Monthly Archives: September 2012

The writers reality.

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It is often very interesting to see what people actually think you do as a writer, compared to what it is actually like to do it. I find it interesting that a great many people take a step back when they discover what it is I do, in most cases they wear a look of surprise, which does then turn to slight admiration, and the nicest thing about it is that they change their approach in the way that they treat me. I must admit it is a very pleasant aspect of what I do, being treated with courtesy and respect is a very nice way to be, and I prefer it to the condescension that I often see others shown. In many ways it is a sign of how false the world can be, as the implication here is that being a writer who has been published, makes one something better than the rest, and with that I do feel very uncomfortable.

The world is preoccupied with celebrity culture, and to be honest the perception is far more glamorous than the reality. Society implies that writers are rolling in money and have no cares at all in the world; they are free to sit around all day and do very little, people just assume that knocking a book out is a part time occupation that pays high dividends for the least amount of effort. The reality really is so far removed from the view that people share, and that is probably the reason why so many who could achieve great things in writing choose not to do so.

Moving away from the admiration shown by strangers and getting into the day to day mechanics is so very different, as those around you do not quite understand what can only be phrased as a form of obsessive compulsion. Half my family and friends, either think I am insane for doing this, and the other half I am sure think I sit around doing nothing enjoying a life of leisure. Being simply published is not a right of passage into wealth, just because your book has been put out there, does not provide any assurance that every bookshop in the land will stock your books, and tell every customer who enters the shop your work is there to be read. Selling books is actually one of the hardest professions I have ever been involved with, and I was always sure that like in my past, I could sell just about anything to anyone, the reality is it is a long and difficult task with fierce competition from the big boys who completely control the industry, doors do not open easily in the literate world, and unlike many professions, this is one field where you really do have to earn your stripes, by constantly pushing forward and not giving an inch to your rivals.

So why do it? I mean let’s face it, most writers with books out there barely earn enough to cover a week’s rent, let alone afford a normal life. It feels at times very much like the life of the poor writer from the times of Dickens has changed very little. The reality can be very off putting, and those who surround us have no understanding at all of why we appear to suffer as we labour at our craft. I think if I was paid one pound for every time I have been told I should get a proper job, I would indeed be far richer, and living to a much a higher standard, but the simple truth is there are few who really do understand why we choose to take the longest road to achieve our goals in life. For those who watch from the wings, they fail to see that the reality of writing goes so much deeper than money or material wealth. In a nutshell the world is far too obsessed with money and material gain to fully comprehend the love and joy of working with words.

Writing for everyone I have found is a deeply personal thing. I have spoken with quite a few other writers in my time, and I find that everyone has a very unique and different reason for what they do. From my own point of view, I love doing it because I like the person it has allowed me to become.

It may sound strange, I realise that, but if I elaborate a little, you will see what I am getting at. I think to be honest I not a terribly bad person, in fact I hope people have taken note of my life and the way I conducted it, for I will say that I have always tried hard to help people if I felt they needed it, but within that has lain a trap, and it is one I walked into many years ago without realising. For many years I ran my own business, and in my spare time I tried very hard to be there for those around me. I was a parent and in a relationship and doing my best to juggle all that was expected of me. It was not the easiest situation as I ran round taking care of business and helping out the family with endless duties related to caring and the building a better life, and everything that goes with it. I still lived at home alone, as my daughter had moved into her own place, and I spent my time in a relationship between two houses. For many years I seemed to be able to juggle it all and everyone was relatively happy, although there was always another task to do, and as soon as I finished one thing, I wasted no time getting involved with another, it was a busy and hectic life, and I think like many other people in the world today, I just assumed that it was appreciated and had meaning to those that I laboured so hard to help

Life ticked on, I was not wealthy, but I had a few pounds tucked away and enjoyed my annual holiday and a few small luxuries in life. Looking back today I was pretty much your average guy living the same sort of life as most other men in the world, but I found over time I was spending less and less time at home. My days were long, and I rose with the sun to go to work, which was quite manual and hard, and then after work I would spend my evening running around until late, and finally arrived home in the darkness and collapsed into bed, only to rise with the sun and begin it all again. It was very rare to spend a great deal of time at home, although on the few occasions I did, they felt like precious and special times.

After twelve years of this I clashed with the local authority and ended up in a fight to save my premises and business, fighting a fight I could not possibly win. It was a long drawn out, stressful and exhausting time, which resulted in the end of a relationship and the loss of all my savings. I finally won a small victory after two years of living hell, and returned home tired exhausted and very ill, and very much alone. That was at Christmas 2007, which is without doubt the worst one of my life; I was at braking point and felt very much like there was nothing in life worth continuing for. It was the darkest moment of my life, talk about landing with a bump! It is a sobering moment when you realise nothing you have done has meaning, and even though you have given everything, it was never appreciated. I had lost touch with my whole life, I had no idea where my friends were, I forgotten who the hell I was, and suddenly understood that I had sacrificed everything and every part of who I was in the hope of being the person everyone expected me to be. Talk about deep empty loneliness, it really was the bleakest time I have ever lived.

There comes a time in everyone’s life where you sit and look back and take stock of your life, well that was mine, and it was a very unpleasant experience. I tried to work out who the hell I was, and just what exactly I wanted out of life, nothing seemed to have meaning, even thirty years of working in Horticulture, which had always been my biggest passion laid dead before me, I struggled to think of one thing I had left that had the remotest glint of happiness attached to it.

The moment it hit me was like a bolt of lightening flashing through my mind, the one thing that I had always enjoyed was writing. Writing for me had been a way to channel the creative bursts that flowed through me from childhood. It was an unexplained phenomenon that had been the most consistent aspect of being me, something I was secretive and guarded about all my life. I guess I have a very insecure streak and so even though it had been something I loved, I had never actually shared it with that many people up until recently that was.

A year earlier when I had split up from my then long term girlfriend, I found myself alone at home, and used a little of that time writing to try and relax and distress. I had shared one story with a very small and trusted circle of friends who I worked with. To be honest I did it because all of us were caught in the same fight with the local authority and we needed a slight break from the endless stress and worry. But funnily enough, even through such a time of darkness and destruction it had brought a new life to the bleak life we ere enduring, and had served to help me unwind and relax a little whilst away from the shop. Writing down stories had been a long time hobby, I was never serious and honestly thought people would laugh at me if they found out, but as I looked back I remembered some of the things I had written, and how happy and contented I had been at those times. It did not take long to work out that I was too ill to go back to work, and needed a little time to get myself sorted out, and so I decided to take a few months to rest up and use the time to finish the story I had been working on for years. That was five years ago and I am still to this day writing with three tales from that story published and available for purchase.

To return back to my point a little earlier, why do I do it? I think it has become more than apparent. Becoming a writer may have surprised a lot of people; there are those who think I am insane so late in life to change my career. There are those who simply think I have lost it completely, and think now I have done it for a bit I should stop and get a real job. I simply will reply that I have given everything for years at great sacrifice to myself, and it ended up meaning nothing at all, and so I sit here alone at my desk and I do something that fills me with life, and gives me great joy. It makes me feel happy and contented, and for the first time in years, I actually feel like I am doing something that has meaning. I feel for the first time since I was a teenager that I truly understand who I am deep down inside, as the writing has given me the time to explore myself as I examine the world around me, and I have grown to like the person I know as me.

I have no idea if I am a good writer; I just know I feel good about doing it; I have sold books, so ask those who have read them what they think. Will my books continue to sell? Yes I think they will, I will not say you will see them on any best sellers list soon, but does that really matter? I think not. Writing cannot be about personal material gain; it can only be about those secret moments a writer has alone, where the magic creates something so wonderful it must be shared, and that is the reward of the creativity. My payment is being able to live my life on my own terms, probably for the first time ever, and all that came before is not as wasted as I thought, but it has become a rich mix of experience to serve my creativity in future stories.

I wake up each day with a mind racing to go, as ideas swirl endlessly around, I often get caught day dreaming, as I slip away from a conversation as something sparks inside and new ideas flow to the surface. I find my fingers twitching for want of a keyboard, and I know that something else that is very unique and special is about to come up and flow out of me. Life is suddenly exciting and wonderful, and filled with the thousands of emotions that I can lock onto paper, as I hear the rattle of the keys and excitedly pound them like a child waiting to find out what his present will be as he tears off the gift wrap. I write and research, or I spend my days trying to promote and spread awareness of what I have done, It is a longer day than I have ever worked, but somehow it feels so much more rewarding than anything I have ever done. That is my reality, and for me that is the pulse of life, I contain a deep passionate obsession that flows from my head and my heart into my fingers, and it beats in tune with the person I am today.

My writing has allowed me a chance to unload and release a lot of what was trapped within me, it is hard to explain the process, because at times even I get surprised at what ends up on the pages. All I can say is it is a part of my newly discovered personal happiness, and finally after some long years of wandering, I feel I am no longer lost. I feel that I am a very lucky man today, as I have a very supportive wife, who does indeed understand a great deal of why I write. She has been the one who has helped me and supported me in my writing, and even though life can be a struggle at times, I think she sees how much of difference it has made, and how happy I am to have her there at my side.

I write for the joy it brings, hopefully as a published story I can share it with others, and in some way they too will feel the joy of the process of writing as they read it. At the end of the day if people like it enough to encourage another to read it, then I am happy with that. I doubt you will ever see my books in the top 100, but for me personally that is not what writing should be about.

 

In Search of Hooded Men

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A Romantic view of the Hooded Man

A more theatrical view of Robin Hood given us through early 1950’s Film

I have harboured a fascination with the legend of Robin Hood and his merry men since I was very young, I think being named Robin helped, as it provided me with a wonderful chance to identify with the hero of the people, and fuelled many sessions of play as a child. I remember when I was young being shown an old walking stick carved from the branch of a tree by my grandmother, who told me this was the stick Robin Hood used when he was injured, and had been passed down through her family line since. As you can possibly imagine, I have spent a lifetime looking for that link that placed me in the family line of my hero, but today having come to a dead end, I can only surmise that my grandmother was stringing me on, and doing her bit to add to the magic of my childhood games.My search for a family connection did however lead me to some family connections in Chapel on le Frith in Derbyshire, which placed me on the old road that ran through the village towards Castleton, and then across the valley towards Loxley, and on to York. This was a road well used by the king and the church alike, a place that back in the eleventh century would have been densely wooded, and most suitable for ambushes and robbery. I think that back in those times, the talk would have centred a great deal around the actions of the hooded man, and maybe some of it has been passed down, and with time the story got altered and like so many others across this land, a claim to Robin Hood was made and romanticised over the years until it was told to myself by my grandmother.

Whatever the truth there is no doubt that it has become a sort of preoccupation with me over the years, and when my daughter was young I continued to tell my own tale of Robin, albeit a very different story. Robin Hood formed the background of my tale as I made up a story to tell her at bedtime, and in my version of events, a young boy who was the direct descendant of Robin Hood became the focus of attention in the country as his distant ancestor had. Looking back I can see that the reason the story I made up for my daughter stuck with me, was it was all a big part of my preoccupation with the hooded man, and maybe that is why I laboured for so long until I finally published my first book, which I entitled the “Bowman of Loxley.”

Everyone is aware of Nottingham’s claim to Robin Hood, and it is true that in those times the city was surrounded by Sherwood Forest, a forest that was huge and would indeed have provided many places for Robin to hide. The thing I have always had difficulty with was why would he have been named Loxley? Most people in those times were named after their place of birth, and Loxley is miles away from Nottingham. There is in fact two, the first close to Stratford upon Avon (Place A), which is easily found on a large map of the country, and Loxley near Sheffield in Barnsley (Place B), which is only marked on the more local maps. Neither of them relate to Nottingham, and as I found out in my travels, Place A does not have too many connections with Huntingdon, which after all is very significant, as Robin Hood was reportedly the son of the Earl of Huntingdon.

It did not take too long to work out that the Loxley I needed to focus on was in the Bradfield area of Sheffield, right on the edge of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, and situated very close to Hathersage and Castleton which are both very relevant to the legend of the Hooded Man. Hathersage is the birth place of John Little, and to this day his grave can been seen in the church yard there, and Castleton hosts the ruins of Peveril Castle, a castle built by William Peveril who was a Sheriff of Nottingham, and it was also a Castle that served as a hunting lodge for the king.

A Map dipicting the area of Hallamshire (Today named as part of Barnsly in Yorkshire

This map shows how closely related Loxley, Hathersage and Peveril castle at Castleton are, giving credibilty to the connection of Loxley to the legend

Rodger Dodsworth the famous historian quotes around 1600-1640AD “Robert Lockesley, born in Bradfeild parish of Hallamshire (Loxley)” which for myself was proof enough I was on the right track. He goes on to describe how Robin injured his father at the plough and ran into the woodlands to hide. He later was forgiven by his mother and returned to Clifton upon Calder, ( Barnsdale or Bansley as it is known today) and there he became acquainted with John Little. The Sloane manuscript in the British Museum contains the entry, “Robin Hood was borne at Locksley in Yorkshire.” These discoveries gave me great heart, after all I wanted to know the truth of my hero, and if I was as I have, used the background of the hooded man in my writing, I wanted to have it as factually correct as possible.

The picture was starting to form as I searched, but the frustrating thing was I found it hard to link Robin of Loxley with the earldom of Huntingdon. My big break came when I found a wonderful website http://robinhoodloxley.net in 2007. A surviving member of the Loxley family built this site, and it is filled with some extensive research about the legend of the hooded man. For me it was like a eureka moment having invested years of following wrong leads out of Nottingham, and with a great deal of joy I read a passage that mentions Robert of Loxley agreeing to support a Henry de Leke for the rest of his life in 1245AD. The man at least really existed.

Further into the site it mentions that Robert de Loxley was a close friend with William de Lovetot, Lord of the manor of Sheffield, and both of them held “Possessions in Huntingdon” It appears that that Williams’s brother was the Sheriff of Nottingham, and his land in Huntingdon bordered the land of Robert de Loxley, which was the missing link I had been searching for as it placed Loxley, Peveril Castle and Huntingdon together in a circle of connection. David, King of Scots was the Earl of Huntingdon and he was the tenant in chief of Loxley in Hallamshire (Barnsley) so I now had an Earl in the forest of Loxley. I have not been able to formally provide a concrete family connection with the Earl and Robert of Loxley, but I found several leads from a Robert Fitzooth, who was son of the Earl and related back to William the Conqueror, and took up residency in Peveril Castle as game keeper to the kings forest, which contains Loxley. Maybe this would explain why Robert of Loxley was such a defender of the king and opposed the crowning of Prince John, as he had a direct family connection to the king, in this I cannot be sure, but it does help strengthen the case for a link between Robin and Huntingdon.

I have spent years looking into Robin Hood and I am convinced he was a Yorkshire man and had very little to do with Nottingham, apart from his very well documented dispute with the sheriff. My biggest hurdle of course has always been Sherwood, the vast forest, which surrounded the city and is still present in a much-depleted form today. To find an answer I began to search through as many maps as possible, so I could get a clearer picture of the lay of the land in medieval times, and I was quite surprised at what I found. We forget how much has been destroyed over the years and none more so than the great forests of the past. Looking at old maps I think I much prefer Britain as it was back then, for there were a lot less roads and more wide-open and forested spaces. Most of Britain in medieval times was wild unspoilt natural countryside and woodland that believe or not covered two thirds of the country.

The Kings Forest as I have mentioned is what we today call the peak district. It’s hard to fully comprehend at first because that in itself covers most of Derbyshire and a little of Yorkshire. It was indeed a vast forest, and from what I have read it was the largest breeding ground of Sparrow Hawks, and has tales of there being so many deer, that some people were killed when they stampeded. To say the least it was one of the most important areas of wild game in the country, and was a very important asset to the king who shared a passion for hunting with Hawks. The Kings forest and Sherwood bordered each other, in fact there are many documented disputes over the boundaries of the forests and who had jurisdiction. We know that the Sheriff of Nottingham lived at Peveril Castle, which is at Castleton in Derbyshire, but it appears to me that back then it was held as territory of Nottingham, so maybe the borders of the City of Nottingham have shrunk away over time and with it the borders of Sherwood. I think that the two were in fact one large forest that were fought over by the lords who governed it, and like all things in medieval times the borders shifted with the fights for supremacy. I think it is clear that to an outlaw it would not make that much difference whether they were in Sherwood or the Kings Forest (Peak District), it would pretty much feel the same and so maybe most of that area was known as Sherwood.

The important fact is that the whole area from Loxley to Nottingham was forested, and patrolled by the Sheriffs bailiffs who enforced the laws and collected the taxes. Derbyshire certainly has a great many areas that carry the name of Robin Hood and have many legends relating to him, so much so that I do think it is more than just coincidence that so many places carry his name and in a greater concentration than anywhere else in the country. The legend and a search for facts is still an ongoing thing for me, and so hopefully over time I will add to the endless piles of paper I have collected to piece together yet more parts of my puzzle, of which only the basics are contained here. This land is filled with tales, and finding any grain of truth is not an easy task. For my own enjoyment and pleasure I do hold to the idea of him being a real live hero of the people, and in many ways I suppose, I like thousands before me, have carried on the tradition of keeping his name alive, even if it is the few facts contained within my books of a young boy in the future who finds out he has a link to him from the past.

We live in times where all of us see and feel the injustice of those who misuse power for their own gain, and in that I think is the wonder of this man of legend. All of us can identify with someone who fights for us and defends us when we cannot defend ourselves, it is a tale filled with the romance of a past time, yet very much applicable to our time now. I think it shows that even though we have progressed forward as a race into this world of ever changing technology, that some things will always remain the same, and no matter what happens in the future, there will always be those who steal for greed and power, and hopefully there will be those who will make a stand and fight for us. Long live the tales of the past and tales to come; the Hooded Man is an important part of our heritage as a nation, and I for one want to see it remain so.

When I feel I have finished my search, I may even put it all together in a small book, although there again, I may leave it all for my children to do, and thus continue the legacy of passing on the tale.