{"id":352,"date":"2021-05-13T19:09:02","date_gmt":"2021-05-13T18:09:02","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.rostennyson.info\/w\/?page_id=352"},"modified":"2025-07-16T09:22:18","modified_gmt":"2025-07-16T08:22:18","slug":"writer","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/www.rostennyson.info\/w\/writer\/","title":{"rendered":"Writer"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Being the descendent of a famous poet has its drawbacks \u2013 the greatest of which is, I believe, the inhibiting impact it has on one\u2019s own urges to put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard). Nevertheless, I have written poems over the years and, more recently a number of \u2018monologues\u2019\u00a0(some more fictional than others). My outputs to date are far from Victorian in style \u2013 though maybe they have an element of \u2018in memoriam\u2019.<\/p>\n

Writing comes easily\u2026 actually words come easily (a point often made by those I have trained or facilitated) but exactly what form my attempts at creative writing should take has been elusive \u2013 until I realised that it is quite legitimate to write
\nin any number of formats!<\/p>\n

The brief biography of my father (written in the aftermath of his murder in 2005) sat on a shelf gathering dust. Did I write it for his grandchildren (the stated aim), or for me (as a form of therapy), or for a wider audience? And if the latter, what audience? Is it a potential radio play? A dramatic monologue? A prose poem? A novella? Maybe it will become clear or maybe the dust will just settle.<\/p>\n

These \u2013 and other \u2013 questions about my writing have reverberated over time but have recently been resolved into my new publication (of which more below) which I think was prompted, consciously or unconsciously, by what the novelist Elif Shafak describes in her book HONOUR:<\/p>\n

\u201cThe past is like a trunk in the loft, crammed with scraps, some valuable,<\/em><\/span>
\n but many entirely useless. Although I\u2019d prefer to keep it closed,<\/em><\/span>
\n the slightest breeze throws it open, and, before I know it, all the contents<\/em><\/span>
\n have flown everywhere. I put them back. One by one.<\/em><\/span>
\n The memories, the bad and the good.<\/em><\/span>
\n Yet the trunk always snaps open again when I least expect it.\u201d<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n

So wisely or unwisely (time will tell) I have recently put together a publication of some of my writings clustered under different headings to distinguish fact from fiction \u2013 though the more I review them, the less confident I am that it is possible to distinguish so neatly!<\/p>\n

The title of the book is a quote from IN MEMORIAM by Alfred Tennyson (so I guess this suggests that he has had more influence on my life despite what I claim above!):<\/p>\n

\u201cFor words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

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REVEALING & CONCEALING \u2013 Table of Contents<\/h3>\n

 <\/p>\n

Introduction<\/strong><\/p>\n

Fragments from my life<\/strong><\/p>\n

True stories<\/strong><\/p>\n