We have a beautiful new (newly refurbished) library in
Exeter with a café and lots of new books, and in it I found Agatha Christie’s
autobiography, which is something I’ve been looking for for a while.
It was written in her seventies and details a life which
began at the end of the nineteenth century. It’s fascinating both as a
historical document (what it was like to be a young woman during the First
World War, for instance) and for the account of her career as a writer.
She’s not at all what I expected. I expected her to be posh
and stuffy but she isn’t. She’s funny, kind, direct and unspoilt. And I couldn’t
resist copying out for you this paragraph about the writing process. It’s so
true it made me laugh, and isn’t it great to know that even the experts
struggle?
You start into it,
inflamed by an idea, full of hope, full indeed of confidence (about the only
times in my life when I have been
full of confidence). If you are properly modest, you will never write at all,
so there has to be one delicious moment when you have thought of something,
know just how you are going to write it, rush for a pencil, and start in an
exercise book buoyed up with exaltation. You then get into difficulties, don’t
see you way out, and finally manage to accomplish more or less what you first
meant to accomplish, though losing confidence all the time. Having finished it,
you know that it is absolutely rotten. A couple of months later you wonder
whether it may not be all right after all.
Which of course brings me back to the subject of my writing.
I finished the quick run-through of the ‘memoir’ and sent it off to the
competition a couple of weeks ago. As I don’t intend to have another look at
the novel until July I have since then had no writing to do. I haven’t missed
it however since life has as usual rushed to fill in the gap – with visitors,
migraines (yes, the two probably are connected) and preparations for a holiday.
