I spoke to my former workmate, just before he died as it turned out, and mentioned I’d been writing. His response was typically forthright. ‘What a bloody waste. Of all the things you could be doing, sitting on your arse scribbling away is the last thing I’d envisaged you doing.’ He wondered why I wasn’t still coaching, earning a decent salary, and I’m sorry to say I had no idea myself. Giving up everything at once was quite a step and swanning off to sunnier climes, doing up ruined houses took me very far away from my skill set.
See, I don’t think of myself as a writer. When someone has the impertinence to ask me what I do for a living (ha!) I never say ‘I’m a writer.’ I usually say something like ‘not much’, or something equally fatuous and change the subject. I’ve had success – if measured by sales – as a writer, but I’m well aware that writing crime thrillers means I’m performing beneath my capabilities, voluntarily dumbing down, and if I want to be taken seriously as a writer I should write the book I really want to write.
Well, one day, I just might. I have no ego. I may pretend otherwise, but in reality, as with the abuse I’m getting from some confused people who’ve taken violent exception to my personal views on NanNoWriMo, it goes over my head. I’m not a real writer anyway, just filling in time while I find myself again.
What to do? Where to go? These are problems I like to face, not obsessing over how many words I’ve managed to eke out in a day. I’m thinking I should see what Algeria is like, in detail. Simon, a fellow traveler presently domiciled in Hong Kong, preferred it to Morocco, which is high praise. Deserts, mountains and sunshine are vastly more enticing than an English winter.
I’m fascinated by North Africa. The remote areas are, literally, another world. The people are friendly with none of the pestering that afflicts visitors to places on the package tour trail. I speak passable French, even allowing for rustiness as it’s been a while since I lived in France, but certainly enough to get by. For someone fascinated by history, the architecture alone is reason to get excited as we move on to a new town, a different region. The South of France may have made ‘shabby chic’ into an art form, but it’s in Morocco that we see the true magnificence of the concept. Ragged urchins, buildings seemingly on the point of collapse would engender pity if every face we see didn’t have a smile on it. This isn’t Third World poverty. The people may not be rich by Western standards, but there’s an acceptance of their lot, a determination to make the best of what they have without any visible sign of complaint.
I love North Africa. The climate, the people, the mountains, the deserts, they’re where I feel at home. Not for ever, but for a few months, as a means of avoiding the privations of an English winter for example, they’re the best place to be.
‘Where would you live if you could live anywhere’ I was asked recently. Good question. I can live anywhere, within reason. Being able to talk to people helps. That rules out a great many places if we’re talking living on a permanent basis. I’ve lived in France, Spain, Morocco for extended periods. I could happily live anywhere close to the Mediterranean Sea. The climate, the pace of life, the food and wine, they’re a great pull. If I were a few years younger, I would live in New Zealand. Many years ago I had the chance to go there to play rugby and eventually turn to coaching. I spent a couple of months in New Zealand recently and was made painfully aware of an opportunity lost.
Climate matters, a smattering of language skills too, so that’s English, French, Spanish and Scouse in my case, and a certain feeling that’s hard to quantify. When I arrive somewhere and feel at home. That’s the best way to describe it. Somewhere that feels right. England is a great place to live, but there’s a whole world out there and I’m determined to see as much of it as I can.
If you got this far – sorry I forgot to mention Justin Bieber. Maybe next time. All the inside secrets…
Yeah, I wanna read the North African novel. A lot.