Writing for Fun
November 2021
A Matter Of Choice - Pete Norman
Each and every writer has their own individual way to shut out the real world and to totally immerse themself in the magical world of fiction, fantasy and make believe. For some the preference is an office or a bedroom – perhaps with a lock on the door to prevent distraction; for others, who are able to completely ignore distraction, a computer in the corner of the lounge might be sufficient for their literary creations.
It is all a matter of choice.
For himself, however, he had always preferred somewhere inbetween the two extremes: a shed at the bottom of the garden, which was far enough away from the family to maintain his concentration levels but close enough that he did not feel completely isolated from reality – from the ones he loved.
There was nothing special about the shed, it was quite plain and humble, not large but large enough to be functional and small enough to be cosy.
A desk took up almost all of one wall but it had never been used for writing, it could never be, because it was so hopelessly cluttered. Across its surface were scattered the detritus of decades.
Huddled together in crystalline splendour were three brightly coloured geodes – souvenirs from holidays enjoyed long ago but never forgotten. Beside them and within easy reach of the chair was a ream of A4 and a colourful pot overflowing with enough pencils and pens to write War And Peace twice over.
Across the back of the desk was displayed an eclectic mix of photo frames – some large and fun and some small and of great personal significance.
However in pride of place in the centre of the desk, within an ornate silver frame, there he sat, proudly, under the apple tree, surrounded by his wonderful family: Felicity stood behind him with her arms around his neck, smiling her characteristic warm, relaxed smile and the children were ranged around them in various states of embarrassment: Olivia, Tessa, Lucy, Theo and Ophelia. The photograph had been taken some years ago and the children had grown somewhat since then but this had always been his favourite, which the passage of time could never diminish and which was the anchor that grounded him in reality and prevented him from drifting off too far into the mysterious worlds of his creations.
Wedged into the small space that remained was a stack of trays which groaned under the weight of countless sheets, each covered with scribblings and ideas and scenarios for future use, while the more current thoughts were scribbled almost illegibly on post-it-notes which plastered the wall above it like little square apples scattered over an enchanted forest.
Against the far wall – and filling the only remaining space – was the raison d’etre, the most important thing in the shed, a large, wing back chair, stained with absent minded coffee, a few cigarette burns and the odd black mark from a well chewed HB pencil.
This chair, which had been moulded from years of use, engulfed his frame with womb-like comfort. It was an essential part of his life. This chair was so very special to him and, if it could talk, it would regale him with all the times he had wriggled against the faded beige moquette in a desperate attempt to break through the writer’s block and to allow the pencil to flow freely over the pristine A4 sheet, which was always set in the dead centre of a simple wooden board which rested across the arms of the chair in the ‘Goldilocks’ position – just right. From this vantage point everything he required was within reach so that he could, without distraction, for hours without end, immerse himself in a world of his own imagination, a world of fantasy and magic.
Beside the chair was a well worn wicker basket which was the repository of his thoughts that somehow failed to make his exacting grade. A gnarled walking stick – a more recent innovation – was close at hand, as was a multicoloured blanket to keep his ageing knees from the winter chill.
The only other furniture within the shed was a stack of shelves on which, lined up like little soldiers, were twenty six books: paperbacks, hardbacks, audio cassettes and a handful of VHS tapes, a record of everything he had ever created, each and every one of which had been absolutely the best thing ever at the time of its creation but in truth he would struggle now to single out any one of them as his personal favourite – he loved them all – they were a part of him and they were a major part of his life.
He smiled and ran his finger idly across the spines of the books, rolling the titles across his tongue, relishing the memories that each of them inspired. From within the pages the products of his vivid imagination smiled back.
He took one last look around him – pleased to see that someone was taking the care to keep it exactly as he had left it . . .
. . . but now he had to leave . . . it was time.
Roald Dahl stood up, stretched, took one final nostalgic look and then walked . . . through the desk . . . through the back wall of the shed . . . and off to a new adventure.
[With a lot of poetic licence . . . but other (not suitable for copying) photos do show it differently!]
