Susan Brewer's Blog
October 16, 2014
How it began
Recently someone asked me how I began my writing career. It wasn’t an easy question to answer. The very first thing that I ever had published – and was paid for – was a letter in a magazine entitled Fur and Feather. I was about 13 at the time, and would like to say that this was the kick-start to my career. I would like to say that – but of course, it wasn’t. At thirteen I didn’t really know what I wanted to do when I left school. And though I loved writing, thanks to Michael Guinery, an enthusiastic teacher in my primary school in Welwyn Garden City, I didn’t see it as a career. I ended up working in a ‘special’ library (one attached to a research institution) before moving on to a college library. Even so, the writing bug was always there, though it wasn’t until the 1980s, when I had given up work to care for my two small children, that I began writing in earnest, targeting magazines with articles on various topics.
After a few more years, a blow fell when my Mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Naturally, she was shocked – we all were – but bravely, she decided that she would write down all her childhood memories before they were deleted from her brain forever. She bought a small word processor, and began typing, pouring out her childhood until there was a disk full of recollections. Diffidently, she asked if it would make a book, and after considering the options we decided to self-publish. We wanted her to see the book in print while she still had all her faculties. Mum had been brought up in a children’s home, together with a brother and sister, following the death of their mother, and so we took her to the home, in Woodford, Essex, where she was able to borrow photographs to use in the book. When she first saw the copies of her book, in paperback, illustrated with the old photos as well as some sketches by me, she was ecstatic. Her book, ‘My Other Family’ by Joan Warne, was published in 1996. She passed away seven years later, almost devoid of any memories.
However, I was so inspired by her writing tenacity that I went on to write books of my own, rather than just the short magazine articles I had been working on before. Perhaps, if she hadn’t written that book, I would not have had the confidence and the commitment to write the many thousands of words needed for a book. I would not have had the pleasure of holding a copy of my own book in my hands, admiring the dust wrapper, sniffing the pages, thrilled to see my name on the cover.
Last year I came across another disk of hers, containing more memories, this time of her wedding, married life and my birth. There wasn’t enough text for a long book, but I assembled a collection of photographs interspersed with these new-found memories, in a small private edition to give to immediate family members. And I have begun noting down all my childhood memories too, just in case – because you never know.
After a few more years, a blow fell when my Mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Naturally, she was shocked – we all were – but bravely, she decided that she would write down all her childhood memories before they were deleted from her brain forever. She bought a small word processor, and began typing, pouring out her childhood until there was a disk full of recollections. Diffidently, she asked if it would make a book, and after considering the options we decided to self-publish. We wanted her to see the book in print while she still had all her faculties. Mum had been brought up in a children’s home, together with a brother and sister, following the death of their mother, and so we took her to the home, in Woodford, Essex, where she was able to borrow photographs to use in the book. When she first saw the copies of her book, in paperback, illustrated with the old photos as well as some sketches by me, she was ecstatic. Her book, ‘My Other Family’ by Joan Warne, was published in 1996. She passed away seven years later, almost devoid of any memories.
However, I was so inspired by her writing tenacity that I went on to write books of my own, rather than just the short magazine articles I had been working on before. Perhaps, if she hadn’t written that book, I would not have had the confidence and the commitment to write the many thousands of words needed for a book. I would not have had the pleasure of holding a copy of my own book in my hands, admiring the dust wrapper, sniffing the pages, thrilled to see my name on the cover.
Last year I came across another disk of hers, containing more memories, this time of her wedding, married life and my birth. There wasn’t enough text for a long book, but I assembled a collection of photographs interspersed with these new-found memories, in a small private edition to give to immediate family members. And I have begun noting down all my childhood memories too, just in case – because you never know.
