I’d only attended one previous meeting of the Local History Writers’ Group and to be totally honest I felt at the time that those involved were just a little too earnest, taking their various areas of concern ultra-seriously. However I had to agree with Edina when she regaled us all with how much she loathed and detested the dastardly business of the dissemination of information about what she had so recently written. So I was cheered to see she was present once more and this time handing out name tags. It wasn’t only me who had been in agreement with her either because even before the coffee and biscuits had been distributed someone called Mike re-energised that discussion. He said he would much rather rewrite the whole thing (in his case a treatise on the churches of Romney Marsh) than get involved in publicising it. Now that I realised these emotions are common I felt a lot better about my own reactions – well enough to say how wonderful it would be to find oneself in a more secure financial position – one that would support the hiring of a professional publicist.
At times those who write, I ventured to suggest, seem to be inordinately territorial – often so hugely so it is astonishing to behold. There was a silence so I added that each time I stumble across this attitude I am freshly flabbergasted. After all, it’s not actually a competition is it?
Edina said that a couple of years ago she wrote a book about growing up in a corner of rural Essex. She said she enjoyed writing the book and though she said it herself, thought it read quite well. So when she discovered that very same community from whence she came now boasted a Local History Society, meeting on a monthly basis in the Church Hall – yes indeed, that same ancient Church she described on more than one occasion within her very pages – well, naturally enough she was quite sure they would be interested in her book. Their website seemed to imply that they were keen to hear memories from locals, etc., etc.
But even offers of free copies met with a sullen silence. Thinking they must have gone into winter hibernation perhaps she waited until fresh news of local events appeared on their tantalizing and shiny home page. She emailed again, and this time cunningly ordered a couple of the books she had noted had been recently written by their president.
His books arrived – promptly. Edina read them and was suitably impressed. Surely he would now be interested in including her own book of memories in the list of volumes available to members? After all it was one hundred per cent pertinent to the very existence of the organization he seemed to head.
But again her messages met a brick wall of brooding taciturnity. A hostile and deepening reservoir of reserve.
His lack of interest could not have been made more obvious if he had rung her at dawn and advised her to toddle off into the hinterland of the local marshland being sure to take her book with her. It was both discouraging and disappointing she said when the very people she was certain would be happy to spread the good news of her creative labours pertaining to local history seemed to be the least interested. Someone called Josh was saying that it was probably just that they were `protecting their patch’ and that those instrumental in keeping memories of past times alive could turn out to be the most territorial of all when it came to fellow writers.
For me the discussion topic was depressingly familiar, having had a not dissimilar lack of interest from a not dissimilar group of local historians myself. It also brought sharply into focus an incident from thirty years previously when a writer `friend’ hesitated when I asked her to support my membership application for a newly formed local authors’ group. She said that she thought there might be a waiting list. She grudgingly advised she would find out for me. She never did.
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