The Spark

Every piece of writing starts with an idea. And every idea starts with a spark. It might be something monumental, something which deeply moves you. It might be something inconsequential, a sentence you read, an advert, a film, something on television, a few words a friend says. Or it may be some casual event which means nothing to most people who witnessed it. For you, however, it lights a spark. And that spark may lead to a story, a novel, a script, a screenplay, a poem or even this Substack.

It’s worth pondering what ignited the spark, although I’d recommend you do so after you’ve run with the idea it generates in case you follow the spark into some dim and dreary rabbit hole. It’s worth pondering because it may give you a signpost to a place which is more, well sparky, and which it would be good to revisit.

Like so many of my sparks, the one for the first story I sold started with an event in childhood. I had been a reluctant student, often ill and missing out on the ebb and flow of school. It was made even worse when I moved from London to the Midlands, 150 miles in distance and 300 years back in time. The school I now attended was a Victorian relic, it even insisted on scratch-pens you had to dip in ink. It also had the manic sadist Mr Hardwick. But more of him in later episodes.

I hated school until the age of eleven when I went to Newbold Green Secondary Modern School. And much of my change of heart was due to our young English teacher Mr Johnson. He was an inspiration. Not an ogre, not a sadist, but a gentle, thoughtful man. A man who lit many sparks.

The first spark he lit for me was in the November of our first term. He asked us to write a story about Bonfire Night, the annual commemoration of Guy Fawkes’ attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament. Bonfire Night was the highlight of the autumn. Many kids made effigies of Guys which they used to try to collect money to buy fireworks. And then the Guys were burnt on the bonfires.

So the first spark was the subject Bonfire Night. I can’t recall the second spark, maybe it was because I was sensitive, maybe because moving 150 miles and 300 years made me feel a bit of an outsider. At any rate, I decided to write the story from the point of view of the Guy, the archetypal outsider.

It was not a long piece, a page and a half of an exercise book. It started with me, the Guy, being taken to the bonfire in a pram, hoisted onto the wood and rubbish and placed, like a king of the castle, on the very top.

I saw fireworks: Rockets, Roman Candles, Catherine Wheels and Sparklers. What a lovely show. But then I smelt smoke, I felt hot, I saw flames leaping towards me. The one word in the story I remember to this day was the final one I the Guy yelled. ‘Aaaargh.’

The third spark was that I got 9 out of 10 for the story and a very encouraging comment from Mr Johnson.

The three sparks - the subject, my individual take on it, and the praise - lit the flame which led to me going to University, becoming a teacher of English and now a writer.

Fast forward 17 years. I had studied at University and become a teacher of English. And throughout these years I worked towards being a writer. I’d even finished some pieces and garnered a folder full of rejections, a few very encouraging.

And then one evening my neighbour Julie came to tell me that the local radio station had just announced a writing competition. I tuned in to the radio that evening and hastily scribbled down the rules.

Then I sat at my desk and stuck my pencil in my mouth. What to write? After a few minutes the spark was lit. I began to write about a Guy Fawkes competition. I’m not too surprised that I chose to write about the same subject as my first successful school story. But a Guy Fawkes competition? That was new. Today, for the first time, I realise that I may have taken the story of the Guy and hitched to it the fact that I was writing for a competition. Wonders never cease. I’d never thought of that before.

I wrote the story in an evening and posted it the next day. Ten days later, Julie hammered on the door, with a transistor radio in hand. ‘You’ve won,’ she cried. ‘Your story will be read on the radio.’

I was stunned. I remember hearing the broadcast a few months later, my tiny flat crowded with friends. At the end, as they cheered, I was too overwhelmed to even smile. I went out onto my balcony and saw the constellation Leo in the heavens, strangely bright above the lights of Nottingham. I was born under Leo. It was a sign from the heavens. I was going to be a writer.

Okay, it took me another twenty years but it happened.

I took my girlfriend out for a meal to celebrate. I spent more on the meal than I got paid. But what price a spark?

So what might be your spark? Only you can say, of course, because it is unique to you. Here, however, are some ripe places where I find my sparks.

Your childhood. This is an eternal source of ideas and inspirations. After all, if something from long ago stays with you then it must have some enduring power. I’ll have more to say about this in the future.

Chance events and encounters. Try to note them down as soon as possible. Take a notebook with you wherever you go, or maybe your phone. I once had only a ballpoint pen and jotted down an idea on the back of my hand. It was hard to decipher but it was worth the effort.

Something you read. It need not be as finished as a novel or a story – it’s probably better if it isn’t. A snippet from a newspaper, a magazine or a web page may be the spark you’re looking for. A good idea is to try to flip it, try to find a new angle.

Adverts. Some catchlines echo down the years.

A phrase, a comment or a joke. Some phrases just grab you by the synapses. Write them down. They may be just the spark you need.

THE GUY FAWKES CONTEST

I suppose it was a bit of a coincidence that my Auntie Nellie came round the last week of October when The Wizard of Oz was on at the pictures. You know, that soft film with witches and tin-men and some Yankee lass singing her head off about rainbows. It were the sort of film that I wouldn’t be seen dead going to, and neither would our Eric. 

But our Eric always used to get at me Auntie Nellie and bring her chest on bad so that she started gasping for breath and having all sorts of convulsions in the front room. So mum decided that she ought to get our Eric out of the way before Auntie Nellie came. She offered him a pound to go to see the Wizard of Oz.  Our Eric said it were boring. So she gave him two pounds fifty and told him to take me.

We’d no sooner got to the end of our street when it started chucking it down. We raced down to Woolie’s but there was no one there. So out we goes into the blooming rain again. We ran down to Juddy’s who was our Eric’s best mate. And blow me, we got to his house and his mum said that he’d gone out, that he’d gone to see The Wizard of blooming Oz.

Eric were right disgusted at Jud but there were nowt else for it, either go home and lose the money or go to the flicks.

When we got there we saw a kid from Albert Street just about to go in. Eric said he’d give him sixpence if he went and opened the emergency door to let us in. The kid said he would so we sneaked round the back and waited for it to open.

I said we should push past the kid and not pay him as he weren’t likely to argue against the two of us. Eric looked right shocked at that and talked about morals and cricket so that I felt that ashamed I said I’d pay the kid from me own pocket money. Eric said that was much more decent of me and just then the door opened. Eric walked in while I fished in me pocket for a ten pence. 

I thought it were a really boring film, soppy girls’ stuff most of it. But our Eric said it had some features of unusual interest. He bought us some chips on the way home, all three of us, that’s the sort of person he is. I kept saying the film was boring and Juddy said he only went ‘cause there was nowt else to do. But our Eric kept eating his chips and didn’t say a word.

Next morning our Eric was smiling to himself as he ate his corn-flakes. He’d obviously had a good idea so I asked him what it was. He never usually tells me, but he must have been in a good mood and promised to let me in on it. He told me he was going off right away to Juddy’s so I gobbled down me corn-flakes, put on me coat and went with him.

When we got to Jud’s we found him polishing his bike.

‘Have you noticed anything unusual that’s appearing on the streets?’asked Eric.

I had a think for a moment and then shook me head. ‘Debra Perkins has started to wear a bra,’ said Jud.

‘No, not that,’ said Eric. ‘It’s something that always happens this time of year.’

We both thought deeply for a while.

‘Raining,’ suggested Jud.

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Eric.  No, I’m talking about all the Guy Fawkes that are going around.’

‘Oh them,’ said Jud.

‘Ernie Fielding’s got a good one,’ said I. ‘He reckons to have made a bomb on it.’

Eric looked thoughtful when I said this. Then he smiled and rubbed his hands together the way that he does, so that both Juddy and me felt happy and smiled at each other.

‘What we’re going to do,’ said Eric, ‘is have a competition to find the best Guy around.’

As soon as he said it Juddy stopped smiling and I saw him slowly shake his head.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to get involved.’

‘Why not?’ asked Eric. I could see that he was a bit peeved.

‘Because there’s no point,’ said Jud. ‘We’ve been trying to make Guys for years now and they’re no flipping good. If their arms don’t fall off their legs do and last year it wouldn’t even burn. We put half a can of paraffin on and it still wouldn’t burn. We’re no good at making Guys so we’d never win a competition.’

‘Anyway, what would we win?’ said I.

‘You just said that Ernie Fielding has made a bomb on his Guy. If you put everyone’s Guy money together and had it for the prize just think how many fireworks you could get.’

I smiled.  Our Eric always had a way of persuading you.

‘But it’s still no good for us,’ repeated Juddy, ‘because we’re no good at making Guys. And anyway, this year we haven’t even got a Guy.’

‘Haven’t we,’ said Eric. ‘Oh yes we have.’ And he pointed at me.

I didn’t understand this. For a second I thought that he was pointing at something behind me and wanted to look round. But the more I looked at Eric’s finger the more it pointed at me. I saw out the corner of me eye that Juddy had turned to look at me too and I started to feel right uncomfortable.

‘What you on about?’ asked Juddy. 

That’s what I wanted to know as well.

‘Our Malcolm can be the Guy,’ said Eric. ‘You remember that film yesterday?  Do you remember that bloke who was dressed up as a scarecrow? Well that’s what we’ll do with our Malcolm. We’ll get all raggedy old clothes and put ‘em on him, we’ll have bits of straw and stuff sticking out from holes in his clothes, we’ll have a floppy old hat with straw under the brim and we’ll borrow some of your Maureen’s make-up to make him look sick and pasty-faced.

Even I had to admit that it sounded like a great idea – though I weren’t too keen on the make-up.

‘He’ll look really great,’ continued Eric, ‘just like the scarecrow in the film. We’ll walk off with the prize, no trouble.’

‘Yeah,’ said Jud. ‘And just think of all the fireworks we’ll buy.’