Campling, Get Out
Positive Feedback For The Win
Hello again,
I wrote this piece and then performed a reading live, here on substack, so if you want to see and/or hear me read it, it’s here:
In my books, I often refer to male characters by their surnames and female characters by their first names. This feels right to me, and I know why. From the age of 11 to 16, this is exactly what we did at school, teachers and pupils alike. I was always, Campling. And if a teacher was saying my name, the next couple of words were probably, “Be quiet.“
I was a talker and a joker. I liked to make people laugh, and I must’ve had a twinkle in my eye because, most of the time, I got away with it. I like to think that some of my teachers rather enjoyed my jokes. Not so my science teacher. He didn’t like the fact that I’d already done a lot of the experiments at home, so when I excitedly blurted out the answers, it stole his thunder. On those occasions, he generally sent me to stand in the corridor. I might’ve been showing off a bit, but I hadn’t intended to be disruptive, I just couldn’t contain the thrill of discovery. Rather than punish me for acquiring knowledge, he ought to have given me something useful to do, and then we’d both have been happy.
The convention of us boys using surnames was limiting, so nicknames were de rigueur, and the good ones had a strand of logic in them somewhere. A boy with a Scottish sounding surname might be called Jock, whether they had Scots ancestors in living memory or not.
Some nicknames were, at best, callous, and others were downright cruel. A boy with wiry hair was called Bogbrush for years, and that must’ve got on his nerves. For my non-UK readers, the word bog can mean lavatory, so it wasn’t a kind appellation. I believe I invented a few nicknames myself, and ones that stuck too, but although I can't remember them now, I don’t think I would’ve saddled anyone with an awful name.
I remember one lad who was stuck with the name Fishy. His parents ran a shop selling fish and groceries, and Fishy helped out. No doubt the experience was valuable, but it endowed him with a certain lingering scent.
Still, he was good at football and cricket, and to a large proportion of the boys at school, those were the important things.
I wondered what happened to Fishy. Did he bat for England or sell cabbages and haddock? His nickname had replaced his forename in my memory, so I couldn’t look him up, but a couple of weeks later, his name popped into my head.
That’s the way my memory works these days; there’s a curious time delay that can be anything from 2 minutes to a month. As a writer, I spend a lot of time hunting for the right turn of phrase, so it’s more than a little frustrating to reach out for the right words only to have the blighters scattering in all directions, calling out things like, “Too slow, old man,” or “Catch me if you can.”
“I’ll get you,” I mutter under my breath. “Eventually.”
But back to my old schoolmate, Fishy. I come from a smallish town, so a quick search revealed that he has worked in the family business for 25 years. Fair enough. Many kids dream of sporting success, but very few of them make it, even if they show early promise. The same can be said for musicians and artists and dancers and others who long for lofty professions—even writers.
I was never one of those boys who daydreamed about playing for England or representing GB in the Olympics. For me, sport was a closed door, and I didn't care to open it. Things might have been different if sport at school had been inclusive and well taught, but our teachers were uncaring and unthinking. They often threatened to beat us with a trainer shoe for no real reason, and if we clearly weren't going to make it into the school team, they took little interest in us. It was as if most of us were simply in the way. We were an inconvenience, and as far as they were concerned, we should keep quiet, look busy and try not to get knocked over. So we ran up and down the pitch while others kicked the ball and shouted at each other.
I don’t recall anyone ever mentioning exercise for the purpose of getting fit, and there was no suggestion that we might enjoy it. It wasn’t until the age of 58 that I discovered I was a natural runner. Imagine if I’d had a few words of encouragement when I was 11.
I’m glad to say that teachers approach sport differently now. When I was teaching kids between the ages of 7-11, PE and Games were popular lessons with everyone involved. I never forgot what it felt like to be one of those were left out or ignored, and I did my best to help everyone, regardless of their current ability. A little positive feedback goes a long way.
But I don’t want to give the impression that my schooldays were unhappy; they weren’t. I had friends and plenty of non-sporting interests. Science was cool, and reading was important, but I really loved it when English homework involved writing, especially if we were told to write a story.
The signs were there, folks! Did I follow them?
Nope. The problem was that I also had a passion for science, and being a level-headed young man, I chose science subjects at school and then university.
That didn't pan out. So like Fishy and the sports-mad boys at school, I learned that life doesn't always follow the path we want. Sometimes, dreams lead to one destination, but destiny takes us toward another.
I’ve often admired those who dreamed of something practical and followed through. Mrs C trained as an Occupational Therapist and has never been out of work. She recently retired after 37 years of helping people after illness or accident, condition or impairment. At first she worked directly with patients, later she led teams of therapists, making sure people could safely go home from hospital, or keeping them from hospitalisation in the first place. OT is often misunderstood, but it’s all about rehabilitation, restoring independence and giving people their lives back. What a wonderful achievement.
When men make plans, the gods laugh, someone said, and as is traditional in these pieces, I refuse to look this quote up. I’m not a journalist, and I don't want to become one. But I am a writer, and though it’s taken me a long time to get here, I intend to stay. There are so many stories I want to tell, and I’m grateful to have found some wonderful people who want to read them: people like you.
So thanks for being here, and by the way, I like the way you’re paying attention, really taking in every word. Good job, Dear Reader. Good job.
Bookishness
A Study in Stone: A British Mystery 2nd edition has been released to all major stores but you may want to wait.
I launched the book at full price, and I’m in the process of increasing the prices (slightly) of all my ebooks. A lot of them are still around £4/$5 and they’ve been at that price for years. During that time, everything has gone up, including my costs.
My original plan for this 2nd edition was to give it away, and I said as much back in May, but that no longer feels sustainable to me. The book has turned out to be much longer than I expected (three times longer than the original), and that represents a solid chunk of work.
This new edition is very much a full novel with more mystery, more clues and more fully rounded characters, i.e. more of the stuff readers tell me they want.
That said, I don’t want to disappoint anyone, so I’ll set a price of 99p/$0.99 and its equivalent for a limited time, probably from Sunday (July 27) so I have time to arrange the reduction on all the stores. I’ll drop you a brief email on Sunday with the links and so on.
I’ll also let you know the best place to get a paperback (and the store doesn’t begin with A).
Look after each other and take care,
Mikey
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