Yorkshire Writers' Lunch

Love Me, Love My Books   This week has been my birthday, and my husband Richard gave me ‘Ex Libris – Confessions of a Common Reader’ by Anne Fadiman. This collection of essays about the love of books made me reflect on my own attachment to my book collection. Why don’t other objects – CDs, or clothes, for example – have the same emotional significance? When I moved in with Richard, I brought my goods and chattels with me: half a set of cast-iron pans (the other half stayed with my ex), a dinner service (a twenty-first birthday present), and books – lots and lots of books. Over the months that followed, as we decided that this was to be a permanent arrangement, I parted with my duplicate colander (his was nicer) and my grater (ditto) and my sofa (too uncomfortable).   The books, however, stayed. All of them. My books are old friends, they are travelling companions. There are the books I have studied, laboriously; identifiable by the worn spine, th...

“Turn over your papers now.” My palms are sweaty as I reach for the bundle of pages in front of me. The butterflies in my stomach seemed to have turned into dragons, breathing fire. I stare at the text but it could be written in Egyptian for all the sense it makes. I squeeze my eyes tight shut hoping that when I open them all will become clear. A deep breath, then open. For a moment I’m blinded by light, then as my eyes adjust I can see the exam paper but it’s moving away from me. I stretch out but the papers and the desk they’re on recede from my touch. Then I realise it’s not them that’s moving, it’s me. I’m drifting upwards. Below me are the rows of desks and students. No one seems to have noticed what’s happening to me. I call out but there is no response. I look for my desk but there are no empty places. Is that me down there? I’ve never seen the top of my head before. There’s no doubt it’s me though - mousey-brown hair tied back in a ponytail and lime green fingernails...

(See 21/7, 8/9, and 8/12 for the first three parts of ‘Ork’) At least they feed him. A hungry worker is a poor worker they tell him. Their tract is the work of traitors. Although Ork could never put his name to such a document he has no choice but to use the press that will bring their tract to life. The machine has not been well treated and he curses at the frequent breakdowns. But his skills and his  dextrous  fingers come to his aid. He works all day and well into the evening. His captors are pleased with his progress and tell him of their future plans, how together they will make a forceful team. At last he is allowed to sleep, but without further food. He dreams of Digger by his side. Woken by cold and hunger, he rises in the darkness and feels his way around the room. He edges towards the single doorway which he finds locked and barred. Did he imagine a ceiling hatch or was it really there? He moves carefully through the darkness to where his memory – o...

‘So have you got any New Year’s Resolutions?’ people ask each other at this time of year and I recently found myself offering up the same one as last year and the year before that. ‘To write more,’ I said and even though I meant it sincerely, I cringed inwardly as I said it.   Because I have been here before, too many times and I knew deep down that my hopes were doomed. Or are they?  I don’t know if it is the eternal optimist in me, but something has felt a bit different in the last few days.   As a teacher, I have enjoyed the last two weeks off work, and the leisurely lie-ins and general laziness of my Christmas holidays have resulted in a strange phenomenon.   During the evening, I find my mind firing up, ready to create.   By the time I get into bed I am positively buzzing with ideas.   As I turn out the light I have to fight the urge to get up and turn on my laptop.   I feel like I could write all night. Perplexed by this strange ...