A brilliant evening was had with husband and wife team Brian Viner and Jane Sanderson speaking about their different writing styles, their writing journeys and providing some advice from what they’d learnt along the way. Brian then generously gave his time for our members to adjudicate the competition with the following brief.
Ghost-write (in the first person) the opening 300 words of an autobiography, choosing any famous person and, without being too obvious, writing in their distinct voice.
Speaking of the entries received, Brian said: “There was lots of good stuff in all the entries. But if I may make a few general points that apply to some or all of them …
- An autobiography can’t be written from beyond the grave
- There shouldn’t be too much information crammed into the first paragraph, otherwise it will read like the cover blurb
- I don’t think an autobiography should start with dialogue – that’s more the territory of novelists
- Some were a little too whimsical; nicely done, but read too much like a spoof.
- But as I say, there’s plenty of excellent writing in all of them. Thank you.
Moving on to then announce the winning entries, he added: ” These were the three entries that best captured the voice of the writer.”
First Place: A Childhood Recalled by Geraldine Bolam
Second Place: ‘Til Death Do Us Fart by Frank Devoy
Third Place: Three and Out by Howard Teece
First Place: A Childhood Recalled by Geraldine Bolam
This entry was stylish and elegant but also informative, and doesn’t make the mistake of being too verbose just because it’s Austen.
Brian Viner
There was a sharp frost creating delicate ice crystals on the ponds leading up to my birth, on the 16th day of December in 1775. I was christened at home by my Rector father and the winter that year was austere. Snow fell, and this seasonal time had been described as “Rugged Siberian Weather.”
Newborn animals appeared frozen in the fields, and hares in our garden huddled for warmth. The snow continued to fall, proving a spirited beginning for winter engagements and coachmen and horses made their way through a storm of snow. I dare say some got home very well, the roads were not yet impassable. There were some thirty families living in Steventon, a single row of cottages some distance from the parsonage and really, very remote.
Boys’ talk and boys’ concerns dominated our mealtimes in childhood as my parents also ran a boys’ school. I had six brothers, four of whom were still at home. I grew up familiar with the noise of boys’ voices and their favourite pursuits. There was a great deal of shouting, high spirits, and laughter. I remember an assortment of games and home theatricals. It was a decidedly happy time and we played unconfined while sunny days extended our play outdoors. By contrast, winter was a time of chills, colds and periodically, itchy chilblains.
At seven I was sent to board in Oxford. I have resolved not to dwell too much on my school days as I do not view them with singular affection. Some acquaintances achieved merit in the acquisition of the usual female accomplishments in dancing, singing, drawing, and modern languages. Once at home, I made prodigious use of our family library, seeking to add something more substantial to the improvement of my mind by extensive reading.
Second Place: ‘Til Death Do Us Fart by Frank Devoy
Despite the use of the vernacular – all that nae and tae might become tiresome – it’s nicely crafted. And I like the ending, the last line; it made me want to read on.
Brian Viner
As I approach death, I can now see very clearly that my comedy was born out of weakness. In some ways, my new infirmity reminds me of those early days but this second childhood is a different bag of washing. Even I cannae joke my way out of this.
When it all began, I was the wee, shy, skinny, school-leaver. Wae a shiny new piece box fae ma mammie, and a clean boiler suit and tackety boots fae the man in the stores, I was the new apprentice whose sole job it was tae be tortured, mercilessly, until the fresh meat arrived the following summer.
Neither piece box nor boiler suit survived the first morning. The big men sent me first oot in the pourin rain tae ask Tam the Foreman for a long stand. Then, it was intae the bowels ae a new ship, tae practise escapin a fire – on my hands and knees, so I didnae breathe in the smoke. Manky and soaked, I was sent back tae the stores for a left-handed spanner and bollocked by the stores man for no lookin after my new gear. While I was away, somebody stole ma lunch, box an all.
It dawned on me that I urgently needed somethin tae trade if I was gonnae survive the year, but He Himself hadn’t yet bestowed upon me any even remotely useful gifts. The men worked hard at their trades, skived harder, and laughed constantly. On Saturday afternoon, they watched the Rangers and, on Sundays, they drank themselves intae the next workin week. I listened tae what they laughed at. And the more wicked and real it was, the more they buckled.
Religion was a great source of amusement, and they toyed wae me like big proddy cats playin wae a wee Catholic mouse. But, when the wee timorous beastie sharpened its tongue, I saw my future, and the true power of comedy – make them laugh and they WILL love you.
Third Place: Three and Out by Howard Teece
Three and Out begins really cleverly – I wasn’t going to start here, I was going to start there. That’s a good hook. And it uses sentences and paragraphs very well.
Brian Viner
I wasn’t going to start at the beginning. Me arriving at my first school, new uniform and frit face.
I was going to start at the end. With the worst day of my political, and my personal, life.
Not, as some people might expect, the day my people decided they didn’t want their freedom. That they wanted to stay chained to an increasingly bizarre England.
Nor the day the country as a whole chose to be free of the hegemony of Europe, only to find itself forever arguing as to who was to be in charge of self-determination. Or more precisely, which Englishman was to be in charge.
No, I thought I’d start with the day the polis came knocking early one morning and dragged my man away in chains. I remember Peter shouting that I shouldn’t be worried as he ducked inside the back of a car. But worry was the only thing I could do as I turned my back on braying journos and TV crews shouting my name for attention. As if that’s ever going to work.
But not even sitting down with Val’s latest ARC worked that day. My mind was racing.
So how did we get there? How did I get to watch my husband carted off, only to follow him a few days later of my own accord? Sneaking into Stewart Street through the back door.
Perhaps we do need to go back.
Back to those early days when a wee lassie from Ayrshire is waiting to be let into Dreghorn Primary for the first time.
Sitting at her desk, next to she who would become her very best friend, realising her name will be one of the last to be called on the register.
‘Nicola Ferguson Sturgeon?’
‘Aye.’
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