It’s the Monday after a gloriously sunny weekend spent at the Exeter Respect Festival: a fabulous event to celebrate our diverse communities. Among live music, singing, and spoken word, the park is filled with a bustling array of stalls, food, and campaigns. Whether you want to sample authentic Syrian cuisine, be amazed by flamenco dancers, or shop for handicrafts from all corners of the world… Exeter Respect carries the message, ‘all different, all equal’.
I often think of writing as tapping into that introverted side of yourself. Time spanning hours, days, months and years are spent alone, with your own head for company, creating worlds, characters, themes and plots that will ultimately blend into your story. And all the while that story sits in the comfort of your carved out niche, told only to you and your nearest and dearest.
It’s a matter of opinion, but I was fairly amazed with what could be accomplished with coffee, masking tape, toilet paper, paint, glue, tinfoil and a batman mask.The fate of the natural world of Shendi is controversial, as history turned to legend and myth. Which story you believe depends on where your loyalties lie: with the old ways or with the King. It was the question I pondered as I prepared my two relics, straight out of the book
It is years in the making, this creature called the debut novel; a creature that has lived safely hidden within the walls of my writing room. For long enough it followed the plan I laid out, until it started to take on a life of its own.
It starts with inspiration; a character, a setting, a theme. After that, pen and paper will suffice. My pen first hit the paper while I was in South Africa, a three year stint in the rainbow nation that followed a year in hot, arid Sudan. Sweeping deserts and lush green bushlands, after such stunning landscapes it wasn’t difficult to find inspiration for a whole new world. The land of Shendi was born, a land that would be the setting for my first novel.
As a kid it was a Saturday morning custom for my dad to take me and my sister to Holmfirth library. We browsed the shelves, selected a book, and took it home to devour. And there from a tender age our worlds opened up in those typed pages. Stories have always been a gift.
