AboutA question I’m often asked is, “Why did you become a life story writer?” It certainly wasn't a career option when I was at school!
How I became a ghost writer and why I write are part of the story of who I am. One of my closest friends came the nearest when he told me recently, 'It was always there inside you, Rhu,' which gave me pause for thought as I think he is probably right. |
Let’s travel back in time for a moment to the first time I shared in public what I'd written with others.
I’m nearly nine years old, living in a small village on the edge of the Brecon Beacons in mid-Wales. I’ve written a poem on Owain Glyn Dwr, the last of the Welsh Princes, and as I stand on the podium to deliver it at my first Literary Festival (called an eisteddfod in Wales) I’m terribly nervous. There is no microphone and I’ve never seen so many people in one place before.
Mum and Dad are in the front row and I can see Dad putting a hand behind his ear to encourage me to speak loudly. I don’t have a big voice and now I wish I'd never written this poem. What had I been thinking of? Why had I written so much? I’m also starting to realise that I probably should have written something about Owain’s life and his achievements. Instead my poem tells the tale of how Dad and I go looking for his burial site, which I really want to find, as my teacher has told me that it contains a magical sword that will once again make Wales great.
On Sunday mornings after Church, provided it's dry, Dad and I would climb the hills and start walking along the sheep tracks. We never find Owain’s grave but that really doesn't matter. I love tramping through the heather and going out for lunch after our walk. As I look back more than half a century later at that young girl and elderly man walking and talking together, I now understand what TS Eliot meant when he wrote:
I’m nearly nine years old, living in a small village on the edge of the Brecon Beacons in mid-Wales. I’ve written a poem on Owain Glyn Dwr, the last of the Welsh Princes, and as I stand on the podium to deliver it at my first Literary Festival (called an eisteddfod in Wales) I’m terribly nervous. There is no microphone and I’ve never seen so many people in one place before.
Mum and Dad are in the front row and I can see Dad putting a hand behind his ear to encourage me to speak loudly. I don’t have a big voice and now I wish I'd never written this poem. What had I been thinking of? Why had I written so much? I’m also starting to realise that I probably should have written something about Owain’s life and his achievements. Instead my poem tells the tale of how Dad and I go looking for his burial site, which I really want to find, as my teacher has told me that it contains a magical sword that will once again make Wales great.
On Sunday mornings after Church, provided it's dry, Dad and I would climb the hills and start walking along the sheep tracks. We never find Owain’s grave but that really doesn't matter. I love tramping through the heather and going out for lunch after our walk. As I look back more than half a century later at that young girl and elderly man walking and talking together, I now understand what TS Eliot meant when he wrote:
Time present and time past
Are both perhaps present in time future
And time future contained in time past.
If all time is eternally present
All time is unredeemable
Fast forward thirty years and I’m 39. I’ve spent my adult life working in a variety of jobs. I write all the time for magazines, newsletters, in-house journals - you name it and I'll write for it. But I've never figured out how to earn my living as a writer and I’ve almost given up hope of finding the key to unlock that door. But sometimes, when you least expect it, magic happens.
I answer a small advertisement on the back pages of The Times for a ‘person Friday’ to help a busy publishing executive with various tasks. I’m selected for an interview but it’s probably not the optimum time as I’m seven months pregnant. I keep my coat wrapped tightly around me to hide my bump but it doesn’t matter, the interview is a disaster. I can’t answer any of the questions quickly enough and Martin, who the person Friday would be working for, has an odd habit of answering all the questions he asks himself.
I waddle out of the building and wait outside for a taxi and - I just can’t help it - start to cry. As luck would have it, it’s lunchtime, and the interview team are leaving the building in search of food. I’m spotted weeping into my hanky and one of them comes over to me and says something nice.
A week later a letter arrives and much to my surprise I’ve got the job. It’s slightly unusual in that there are no defined tasks, no specified hours or pay rate, but if I’m prepared to be a ‘person Friday’ and be ‘flexible’, I’m in. That’s how I start to earn my living as a writer. And I've never looked back.
I became a life story writer long after this, inspired by two people I met, within a few months of each other, who were ghost writers. Up until then, the thought had never crossed my mind that perhaps not every autobiography was written by its subject.
As I’ve got older I’ve realised that there is never going to be one defining moment when you look back on your life and take stock of everything you’ve done - unless of course you write your life story.
It is the stories about who we are and the journeys that we’ve taken, that connect us to each other. We all have a life story ready and waiting to be written within us. I'm here to help you to write your life story and I can guarantee that it will be one of the most rewarding and satisfying experiences of your life.
I answer a small advertisement on the back pages of The Times for a ‘person Friday’ to help a busy publishing executive with various tasks. I’m selected for an interview but it’s probably not the optimum time as I’m seven months pregnant. I keep my coat wrapped tightly around me to hide my bump but it doesn’t matter, the interview is a disaster. I can’t answer any of the questions quickly enough and Martin, who the person Friday would be working for, has an odd habit of answering all the questions he asks himself.
I waddle out of the building and wait outside for a taxi and - I just can’t help it - start to cry. As luck would have it, it’s lunchtime, and the interview team are leaving the building in search of food. I’m spotted weeping into my hanky and one of them comes over to me and says something nice.
A week later a letter arrives and much to my surprise I’ve got the job. It’s slightly unusual in that there are no defined tasks, no specified hours or pay rate, but if I’m prepared to be a ‘person Friday’ and be ‘flexible’, I’m in. That’s how I start to earn my living as a writer. And I've never looked back.
I became a life story writer long after this, inspired by two people I met, within a few months of each other, who were ghost writers. Up until then, the thought had never crossed my mind that perhaps not every autobiography was written by its subject.
As I’ve got older I’ve realised that there is never going to be one defining moment when you look back on your life and take stock of everything you’ve done - unless of course you write your life story.
It is the stories about who we are and the journeys that we’ve taken, that connect us to each other. We all have a life story ready and waiting to be written within us. I'm here to help you to write your life story and I can guarantee that it will be one of the most rewarding and satisfying experiences of your life.