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What made me write?

A funny thing happened on my way to London

I have not always been an author, but I have wanted to write a novel since as far back as I can remember. We all make excuses for not doing things. We have everyday things to deal with such as earning a living, climbing the greasy pole and so on. In the end, though, such things are not reasons for putting off doing something you've always wanted to do; they are really just excuses. If the desire is strong enough, if the burning is there, you make time; you find the space. Think about it.

The idea for my first novel hit me when I was sat on a train, minding my own business. Actually, that's not quite true; I was listening to people around me; being nosey. The carriage was supposed to be a "quiet carriage," which meant that mobile phones, music etc. were taboo. As usual most people respected that, but there is always one, isn't there? The comforting, agreeable peacefulness was interrupted by a woman who was not in the first flush of youth, but was not old either. Her conversation was heard by everybody in the carriage. Heads were raised and disapproving noises were offered as she told all and sundry what her plans were for the evening, who would be involved, where it was to happen and, graphically, what she hoped the climax would be!

We British are by nature a reserved bunch, but I think that's changing. One brave soul walked with purpose towards her seat and stopped beside her. He looked down at her, giving her ample time to stop her inane and boastful chatter. When it became apparent that she was determined to continue he shrugged his shoulders and began to sing. It was obvious that he did not have a tuneful bone in his body, but he gave it his best shot as he belted out Blondie's hit "Hanging on the Telephone." The woman was stunned into silence, but he carried on. Eventually, the woman said, loudly into her mobile phone, "I'll have to go now. I can't hear a thing. There's a very rude man singing at the top of his voice standing beside me."

When he was certain she had been shamed into putting her mobile away, he turned on his heels and, to a rousing, clapped ovation from his fellow passengers, returned to his seat. He snapped open his newspaper with a crack that could have come from a gun and settled himself for the remainder of his journey.

I remember thinking that he was brave enough to do something that all of us in that carriage could have done, but were too reserved, too cowardly to do. It also gave me the starting point to my first novel, so I am grateful to that man.