charles barrow's writing

I've just a read an autobiographical letter that my Uncle wrote to his two sons (my cousins). The letter runs to many pages, and details his life between the ages of 7 and 13, between the outbreak of World War II and VJ (Victory Over Japan) Day, when the war was officially ended. It's a fantastically entertaining document, because my uncle is a great raconteur, and it's full of interesting family history, and anecdotes, and biographical details about his young life (and by extension that of my father too), during an unimaginable time for anyone who didn't live through that period. Many things that I read will stay with me. My uncle chewing a softly heated lump of tarmac, because it was flavoursome (it had a smoky flavour, he says), and he was so starved of sweets/toffees to chew because of rationing. But, he also says that you didn't dare let it harden in your mouth as you'd never remove it from your molars. My dad got blown off his bike in a V2 rocket blast. He...

I've always enjoyed visiting cemeteries, or wandering around them I should say. No one near and dear to me has ever been buried in a cemetery, we're all about cremation in my gang, so I have never had a destination grave that I could deliver flowers to, a headstone that I could reflect silently beside; one that records the barest details of a loved one's life. My forebears' ashes float out at sea or, rather, feed the fish at the bottom of the ocean. Maybe that's why I enjoy a stroll through a graveyard, I'm not emotionally invested. I am always intrigued though; by the choice of marker (stone, granite, cross, statue, urn), how well it's tended (fresh/wilted flowers, plastic ornaments, polished marble), the occupant's names that always seem to conjure Victorian maiden aunts, and Edwardian railway porters, and of course those all important bookend dates (enviably distant cousins, or woefully close siblings) that both start and finish all of our stories. My...

I'm dealing with a few health issues at the moment. This is a very dull situation to be caught up in. Thankfully I'm not ill enough to take to my bed, but neither am I well enough to fully participate, or that's how it feels on a daily basis. Consequently, there has been little writing getting done. My focus just isn't up to the task. I can still make notes though; jot down story ideas, outline characters, imagine scenes and situations. And I can still take photos that prompt questions. Photo is the author's own.  

I imagine I'm not alone in wincing at the sound of my own voice when I hear it on my answerphone message - thank heavens for the automated one that giffgaff supplies (though it's recently changed to a gruff sounding bloke with a Mancunian accent, which I imagine callers could conceivably believe is actually me). So, why the Dickens, would I consider recording myself reading extracts of my own writing, you may wonder, as, indeed, I wonder myself? Writers reading their own work to an audience is a time honoured tradition, of course, Dickens (since I've already invoked his name) famously toured all over the country, and America too for that matter, giving wildly popular live performances. I'm sure there are other examples too but he's the earliest example that I can think of. I've been to hear/watch a few authors read from their latest books; Matt Haig, Jake Arnott, A. N. Wilson, Cathy Rentzenbrink, Kate Mosse, Markus Zusak to mention just a few, and I've been ...

I once read a review of a Billie Holliday album, and the reviewer wrote, 'She sang, and singing was never the same again.' That, right there in a nutshell, is how I feel about Kate Bush. The first time I heard Wuthering Heights on the radio it rocked me back on my heels, and it still does. The Kick Inside was released in 1978, and I've bought every new album she's put out since then, and I haven't done that with any other artist. In 1979, I saw her play live three times at the Hammersmith Odeon in London. T he third concert was a benefit gig, at the end of her tour, in which she performed jointly with Peter Gabriel and Steve Harley. In 1980, I queued for hours outside HMV, Oxford St, to get my copy of her latest album, Never Forever, signed. I eventually made it inside the store, and to within 20 feet of her, and had to give up my place in the queue and leave, I can't remember why but I kick myself (inside and outside) now. Kate Bush fans have to be patient you ...

 Once again I'm reminded how a calm mind and a regular routine are crucial to my ability to focus on my work in progress, and to actually sit down in front of a screen and write. When all is calm, and I have no pressing worries then I can produce work. When a big life change crashes through my front door then my ability to form sentences, and record them in some way, immediately leaves by the back door. Gone. The big issue is a home move. I'm moving on again. I'm buying a property this time, something I've never done before, and never thought I would be able to do. The prospect is, by turns, really exciting and really scary, and thinking about it consumes all my available processing power (leaving no room for creative endeavours). I simply can't call the estate agent, and then email the solicitor, and then sit down and outline a third act twist. I just can't. At least not at this stage. The situation may change in the coming weeks but I suspect I'll have to ...

Music. Very evocative, but very subjective. One person's all time favourite, is someone else's headache. And a lot of it is elevator music, muzak, annoying ear worm, a racket. Of course, with some tunes, there is also a lot more going on than lyrics and a melody. There is the instant Bing of recognition when the opening bars of a song starts, that can transport the listener to another time and place completely. For me this happens, most often, with songs from my youth. To be honest, I don't even have to much like a song to have this happen, but most times I don't choose those tracks, they just appear on a nearby radio, but a big part of the appeal of my favourite ones is that they do transport me back to what, now, seems like simpler days (though I'm sure I never thought my life was simple at the time). The memories aren't necessarily all happy, of course, a break-up song is just as evocative as a make-out song.  Another bonus of an old favourite is that I reme...