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First of all, I am delighted to be asked to serialise my writing journey for New2theScene. It’s great to know that a website has popped up to support new authors, and I suppose that I have been parachuted in to share my story and perhaps supply a little in the way of advice (and hope) for those who have yet to be published.

My own personal tale is one of many twists and turns, mental health struggles and catastrophic life events that I have managed to, well, ‘manage’. I have committed to be as honest as I can be through this series, to the very best of my memory. There have been times throughout my life where I truly didn’t think I’d make it. Now and again, the same thoughts return. And so, I am laying bare everything that has happened and its impact on my writing.

Throughout my life, my main saviour has always been writing. I have learned a thing or two as I’ve gone along, and again, I am fully committed to pass on everything I’ve learned to help other authors. My story fits jigsaw-like with learning the craft of writing so please read on and I’m certain that I‘ll be able to pass on a writing tip or two as we go (at my last count there are more than a twenty writing tips in this series that will really, really help). You have my word.

I first decided that I wanted to be an author back in 1984 when I was ten years old. I was obsessed by adventure game books (the ones where you made a decision on what the main character does next – “turn to page 123 if you wish to attack the witch” or turn to page 267 “if you wish to offer her a sandwich from your knapsack”) and with a friend we self-published eight magazines and sold around five hundred copies to school friends and family. At seven pence a copy, we put our dreams of becoming millionaires on hold. But, I was hooked. Absolutely.

What really piqued my interest though, was a year later when we had a story competition at school. I was certain I’d win, and eagerly submitted my story early. I’d decided that it would be interesting to kill off my lead character halfway through, and then follow the story of the assassin rather than the protagonist. I thought it was different, kooky. I was also certain that nobody had ever done this before in a story. The day of judgment arrived, and MrsRamsey, our teacher took her place at the front of the class to deliver the results. Immediately, I was excited by the fact that she mentioned me first (clearly the days of reading out results in reverse order was yet to become vogue) and I shuffled to the edge of my chair ready to accept my prize. To my horror, however, instead she slayed my story. She told the class that I hadn’t taken the competition seriously and my story was unacceptable. “You can’t kill a main character off,” she said. I asked her why not. She didn’t have an answer that was good enough. I argued back. She got angry. I refused to leave my chair until she answered me. Ultimately, I got sent to the headmaster. As I sat on the bench outside his office awaiting his wrath, I committed myself to become an author – and more so one that did something different, one that challenged the rules.

Fast forward six years to just before my eighteenth birthday. I’d filled journals full of ideas and thoughts and done really well at school as far as English was concerned (the less said about the other subjects, the better) and was now following a similar path at college. I was still very keen to follow my dream to become an author. Unfortunately, I didn’t have much in the way of support at home, being told instead that I needed a ‘proper’ career. And then, as if from nowhere on 29 January 1991, my entire life path changed. Overnight.

I went to bed as usual, and was shaken awake at 5am, to be told of ‘an accident’. My brother, Simon two years my senior, had been found critically injured at the bottom of the multi-storey car park in my home town. My parents, told me and my sister that we needed to get to the hospital to see him urgently - no-one was sure whether he’d survive or not. I will never forget what I saw that day. My brother crumpled and near lifeless in a crisp white hospital bed. The sheets were flecked in blood. Machines beeped and tubes took a spaghetti-like journey in and out of his body. We were told he’d broken every bone from the waist down. His knees had collided with his face breaking his jaw and cheekbones. He no longer had features, rather a flat and oval face widened to double its usual size. At that moment, everything changed. My life shaken like a scrabble bag. Absolutely nothing made sense anymore. I went from carefree and happy to uncertain and broken. Little did I know that change would be permanent.

Amazingly, Simon recovered. Six months later he learned to walk again and was finally released from hospital. He was alive. For now.

I only tell this story because it had such an unexpected effect on me, and my writing. What I didn’t know at the time that it would take twelve more years for me to realise it. I got a normal job, in accountancy, which I promptly quit within a year. I wanted to go to University to study creative writing but was harangued instead into a Business degree. Through my University days, I journalled daily, scribbling down ideas and thoughts but never daring to go anywhere near what had happened to my family. Instead, I popped those thoughts into a box (my ‘mind-box’), sealed it up (badly, it turned out) and stored it deep into the recesses of my mind. Perhaps the worst idea I’d had to date.

And then from nowhere, a music scene exploded in Seattle, WA. And at the same time the fireworks went off in Barnsley, South Yorkshire. There were new challenges. Another close family member (who is not named to protect their identity) was following the same path, making monthly attempts on their own life. Simon went to prison and then was released. It was too much, days were spent in fear and panic. I began to question whether it was easier to follow suit. And so, I had to escape. I needed to get out of this place. Seeing my brother each day was too much. His new face (reconstructed in a way which gave a hint of him but didn’t really look like the same person) was a daily reminder of what had happened. But, whilst the rest of my world was collapsing Simon seemed to be doing well and was about to get married; and I felt it was a good time to exit.

I threw in the accountancy job I’d returned to after University and booked my flights. I’d live in Seattle, integrate myself with the bands on the grunge scene and write about everything that was happening in America from an English perspective. The lyrics of the likes of Nirvana, Mudhoney, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains appealed to me. They came from dark angles, screaming honestly about their struggles in life. I wanted to a be a part of it. I wanted to scream about my struggles too. I just didn’t know how. This seemed to be the release valve I hadn’t realised I needed.

My arrival in America fell flat within about a week. It was a time before the internet, and I soon discovered that such was the popularity of the scene, everyone wanted a piece of it. So much so, that all the bands I fantasised about meeting, making friends with and writing about had all left for European tours. Seattle was near dead. And so, instead of writing my first book I spent months writing journals about people I met, as my journey went from the US into Canada and then on to New Zealand and finally Australia. My dream shattered, but ideas for characters and scenes were bursting from the notebooks I carried with me.

My first lesson learned. Research. Research. Research. Don’t dive deeply into something that you haven’t thought through. I learned right at that moment that I should write about what I know. What I’d seen and heard. I didn’t know it at the time but I was building a mismatch of stories, at that time tangled like balls of wool in a cattery.

I was 23 years old and I came home completely flat. Not sure what to do next.

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Note from the author:

If anyone wants any clarity on anything written in this series please don’t hesitate to make contact. By arrangement, Richard can pass on my email address.

Jonathan