Writers who live in big cities and are unknown to their neighbours are unfortunate. Or it may be that they like it that way. I don’t. A couple of months ago I was pounced on by our promotions committe and asked to write a poem for the new troll family carved out of wood and placed between our cafe and the war menorial hall. (Norsewood is ‘home of the friendly trolls’.) I let the idea settle into my subconscious and in a couple of days I sat down and wrote the 8 line poem which will shortly appear on the plinth. If as a writer you don’t like being asked to interrupt what you’re doing to produce something on demand, you won’t appreciate this, but I don’t mind working that way and liked being asked to contribute to something local. There is a solid scattering of trolls in various materials around our village and now all have a poem of mine attached.
Then there are the articles I write for our local newspaper. One appeared last week and over the weekend I had a phone call from a lady who’d read it, wanting to discuss something I’d said and find out where I’d got one of the items mentioned. We had a very pleasant chat, and I look forward to hearing her outcome. See? You don’t get that sort of interaction in a big city.
