For a long time as a schoolboy my career aim was to be a journalist. I saw myself in the uniform of belted raincoat and trilby hat pushed to the back of my head, scribbling furiously away in my shorthand notebook. I recall purchasing a Teach Yourself Journalism and even a Teach Yourself Shorthand – although the latter must count among so many worthy tomes where I never got past page fifteen.
I loved and still love – hence this blog – the thrill of writing for an audience. (You recall the old poser about whether a great work of art locked up in a safe away from the world remains a great work.) in my time there were official school magazines, unofficial school magazines, wall newspapers so scurrilous that it was amazing that retribution from the teaching staff was not brought down upon my head.
When I became a teacher I encouraged my students to write and publish. I suggested a name (Spasm – reflecting the comings and goings of ideas) which they accepted. By one of life’s tricks, one of the contributors – not taught by me – was a certain David Renwick who went on to create Victor Meldrew, another hero of mine…..
Somehow journalism faded from my world view, certainly as a career. In my imagination I saw features and headlines and opinion columns, under my name and under a plethora of pseudonyms, so much so that I even endowed these ghost writers with characters of their own. In the real world, good writing is a discipline and it is only because I am actively encouraging people to follow this blog that I sit at the keyboard and see what transpires.
It was allowable for Wordsworth to write about “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” Nobody expected him to stand at the door of Dove Cottage every morning and proclaim his latest Lyrical Ballad into the Lakeland air. When you consider the prodigious output of Charles Dickens – usually with two novels being written in tandem, a weekly newspaper, a monthly magazine and much else besides, with quill pen in hand, the inspiration must have flowed very freely indeed. That is writing discipline.
I have no pretence at being a Dickens or an Orwell whose four volume Essays and Journalism hold a treasured place on my bookshelf. But as I commit myself to continue to find something to say I hope someone out there will continue to enjoy reading it.
There we are. WordPress tells me I have written 429 words. And I haven’t mentioned the war.
alanrgold 