July's Writer Showcase: Judith Worham

 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.

Judy Worham

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. 

Homemade jack-o'-lantern [photo provided by Judy Worham]

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

by Louise Wilford [acrylic]

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

Sailboats on Chipstead Lake [photo provided by Judy]

 

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.....

playing with the make-up bag

Aw!

[Photos provided by Judy]       ]

 

Beyond your family and your writing, what other things do you do?

some grandchildren [picture provided by Judy]

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. 

The Skivvies! [picture provided by Judy]

 

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 22^nd 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.