From the Titanic to Swanwick, a journey worth talking.

It was the summer of 1980 I think, and looking back I now realise that this was when my interest in describing the things around me, the environments, the objects, the flushes of emotions, and the faces of those who took steps with me, was first noticed. Not by me, but by ‘Mr Parks’ my Primary School teacher. It was perhaps my extremely descriptive depiction of the moment that I had truly believed that myself, and nine of my fellow students, had faced the certainty of their death. 

Seemingly, I had described the moment in a way more fitting of the sinking of the Titanic, reminiscent of violins and awkward farewells. The moment my fellow childhood passengers and I accepted our fate, on a barge, in a lock somewhere on the river Nene. We were probably only about two miles from home and not far from the corner shop ‘Spar’ where they sold ‘Dib-dabs’, but I felt these brave individuals needed to be memorialised even though there was no iceberg, so I wrote about it.

The cherished hardback of 'Revolting Rhymes' by Roald Dahl, that I was awarded for writing about the narrow boat disaster, not dissimilar to the Hindenburg in my mind, is still pride of place in my meagre book collection. However, I found myself quite put out by ‘Mr Park’s' comment when he laughingly referred to my unique ability to ‘make something out of nothing’ when presenting my prize in front of the survivors. Meeting him years later at a reunion, he took pleasure in informing me the boat had merely tipped slightly to one side, possibly by just a few degrees – well that’s not how I remembered it!

My adventure continued with a selection of failures, never allowing me to quite reach the same praise the barge disaster had awarded me. A hastily scribbled entry to a writing competition in my sister's 'Jackie' magazine, resulted in me winning the first prize of a Holly-Hobby hairdryer, cooking play set & beauty box. On the technicality that her name was on the entry, my sister stole the credit and lavished in the praise and prizes. We don’t speak anymore.

When I was finally published at the age of fourteen, it was all my own. A written and illustrated comic-strip, based around a famous movie franchise which was published in a small fan magazine. It staggers me that today, even though it was created a decade before the internet, and now almost  40 years ago, when I Googled it, it is still remembered today in online fan forums as a great piece of work.

When I originally signed it, I used an adaptation of my name. I didn’t want the press at my door after all, I was only fourteen and that would make it difficult to catch the school bus. So when I showed my proudly published work to my mother for the first time, she quickly told me off for taking credit for other people's work and for lying.

Now at 53 years of age, I find myself writing for at least part of my living. With a new book on the way, hosting a successful, regular performance night as my alter ego, spoken word artist, ‘BusyMrFizzy’, and running workshops, most recently with the Rugby Literature Festival, I look back on those early years and think about another teacher, and the conversation we had the day she had asked me, ‘What do you want to do as a career?’.

‘I want to be an English teacher like you Miss Corby’, I had replied, full of joy and hope.

She scoffed, sniggered and shook her head. Then in possibly one of the most callous encounters I recall in my life, lifted her gaze from her books, looked me in my 10 year old eyes and said coldly,

‘Not in a million years, you have no talent for English’, and then looked down and ignored me till I silently returned to my seat, heartbroken.

I thought of Miss Corby today when I accepted a teaching position, at the Swanwick School of Literature, the oldest writing school in the world. A place where writers go to learn. The ‘Hogwarts’ of words, if you like.

I will be teaching, part-time, a course about writing comedy, with an emphasis on transcribing real-life comic events to words on a page for the 2026/27 academic year. They would like me to consider taking a full time role after that, should things go well.

Miss Corby, look at me now.

Never, ever believe you can’t do something, no matter what you are told, what you are made to feel, or even if you tell yourself you can’t do it, stop listening to those voices. They don’t bring good news. Listen to the voices around you that say you can do it, you are good at it, and believe you will do it. These are the quiet voices.

Disruption is a noisy houseguest, opportunity knocks quietly.