NOTE: Writers and Wrongs by Judith Roberts will be available on Amazon Kindle. The ISBN number is BOCXN78MJ5
Does the place you live have any
impact on your writing?
I have always lived-in South-East England. I am
sure my suburban upbringing influences my attitudes and what I write about. As
a child, I lived near a wooded area and loved playing among the trees, hiding
under fern bushes and smelling the earth. The other place that haunts my
imagination is Cornwall. My mother’s grandparents came from Bodmin. My father’s
mother came from Penzance. I feel an affinity with the place, but it may be
because we had brilliant summer holidays there when I was a child. I think both
these factors have fed into my interest in living without the benefit of modern
devices. This interest stops short of my actually trying to live that way!
How would you describe your own
writing?
I have several styles of writing. One is very
dark. I wrote a novel about a bomb explosion on the London Eye. In the story, I
killed and maimed a lot of people and showed how the lives of the survivors were
affected. I’ve never published it.
I have
collaborated on three travel writing books, personal accounts of travelling
with my friend Carole Blacher along various tube lines. We describe the places
we visit, the points of interest, or in a couple stations, the total absence of
interest. We talk, stop for coffee, Carole eats pastries, I swallow gallons of
soup. We visit museums, parks, temples, churches, a cathedral or two, mosques, galleries
and museums. We swung across the Thames on a cable car, learnt the ingredients
for snail water in The Old Operating Theatre and were bowled over by the tour
of Lord’s Cricket Ground. We held a replica of the FA Cup Trophy at Wembley
Stadium. Our accounts are anecdotal and light-hearted in tone. It was Carole’s
bonkers idea to travel along a tube line getting off at every stop. We began
with the Northern Line, progressed to the Jubilee Line, finishing with the
Hammersmith and City Line. We self-published three separate books, all
beginning with the title, ‘Down the Tube’ and then adding the name of each
line. We’ve probably sold 700 or so books, never made a profit but it was worth
it. We had such a lot of fun on our way, saw wonders and met brilliant people.
Mostly we laughed. We looked down a storm drain, saw an elephant half out of
wall about six foot up a wall and invented a Worshipful Company. We are the
Worshipful Company of Time Wasters. By reading this, you become a member. You
don’t have to do anything to join. The animal that best represents us is the
sloth.[They went on Radio Four’s Saturday
morning chat show and were contestants on Pointless, too, just so they could
try to promote the book – don’t ever believe they are lazy! – Louise]
As already mentioned, I’m close to releasing Writers and Wrongs, a comic novel about three women writing a sitcom, where their own lives become more like the sitcom than the one they are writing. The story came from both Louise and Carole and I finished it.
My current interest is in writing historical fiction. I have completed a novel about Anne Shakespeare set in 1599. Its premise is in the form a question. ‘Does Anne really know the man she married?’. I’m currently working on a prequel about the early life of Anne before she marries. I aim to go for a two book deal with whoever will publish me. I can dream.
Are there certain themes that draw you to them when
you’re writing?
If I have a theme, I think it is women’s lives
and how complicated and often difficult they are.
Tell us about how you approach your own writing.
Planner or pantser? Both! The tube books
planned themselves, the sitcom book came from a collaboration with Louise and
Carole in the form of a sitcom script. I’ve used most of the plot for the first
half and invented the second half myself. I began the first Anne Shakespeare
book, but soon realised I needed a plan. I wrote one and put it away and wrote
the novel. I was surprised at how much of the plan I had stuck to. My current
book [working title Anne Hathaway, child, woman, wife] has a clear
outline. I know where it starts, having written 30,000 words. I know where it’s
going to, and what’s going to happen. It’s the journey that’s taking time.
Creating a premise is vital, it keeps the book on track.
Do you have any advice to someone who might be thinking
of writing creatively?
Advice to a would-be writer? Do it. Pen on
paper. A word, an image, a thought. Anything will do. Just write. See what
comes out. If you enjoy doing it, keep going. If you don’t enjoy writing, why
do it? For some of us, it’s a must.
Are you, or have you been in the past, a member of any
writing groups?
I belong to three writing groups. The first
meets during term time once a week. We have a brilliant tutor who we employ.
The group has fabulous writers who are immensely supportive. We laugh a lot.
The second group comprises six members. This is another group of people I love
to spend time with. We share our work in advance, read chosen extracts to each
other, give and receive feedback. My third group manage to meet two or three
times a year. Like the others, we enjoy the work we read and receive valuable feedback.
Each group is different, but what they have in common is that we all trust each
other to support and say honestly what we think and how we respond to each
submission.
What do you think about getting feedback on your
writing?
I welcome feedback. Readers have very differing
tastes but most people can spot a bum note, something that doesn’t ring true or
something that is boring. Most advice is invaluable.
What have been the challenges and rewards of
self-publishing?
Having shared in the self-publishing process
with my dear friend, Carole, I know what a lot of hard work it is. The best
advice I can give is to ask yourself this question: why am I doing this? Next
question, what do I know about self-publishing? Third question: How much will
it cost? How much time will it take? Should I do it as a paper version, an eBook,
or both? The most important question is, what do I hope to gain from it? I
self-published a book of reminiscences by my eldest brother after he died. I
didn’t want to make any money from it. I gave the books away to people who
would be interested and knew what he was writing about. It was an act of love
and remembrance and I’m so glad I did it. The tube books were hard work, made
us no money, but it’s wonderful to have physical copies. I’m glad we did it and
shared the work and we still speak to each other. [The
books are funny and useful, especially if you live in or near London - Louise]
Where do your ideas come from?
The tube idea was Carole’s. Thank you. The
sitcom idea was either Carole’s or Louise’s. The London Eye was mine as I sat
on the train slowly crossing the Thames to reach Charing Cross Station. It
looked so vulnerable. My research shows it is not. The London Eye is very well
guarded. As for the two historical novels, I would like to know more about
Shakespeare and the times he lived in. I’m not particularly interested in the
court and its politics. I’m fascinated by the lives of ordinary people, what
they believed, feared, thought and laughed about. I’m in awe of the ordinary
women and the work they had to do, and how much they had to know. I’m
interested in Shakespeare’s friends, his family, and his home town of
Stratford-upon-Avon. My focus is on his wife. I spend hours researching the
past and have some wonderful academic books. When I write, much of my help
comes from a few glasses of wine.
Are successful writers selfish?
I believe that successful writers are very
focussed on achieving their goals. Is that selfish? I don’t know. I have a
large family and I will always put them first. I live with my husband and my
three daughters all have husbands and children of their own. So none of them
live with us and are not as time consuming as they have been in the past. I
have helped my grandchildren with various English exams and I play with the
small ones and let them mess up my house. I have a house full of toys. Lucky
me.
[My own toy Grommet left home to go and live at Judy's a few years ago.....
Beyond your family and your
writing, what other things do you do?
During lockdown I played a keyboard as if it
were a piano. I think I’m probably the worst pianist in the world, but I love
playing. It’s just that nobody loves listening. I go to a paracise class, which
involves me waving my arms about, bending, stretching, taping my toes and keeping
on the move, all to great music. I’m an avid reader. I love cooking. My tomato
soup is a triumph, Barney’s Monday Night Rice, a standby. Madhur Jaffrey’s
chicken in a sweet pepper sauce a big favourite. [I
really miss eating at Judy’s house since we moved up north – Louise]
I’m a huge fan of Halloween. I
have a gorilla glove and when children knock on the door I slowly open it a
fraction and then bang the glove on the door and hiding behind it, I pretend to
be fighting. My other option is to pretend I can neither see or hear the
children which has them screaming at the top of their voices. I always ask for
a trick, but settle for a joke instead. The local children are well used to
this routine and I give away enough sweets to keep a flock of dentists in work.
I am fortunate in having a great group of friends who are known as the Skivvies. We all worked together and now we have the joy of playing together. We have a short holiday once a year, always on the south coast, however, the location is immaterial. We are big fans of crazy golf and the picture shows us after a stressful 18 hole round, beset by cannons and water spurting and having to talk like a pirate over an extended period. Not easy, me hearties.
Would you describe yourself as
cultured?
I don’t make a
habit of describing myself and I’m finding this exercise difficult. Some people
think I’m cultured, but only because I know a lot about Shakespeare, and they
haven’t read the answer to the question above. I recently attended a one-day
course in Stratford-upon-Avon on how ‘the middling sort’ lived in early modern
England. A group of academics described the evidence they had and it’s all
going into a virtual room that can be accessed by schools. It will give school
children an idea of the sort of things that people owned and treasured. It has helped
with the setting of the novel I am
currently writing.
I enjoy plays. The best I’ve seen in
ages was The Leman Brothers. I don’t watch a lot of television, but I
love Bridgerton, the Beverly Hillbillies, Vera, Grantchester and
Happy Valley. I listen to Radio 4, follow The Archers and enjoy listening
to serials and dramas. I watch the news, but seldom go to see a film. I
recently saw a puppet show with my two youngest grandchildren, called Goldifox.
No, my granddaughters aren’t called Goldifox, it was the name of the show. I
love puppets. This one burst through the screen and completed subverted the
story, complaining he didn’t like porridge.
Having older grandchildren, I am very
aware of not being in touch at all with the younger generation. I recently listened
to a grandson talking to his friend. I understood most of the words but didn’t have
a clue what they were talking about. I have recently read ‘Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow’ which is about
gaming and designing and making games. I enjoyed it, but it doesn’t make me in
touch. The most literary thing I’ve written is probably a sonnet which starts,
‘Did you compare me to a summer’s day? No.’ [see
above – Louise] It’s sonnet 18 from Shakespeare’s wife’s point of
view.
Are you interested in history and does it impact on your
writing?
I’m very interested in history and it has a huge
impact on my writing. Some days I only write a paragraph because I need to find
out aspects of life in the sixteenth century and sometimes that information is hard
to come by. I’ve spent a lot of time researching the detail of domestic life as
it was lived in Shakespeare’s time. What did women have to do in the house?
What would a woman put in pottage? Given the number of fast days when meat was
prohibited, what would she feed the family on? How would she dry the clothes
she had washed? We live with so many modern conveniences from sliced loaves to
washing machine, a washing line, an electric iron, central heating, a fridge, a
freezer, a supermarket, ready-made clothes, and so much more. Take all of that
away and just imagine how long and arduous the days would have been. You want
socks? Find a sheep. Shear it. Card the wool. Wash the wool. Dry it. Spin it.
Knit it. But do you have knitting needles? I’m so glad I live now.
How did the Covid pandemic affect you as a writer?
I thought I would make great progress during lockdown.
I was wrong. I spent time cooking, the garden looked great, and I walked every
day. I helped two grandsons with English, and also tutored an A level student.
I probably wrote but don’t remember what or how much. My family were all
looking forward to spending Christmas together in 2021 when we all caught
Covid. This all seems to have happened a long time ago, but it didn’t. It’s
strange, but those times have managed to melt away.
How do you respond to political correctness and the Woke
movement?
I have a friend who works in the publishing
industry. She is very aware of the power of what is known as ‘woke culture.’ I
prefer to think of it as sensitivity to a wide range of difference. I feel some
sympathy for J. K. Rowling, although opposition to her stance has driven her
into a corner, and from there she sees no nuance. I have sympathy for those who
feel they have been born into the wrong body. I worked in the Civil Service
many years ago and was told about a man in the 1950s who was an excellent engineer and a great
boss who got things done. This person had been classified as female at birth,
incorrectly as it turned out. Brought up as a woman, forbidden certain jobs,
eventually he won his rights. This was years before the current arguments over
gender identity. All those years ago, the Civil Service dealt with it by
sending out a memo. It read: ‘As from 22nd February Miss *** will be
known as Mr ***.’ Life is no longer that simple, but that experience in my
teenage years made me aware that such matters are not always straightforward.
Where does your writing sit between fantasy and complete
realism? What do you think about fantasy writing?
My writing is fiction, invented, made-up – by
definition, untrue. I try to make it as believable as I can. I like fantasy
writing and yet don’t read very much of it. Thank you, Louise, for introducing
me to the wonderful Jasper Fforde. [you’re
welcome – Louise]. I’d like to read more fantasy than I currently
do, but I find myself a bit busy. Ok, it’s an excuse, but that’s it. I’m about
to cook chicken in sweet red pepper sauce. Yum!
******
Thank you very much, Judith, for such a detailed and insightful showcase.
******
In August, I will be showcasing
another fabulous writer:
Chrissie Poulter
Not to be missed!
******
So far in this series, I’ve showcased the following writers:
Ruth Loten – March 2023
Jane Langan – March 2023
BeckCollett – April 2023
Ron Hardwick – June 2023
L.N.Hunter – July 2023
Katherine Blessan – August 2023
Jill Saudek – September 2023
Colin Johnson – October 2023
Sue Davnall – November 2023
Alain Li Wan Po – December 2023
Lily Lawson – January 2024
Philip Badger – February 2024
Glen Lee – March 2024
DHL Hewa - April 2024
Tonia Trainer - May 2024
Mike Poyzer – June 2024
Judith Worham - July 2024
You can find all these showcases by scrolling back through the material on this blog.
