I was telling stories long before I could write. I can't actually recall learning to write - I've been told this is quite common amongst prolific writers - but I've been told I learned before starting school at five. I read anything that wasn't hidden from me, including cereal packets at breakfast time. One of my greatest treasures was a multi-volume encyclopedia. Fantastic books for a voracious little reader. "Mum! Dad! Did you know that..."
Words just called to me. They always have. If someone leaves a letter unattended and face up I've trained myself not to look, otherwise I'd read half a page before it even dawned on me I was being nosey.
As for writing, i made little picture books with dire drawings and seemingly passable words from an early age.
My first paid writing? I've just looked through the archives and found this...
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I was thinking about this the other day and realised that my first paid writing job was a self-published effort. Non-fiction too, precisely targeted at a timely seasonal market ;-) At about eight years of age. I was certainly less than ten because it was before we moved into a house. 1959-1960.
I wrote out a list of ten things which people should do before the winter, entitled 'Things to do before the Winter'. Stuff like 'Put anti-freeze in your car', 'Buy Winter weight oil for your motorbike or scooter', 'Chop a good supply of firewood and stack some bigger logs near your house or caravan'.
I then carefully typeset the result using a John Bull printing set, using the individual rubber type and a fiddly pair of tweezers. This wasn't at all straightforward because the three line 'block' was only about three inches across so I had to work out where to split the lines for a six inch line of type. Why didn't I print it on narrow paper? Because it never occurred to me. I was just using whatever I had to hand, pages filched from school exercise books.
I printed about two dozen copies, all the lefthand sides first (three lines at a time) and then reset the type and matched up the righthand sides. Time consuming, but I must have enjoyed it otherwise I wouldn't have finished them.
Then I took my bundle of mini-broadsheets (with no idea I was following a great tradition of pamphleteers) and hawked them around the caravan site and the nearby houses. I recall asking for threepence (old money) and occasionally being haggled down to two. One of the local rogues - evidently recognising a kindred spirit - bought two copies. A shiny sixpence from one door... Magic!
I dare say being a 'brown-eyed cheeky little scamp' probably sold as many copies as my literary skills, but it was good training for when I later sold 'moss gardens' in bowls made from heated and moulded old bakelite records.
So there you have it, self-publishing - profitably - at eight years old.
I just wish I still had a copy ;-(
Gyppo
