Queens, bows and Valkyries

Last evening I spent a rather intensive three hours on Zoom learning how to write historical fiction and good golly gosh! If I wasn't doubting before, I am now!

Where to start? Well, I think perhaps the word 'pap' signalled the beginning of the end; even though we were only half way through. Whilst one side of my brain struggled to keep abreast of the conversation, the other had leapt overboard and was swimming away in the opposite direction.

I can't do this! I kept thinking. Just listen to all these clever people who know all kinds of clever words and historical facts, not to mention their knowledge of proper English grammar. Look! They even have knights, shields and paintings of medieval queens hanging in their living rooms! I don't have any of those! All I have is a nighty and the only queen in our house is synonymous with a rhapsody of Bohemia!

So what did I do? I snuck back inside my shell and shied away from the conversation. And although I was excited to see a real Hermit crab on the beach the other day; I do also know that becoming one, is probably not the best way to become a better writer.

'Help Agatha! I'll never be able to do this!' I exclaimed.

She shrugged her shoulders.

'If you are properly modest, you will never write at all,' she said.

'Really?' Oh! what was I thinking? '

'You start into it, inflamed by an idea, full of hope, full indeed of confidence... you then get into difficulties, don't see your way out, and finally manage to accomplish more of less what you meant to accomplish, though losing confidence all the time. Having finished it, you know that it is absolutely rotten.'

'Oh no! But if you feel that way, there is no hope for me,' I despaired.

But then she smiled.

'A couple of months later, you wonder whether it may not be all right after all.'

Well, unsurprisingly, I had some quite bizarre dreams last night. The times were medieval and I began by searching for a sword. It was quite tense, but then I found a letter from Queen Victoria to Prince Albert. She was very glad he was safe and well, but then somehow, I wound up singing in a choir in a shopping mall. It was Strauss's Thus Sprach Zarathustra, or was it Wagner's Ride of the Valyries? Still, even though neither of these are choral works, I vividly remember warbling:

'Happaaleeee', while someone heckled, 'NO! Try, happily.'

Why happily? I have no idea, but I was very put out, as the 'lee' sound happened to occur on a long note.

But as I thought about it this morning, I did happily realise that after my thirty years of playing the violin, I've learnt a little bit about music. So perhaps after thirty years of writing I might know more about that too?

Either way, I feel like my life as a musician has prepared me to cope and fight on regardless of the almost crippling self-doubts, criticisms and other confidence tramplers. I may not have a knights' costume or shield; but luckily I've been able to adopt a coat of armour—just strong enough to survive—and although I don't have any arrows, I'm very fortunate that I have quite a nice bow.

Christie, Agatha (2011) Agatha Christie: An autobiography. HarperCollins.