I was a quiet child, the kind of child that you’d find sitting in the corner of a room. The one who didn’t mix well with her peers, struggled to make friends and never raised her hand in class. I was considered polite, intelligent, and attentive. I built a reputation out of being quiet while I was drowning in a world that felt just a little bit overwhelming, desperately searching for firm ground.
Writing was the thing I found to hold onto.
The first time my writing was recognised at school was a massive turning point for me. Suddenly, I’d done something right: something people noticed. Suddenly I wasn’t standing in front of another teacher, being told I needed to try harder. I wasn’t standing at the edge of the playground on my own, hoping the bell would ring and I could go back to my desk. People were looking at me and smiling. Not that it gained me any friends in my peer group. It would be several years before I finally worked out how to make friends.
I was 11 when I entered one of my poems in a local competition and it was chosen for publication. I still have the booklet somewhere: Purbeck in Pen. Part of it was used in a drive to clean up Poole Harbour some years later:
“Leave me neat and leave me clean
And for many years I’ll still be seen.
But if we fail to work together
The splendour of Purbeck may be lost forever”
A year or so later, I even entered another poem for the prestigious Bridport Prize. It seemed to be doing well until someone clocked my age. I received a lovely letter explaining that, while I wasn’t actually eligible to enter as an under-16, my poem had stood out amongst the entries. It had even been flagged for the longlist before they caught it.
Unfortunately, the letter has been lost to time, although I still have the poem. It was about a tree, quietly watching the world go by. I even titled it “The Silent Observer” Rather ironic, really, all things considered.
And now, 30 years later, having finally returned to my writing after a lot of life getting in the way, in my face, up my nose, and numerous other slightly uncomfortable places, I’ve taken my first full-length play as far as I can on my own and begun sending it out to theatres.
It’s about a Wishing tree, the people who visit it, and what we owe the spaces we hang our hope.
It seems I’ve spent the last thirty years learning new ways to tell the same truths. Some things never really leave us, do they?
If you’d like the chance to sit with me under that tree, I’ll be presenting extracts from my new play Under the Wishing Tree as part of The Script’s the Thing! in Dorchester.
Join me on Sunday 11th October at 12:15 pm in the Casterbridge Room at The King’s Arms for 15 minutes under the wishing tree.
I’d love to see you there!
Linda E Allan