london has been the inspiration for my writing since i moved here over 25 years ago. from the outside you might think is a humongous whole on crossing the river thames like some great up turned turtle flailing it’s legs. or you might think it is just a large discarded black bin bag discarded carelessly across a stream. both would be somewhat true but inaccurate. fairer to say that london is a collection of towns, neighbourhoods, connected by the web that is the london underground system.
it is known for certain people to rarely leave their particular neighbourhood. to never venture much further than their local high street and corner shops. after all, what need for the centre of the city when you can find what you need on your doorstep? i have known children to have only for the first time to have experienced other polaris of the city, the tube, when taken on school trips with their schools. otherwise their familys stay put.
and who can blame them when you consider the city of london itself, the centre core, is made up of towering office buildings and bars and stores that close over the weekend. what to entice the venturous then? particularly when you factor in the increase in prices should you enter there.`
yet central has much to offer. numerous museums and galleries where you can seek inspiration for a tale. cafes where you can watch the world go by whilst surrounded by works from the past. hidden lanes that lead you to a bygone age of mystery with a pint in a boozer at the end where the decor and clients haven’t changed in years.
then outside of central you have the neighbourhoods. often referred to by their stop on the tube line. in the south: brixton and its caribbean roots gradually gentrifying with the influx of the thirty-somethings in search of their first homes. in the west: richmond where the money lives with leafy parks and pubs upon the thames. in the east: barking with sprawling council estates and descendants of the working class made good. in the north: haringey, the home of protest, upheaval. these are just some places but there are many more and everywhere, the wealthy rub shoulders with the poor divided by the post code they choose to live in.
with such variety and diversity in a living museum of culture, who could not get inspired to write? how could it not play a key role in the work im producing?
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hemingway
i first came across hemingway when doing a course on writing at citylit, london. if you don’t know citylit, it’s an adult learning college locate near holborn tube. that big long road that winds it way down pass theatres and hotels to waterloo bridge and the south bank. citylit runs many creative courses and i heard good things about its writing courses and heard they were doable if on a budget. i’m always on a budget.
the courses are often taught by stabilised writers. this one was taught by scott bradfield. we were often set things to read. and he set us the short story ‘hills like white elephants’ to read. i read it. read it again. it was like a revelation to me. here was a writer cutting out loads of description, reams of adjectives and adverbs, to pare back the story to its essence. the writing was like a fresh of air. a chill winter wind that wakes you from a night of over indulgence. it was like hemingway was giving me permission to do something. something i had long thought.
i had studied literature as part of my ba. a diet of hardy, dh lawrence, and george eliot (oh god, george eliot). they loved their long winding descriptions where a hundred words were better than five. long rolling descriptions of the scenery. adjective upon adjective that wound their way across the pages before a character did something. followed by exposition. how they loved exposition.
i followed this by teaching primary and mainly reading children’s literature. children’s literature loved an adverb and adjective. not forgetting a liberal use of simile and as many words for ‘said’ you could think of. so did the national curriculum. this is what they decided good writing consisted of. no hemingway style for them. you had to use lots of adverbs and adjectives to tick the boxes. not forgetting the whole range of punctuation.
it is not surprising then that this is what i thought writing was. had to be. i had been fed a diet of word types. all the word types. used liberally and often. yet i was not satisfied. why did we have to mention all the senses? in every description? surely, you should focus on the important ones for that scene? and did we really need long passages of description to describe a setting whilst the character was left in limbo? doing nothing. waiting for us to finish. my thinking was we should treat the setting as a character. and f important to the plot. then we spent time on it. but if passing through. was there a need? i began to have doubts over the way writing was taught and the way i wrote.
so reading hemingway gave me approval of my ideas. to leave the adverbs behind. use adjectives sparingly. use five words instead of a hundred. cut writing to the bone. to the essential. to what i considered important. gone were adverbs. i went further. reducing articles. conjunctives. pairing back the range of punctuation. the length of a sentence. reducing the sentence to its minimum. to the minimal point at which it could still be understood.
my prose-poetry is a concentrated version of that. my short stories and the novel i’m working on. less so. grammarly would have a system failure reading those. and i continue to experiment. wonder how further i should push it. the results are here on this website. see what you think.
the photo? the significance of the photo? that’s me in a bar in barcelona that hemingway was meant to frequent. it was meant to have changed little since his time. unlike the bar. i think hemingway has changed writing forever.
2022 and all that
Well, 2022 brought a number of changes which impacted on what I write here. I have been submitting a new novel for consideration. But primarily, I have been writing a lot of prose-poetry. This has led me to the new outlet for my writing of Spoken Word.
What is Spoken Word?
Spoken word is when you perform any piece of writing to a group of people. It is often poetry but can be a story, monologue, or something else. It is quite flexible as to format.
Due to writing a lot of prose-poetry and sharing at my favourite writing group, I was encouraged to attend a Spoken Word night. I went along, sat, watched, then thought: I want to set up one of those. And where better than my favourite bookshop in my local area. So far they have been going well and I have been exposed to some great fresh writing that excites me and always leaves me thinking. Such a variety is on offer. All unique voices that should be heard.
Children love Spoken Word and enjoy writing poetry so it is a great thing to do for World Book Week. Why not start by enjoying watching some Michael Rosen, Benjamin Zephaniah, John Hegley, Kate Tempest, or Anthony Joseph?
As well as Spoken Word, I have been plotting and writing another one. I have changed my approach and audience for it. I’m venturing somewhere new. It is challenging and exciting. I’m trying to apply some of the approaches I use for my prose-poetry to the novel writing. I’m not sure it will work. Only time can tell.
What have you been doing?
The Breakdown

The driver looked at Colin with a hopeful face.
‘Can you fix it?’
Colin looked down at the engine and scratched his head. There was a maze of pipes, wires, and tubes of liquid. This really wasn’t his area of expertise.
‘It’s just that it’s new and I borrowed it from dad. I can’t take it back broken,’ the driver pleaded.
‘I’m not sure I’m the right person.’
‘Pleassee. You just got to help.’
Colin felt pity for the young driver. He had been in that situation once. Maybe there was something he could do. It was a long shot.
‘Have you tried switching it off and on again?’
The driver perked up, leant over his dash, and flicked a switch. The engine died to a silence. Then he flicked the switch again. Lights came on. There was a gentle rumble as it sprung into life.
‘It worked! Oh thank you. I knew you were the person to ask.’
The driver hopped into his seat, wound up the window and gave cheerful wave.
Colin stood back by his IT van as the driver and machine flew into the sky.


