The Pirate Columnist

‘Aha’ said the newspaper man, ‘your name sounds like that of a pirate!’

I liked that. I guess he was thinking of Captain Kidd, the Scottish sailor who was executed for piracy. Well I do have something in common with him as my ancestry originates from Elgin but I’ve never done anything naughty on the high seas, well not yet…

My author name does go back to my roots as it is a derivative of my grandfather’s original surname Kiddy, while Petra is the feminine version of Peter, my father’s name.

I said in my previous blog that I live in a county that goes by the motto of ‘do different’ and there came a time in my life where I decided to do very different, well very different for me anyway. To go from an office job to the challenges of a market stall was, I have to confess, a fairly impulsive and in many ways crazy decision. So far my career had gone from retail, to academic publishing, to commercial advertising to being a PA in a small business. Upon my return to Norfolk from a year living in London I found myself somewhat adrift doing a variety of temping jobs. The last of my temping jobs landed me in social services which of course was an eye opener but sitting typing up notes and answering the phone to distressed families wasn’t something I could see myself doing longterm. I felt restless.

That was the end of my time in offices. I went home to my then partner and told him my crazy idea. To my amazement he thought it a great idea and with a mere £100 I set up a jewellery stall. In my red Volvo estate I arrived at a country town market and began trying to piece my stall together. I’d put colored dots on the bars to make sure they joined correctly. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the fruit and vegetable guys rolling their eyes and muttering ‘here comes another one who’s going to last five minutes.’ How wrong they were, I lasted 12 years.

How I lasted I have no idea. It became a battle of wills: me and the elements, me being accepted by the seasoned traders, me persuading the customers, me determined to make this new life work come hell or high water. Both hell and high water did indeed come: I stood in horrific storms, high winds, snow and ice, and blistering heat. I bought a van which was reliable but had its fair share of dramatic breakdowns, once on a roundabout. My daily attire went from suits to ski wear. Everyday was a bad hair day. 5am starts, fifteen hour days, some days with no money taken. Four hours to set up the stall, a couple to break it down. The end of weekend leisure time. Some friends thought me bonkers, others would sneer, my mum begged me not to do it…did I listen? No!

I loved it.

I loved the traders who were all great characters, I loved their humour and ability to endure the toughest of times. I loved the customers (well most of them), each with their own stories and peculiarities. I loved being outdoors and the friendships I made. It was indeed different and it felt right for me. It wasn’t just a job, it became a way of life.

The storyteller in me came out to play and I started to write about market life. Then it occurred to me it would be good to write a newspaper column which might help promote the markets which were struggling somewhat because at the time they were no longer a fashionable place to shop. I contacted the editor of the EDP (Eastern Daily Press) and he agreed. So for the next eighteen months I wrote a weekly column and I actually got paid for it. For obvious reasons I decided to be anonymous and came up with the name Petra Kidd.

No one knew it was me but one day one of the traders came to see me and asked if I’d seen the column. Innocently I shook my head. He showed me my latest column and I went through the pretense of reading it. ‘Must’ve been done by a bloke, too intelligent for a woman,’ he said. This of course was a trap and I had to be careful not to react. ‘Yeah you are probably right.’ I made sure I sounded disinterested.

Another time the same trader made me read my column out to him claiming he’d forgotten his glasses. I wasn’t quite sure if I’d been rumbled or not.

Some years later I confessed to one of the market managers that I was Petra Kidd, the columnist. He laughed out loud and told me he had the columns pinned to his office wall. Bizarrely he’d had a friend called Petra Kidd who’d died and he told me it made him wonder if she’d faked her own death to write the columns.

The stereotypical view of market traders was that we weren’t bright enough to do anything else in life but that is far from the truth. The traders come from many walks of life and usually have many an interesting story to tell. And no, it is nothing like EastEnders, most of the dramas were caused by the weather.

It’s interesting that thanks to the Covid-19 pandemic, markets have become fashionable again. People are returning to the most traditional way to shop because it is now the safest. It makes me feel good to see this, despite it taking a horrible event in our history to make it so. Markets have always been important to communities, not just for the elderly but for everyone so hopefully people will continue to shop in this way even when this terrible virus eventually is controlled.

As for my market columns, I may publish a few on my blog so you can read them.

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Bert – My Imaginary Friend

I can’t remember why I called him Bert, but I can remember the first time I saw him.

A helicopter flew over our garden, my eyes squinted in the summer sun and my neck craned backward to get a better look. I raised a finger to point at the aircraft and said to my mother ‘that’s Bert.’

Bert wasn’t just your regular helicopter pilot, he built houses too. I understand him being a builder, our neighbour was a builder so that part makes sense.

I wore a pork pie hat and dungarees to go and help Bert build things. We would while away the hours building imaginary places, driving fast cars and of course flying.

My mother wrote a story about him, at least I think she made the story up, sometimes my memory plays tricks and I can’t help but believe it really happened, I don’t remember the whole story but the gist of it was that my family would tease me over dinner about Bert and told me they could not believe he actually existed without proof so one night I arranged for him to tap on the bedroom window and to everyone’s surprise he did.

To me Bert was very real, to my family he was just another thing to tease me about. My brother and sister liked to tell me I was really a boy, a boy without a willy and the only person in the world with a belly button. They’d leave me by bushes and tell me the snakes would get me if I moved, as much as I hate snakes I gave up believing them and went home unimpressed. This makes them sound very mean but quite honestly I have always been grateful for all the teasing I endured in my childhood years because it never really hurt me, I knew they were just having fun and at one time I’d have been quite happy to be a boy, even without a willy. I liked doing what the boys did, I badly wanted to be a Cowboy, but preferred my bow and arrows to guns, I wanted boxing gloves and I loved playing football. So having builder Bert as my imaginary friend seemed very normal to me and I didn’t care if anyone believed in him or not.

My mother encouraged my imaginings. Sometimes I’ve come across parents who refuse to let their children believe in mythical creatures or fun characters as they believe everything must be ‘truth’ but I don’t believe that at all. Anyway Bert was my ‘truth.’ Our imaginations are an important part of who we are and how we grow up, they help us develop.

I don’t remember much about Bert now but I vividly remember the day he died. Maybe I was beginning to leave my tomboy phase behind. The clue could be in that the moment he died I was playing with a couple of dolls, a more feminine pursuit (or considered so in those days) or maybe I simply didn’t need him in my life anymore. Maybe a psychologist could work it all out. Suddenly I saw a mountain road, Bert was speeding around a bend in his red open top sports car, he misjudged the bend and flew off the mountainside crashing the car as he went. I clearly remember thinking, ‘Bert is dead,’ and feeling sad but I didn’t cry, I simply accepted it.

The thing is I didn’t consciously decide Bert had to die, it simply happened, almost out of the blue, much like when I create characters now. The weird thing is, I can’t tell you what he looked like, only what he did, apparently that’s not uncommon with imaginary friends.

When I make characters up for my stories, they become like my imaginary friends. I feel what they feel, see what they see, live through their experiences vividly, in my head. If my mother had quashed my imagination as a child and not encouraged it, maybe I would never have started writing. I don’t write much physical description as I like to leave that up to your imagination…

If you had an imaginary friend, human or animal, please tell me about him/her. I’ve not known many people who had one. I enjoyed the film Drop Dead Fred, it was the first time I found out other people had imaginary friends too.

Look out for my next post tomorrow, at 7pm.

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Character Creation

Every writer has a different method to creating their characters. I’ve read quite a bit on the subject. There are writing courses galore, software you can get to help you plan your protagonists, internet advice abounds.

You will see in novels a disclaimer that says, ‘no characters in this book were based on living people,’ or something along those lines.

Of course you can’t take someone you know and implant all their characteristics into one of your fictional characters because quite frankly, that character wouldn’t be fictional now would it? That much is obvious. And the last thing you want is a lawsuit.

All I can tell you is how my characters come about.

I don’t sit down and create a character by listing how they look, their age, their weaknesses, their strengths, their political leanings, their occupation etc. I don’t do this because for me it simply doesn’t work. I have tried it but by the time I come to put them into a story I’ve lost interest in them because I know all about them. It is like creating a robot you are going to control to the nth degree and from what I’ve read you can’t even do that with a robot.

If you are a writer reading this and do use that method please don’t take offense. I’m not saying you shouldn’t use that method, I’m purely saying it doesn’t work for me.

The idea for The Eight of Swords came to me from a newspaper article. Once I read the article I couldn’t get it out of my head. It isn’t uncommon for fictional stories to be created from real life events because how else would stories be created? They say truth is stranger than fiction and this is very much the case. However, in this instance I created something strange, dramatic and exciting out of something pretty mundane. I know it wasn’t mundane to the real life lady but the outcome was pretty mundane to my mind.

The article described an immigration officer who came home to find her house overtaken by gypsies (well they may simply have been squatters I can’t remember now but I decided in my story they would be gypsies). In real life, the lady in question used the law to have them evicted within 24 hours or maybe even sooner. I’m a little hazy on the details because I didn’t keep the article and we are talking nearly ten years ago.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it for some time. Then out of the blue I was struck down with Pleurisy and became very ill. I didn’t realize it was Pleurisy, I just thought it was a bad cough. After a few weeks I went to see a doctor who suggested I buy myself some flowers and chocolate and to prepare myself to put up with it for six weeks. My protestations that I had a business to run fell on deaf ears. I ignored her advice and tried to carry on with my daily life but I became more and more poorly and suddenly experienced sharp pains in my ribs so sharp I could barely breathe. I went to see another doctor who told me I’d probably cracked a rib coughing. By the next day I knew I was in serious trouble, not all of my ribs could be broken surely?

By now I wasn’t really well enough to leave the house but another doctor told me to get in a taxi and visit a GP who specialized in respiratory matters. He at last told me I had Pleurisy. This time I went home to my bed and stayed there. I couldn’t just lie there and try to get better, my body might have been in trouble but my mind needed to be kept busy, so everyday I dragged myself into my office and I started to write about an immigration officer who came home to find her home taken over by Romanian gypsies.

I became Jayne Patchett, I could imagine how she might feel, a woman perhaps my own age, coming home and not being able to get through her own front door. Unlike the reality of the article I had read, Jayne had far more trouble dealing with the intriguing family who now inhabited her home. The characters all came to life vividly and the story progressed as if it were actually happening to me in real time. If I had been reading the story instead of writing it, I would not have been able to put it down and that’s what pretty much happened when writing it, I struggled to leave the keyboard until the fatigue of my illness forced me to.

The gypsies were addictive to me, I loved learning everything about them: their way of living, their attitude, their beliefs, and mystique. I researched how Romanian gypsies lived and Jayne became as intrigued by them as I was. In the story she gets drawn into their world and begins to question her own.

So my characters developed organically if you like. They came out of nowhere and took over my mind and my story. I found them leading the way. My decisions on what would happen next belonged entirely to them. I could never have planned the story from start to finish. I had no idea how it would end, what would happen to Jayne or any of them and exactly the same thing happened when I came to write The Putsi.

And again, with my new book of short stories, it is the characters who have dictated how the stories unfold. I don’t think I have ever started a story knowing where it will end up. Perhaps that’s why writing is as much a pleasure to me as reading is. I love to be surprised.

I know I am fortunate to have such a fertile imagination. It developed as a young child. My siblings were much older than me so for much of my childhood I entertained myself and lived in my own head and for a while alongside my imaginary friend Bert, who I suppose was the first character I ever made up.

That’s pretty much all I can tell you about how I develop my characters. The truth is they develop themselves. They are real to me even though they are entirely fictional.

Tomorrow I will tell you more about my imaginary friend Bert, who has a story all of his own.

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The Creative Mind

Good evening and welcome to today’s blog post. If I sound a little like the late David Frost I make no apology!

Jack Frost (completely different character) has been nipping at us all for the last few days and while I enjoy being out on frosty bright days, I’m not so sure about the aches the cold brings.

During the first lockdown I disciplined myself into daily yoga sessions via YouTube (I can recommend Adrienne) but that was summer and now the mornings are colder and darker so I have to fight with myself to get up. At the moment I am winning again but that is after a couple of months of lagging in the exercise stakes.

Happily I live in an apartment that has very impressive sound proofing so if I want to dance to loud music, no one complains. Exercise has been incredibly important in keeping my mind focused, as has meditation. If you haven’t tried meditation before I heartily recommend it. During the more stressful times in lockdown (like when my mum ended up in a Covid ward for a week although thankfully she wasn’t suffering from it, just displaying symptoms), I relied on daily meditations to get me through. I don’t do them so often now but I should, it especially helps when writing and your mind is jam packed with ideas.

My daily blog posts are going to be a mixture of how my self publishing is going and day to day writing, publishing, photography and sketching adventures. Of course I am going to be mentioning the pandemic but I will try to focus on the lighter side of everyday living with Covid-19 floating around us in its weird and threatening invisible aura. We all know the dark side, so I don’t need to dwell on that.

You see I mentioned photography and sketching as well as the writing and publishing above. I am also a photographer and I like to sketch when I can. My Grandfather, who was a far superior artist to me in every way, used to love to sketch everyday folk and I have picked that up genetically from him I guess. As it happens, the sketches will work well with my new book of short stories so I will use them to illustrate them.

My blog posts will also feature some of my photography, street photography is what I suppose some would call ‘a guilty pleasure,’ which it is in some ways but capturing people unawares is the only way to make sure their expressions are completely natural. I think I am a kind shooter, I don’t take advantage, I simply document characters and life on the street as I see it. There you go, this is only my second blog post and I am already letting out my dark secrets. Check out my images via @ZingleEye on Instagram.

My characters are completely fictional. I’m lucky in that I have had many jobs and the varied businesses I have worked in have featured all sorts of different characters so while none of my characters are ever based on anyone in particular, I suppose my subconscious computes personality traits and behaviours which then go on to become fully formed fictional beings who you can empathize or identify with in some way. At least I hope so.

I’ll write more about how my characters evolve another time.

Like most creative types I guess, I easily get distracted. I can be walking along thinking about a story and the next minute I am transfixed by a scene that I want to photograph or I might see someone who would make a good sketch or I see through a window and imagine the lives of the people within. Ideas come all the time and one of the big problems I have in life is filtering them and trying to choose which to pursue. Having so many ideas can be both a blessing and on occasion a curse.

The other side of me is that I am pretty practical. My head may be full of ideas and imaginings but I am able to do a bit of plumbing when it’s needed, cut hair, change the oil in a car, cook, bake or create a piece of jewellery – all a bit random but that’s me. If I don’t know how to do something I’m all for finding out how to do it rather than relying on someone else (which of course has to happen from time to time). In fact, I should pass more jobs on to others but my curiosity usually gets the better of me. I don’t see myself as a Jack of all trades and master of none but more a curious human.

This is what happened in the summer. When I had an idea for a book (as it happens not the short stories this time) I decided to learn a publishing program and I am still learning as I go.

My blog post tomorrow will focus (hey get me, I’m going to focus on something) on character creation and I will tell you how The Eight of Swords and The Putsi came about.

7pm, don’t be late!

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Please feel free to comment, ask questions and tell me what you are up to, wherever you are in the world, it’s a great time to connect.

Introducing Petra Kidd (Again)

Well hello, it’s been quite some time since I blogged, so thank you for visiting to see what I have to say.

Nearly ten years ago I published The Eight of Swords and The Putsi and posted on this site pretty regularly but life got in the way, I had a business that needed my full attention and my mother certainly needed it too.

Then I moved into a business which demanded less of me physically and thanks to Covid-19 (it has to be good for something) I got my writing bug back again and spent the first lockdown writing a new book of short stories.

I’ve always been fascinated by people and how they deal with certain situations, if you read The Eight of Swords you will meet Jayne Patchett who has a very tricky situation to deal with. When you read it, you are bound to ask yourself how you would react if you were her.

When Covid-19 turned up without much warning and presented us all with a whole new and unprecedented way of living this reminded me very much of The Eight of Swords, but in this case all our worlds were turned upside down, not just the life of one woman (although her drama proved comparatively brief).

I moved into a new riverside apartment just a couple of days before the first lockdown. Luckily I didn’t have much to move as I downsized. Suddenly life became much calmer, more peaceful and the simplicity of my modern apartment seeped into me. Instead of having to race around I could reflect, I had time to think and observe the city around me uncluttered with people. While I am a social person, I am also very happy alone and in my own space so this new way of living did not particularly frighten or concern me.

Having said that, I am not only responsible for myself, I have an elderly mother who has a multitude of health conditions to care for and during the first lockdown I suspended her care agency and looked after her full time myself for three months. Although I’d already spent a fair amount of time with her, caring for her all the time brought a routine that probably helped me cope with the weird way the outer world was transmogrifying.

I started to write a diary, the kind of diary where thoughts simply pour out of your head from your daily observations. It became a kind of therapy and I couldn’t go to sleep without having written down the days happenings. The realization that we are all living through a pandemic that will become a part of the history books made me think of future generations of my family and how they will want to know what it was like first hand from the people who actually lived through it. My Aunty Maureen wrote about her experiences in the war and I had only recently read her notes and this inspired me to write about lockdown and Covid-19 so that my great nephews and future great great nieces and nephews will have first hand experience of a family member going through it all.

The diary isn’t what I am going to publish (well not for now). The diary led me to muse upon what might be going on behind all the closed doors I passed on my lockdown exercise walks and cycle rides and my imagination went into overdrive and created twelve new short stories.

As it has been many years since I last self-published I am going to take you with me, you are very welcome to join me on this latest literary adventure. Whether you are an avid reader or a writer yourself it might interest you to know a little about the process as I go through it again.

My next blog post will be tomorrow at 7pm so please subscribe to make it easier for you to read my updates and to find out more about the new short story book launch.

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’Til tomorrow…

So what would you do?

What would you do if you came home to find strangers sitting in your home as if it were their own? 

It’s not such a silly question.

Usually it is landlords that have problems with squatters when a property has been left empty awhile.  If someone gains entry without actually breaking an entry or causing damage  it’s not an easy task to get them to leave and you would have to apply for a court order.  This can take quite a number of weeks, if not months in some cases.

Terrible when you think about it, especially if it is your actual home.  Some more wealthy people are having to hire security guards to make sure their homes don’t get invaded while they are away.

So how would you react if you came home and found strangers occupying your space?

I had a small taster of what this would feel like many years ago.  I was in my late teens enjoying a holiday in France with my best friend.  We’d found a lovely youth hostel in La Rochelle and a couple of days into the holiday we hit the beach happy to lie around on it all morning without a care in the world. 

Around lunchtime we decided to head back to our room to get changed.  When I tried to open the door to our room I found it locked.  Suddenly the door opened and a very tall German lad stood grinning at me.  I checked up and down the corridor, this was definitely our room so I told him so.  Luckily he understood English.  He laughed “oh no, it is our room!”

I persisted arguing with him in a nonsensical way until he invited me in to see for myself that our belongings had totally vanished and in their place were rucksacks etc belonging to him and his friends.  His friends sat grinning at us, highly amused.

We weren’t amused at all, and somewhat confused we headed to reception and I let forth my best French swear words at the person behind the counter.  Immediately we were led to a cupboard where our belongings had been unceremoniously dumped!  Apparently they were going to move us to a smaller room but hadn’t expected us back so early. 

So I can identify a little with my main character Jayne Patchett in The Eight of Swords when she returns home to find her key won’t turn in the lock.  She lives alone so she knows something is seriously wrong when she can’t get in to her own house.  I remembered my confusion and exasperation well when I was writing about hers.  Of course her situation is far worse than mine was.

Probably the most amusing thing to come out of my brief experience of having my room invaded by strangers was my friend’s reaction to my sudden ability to swear so eloquently in French!  She was very impressed.

Jayne Patchett in The Eight of Swords has a much more interesting and difficult experience than mine and it goes to show you can’t always know how you will react in such a bizarre situation.

The Eight of Swords is available now on Amazon Kindle, it’s a short story. 

Click on the link below to buy.   If you don’t have a Kindle you can still download the ebook to your pc or another device.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Eight-of-Swords-ebook/dp/B006S1RWGA/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1325603687&sr=8-1