No-one needs another Substack. Except me, I need another Substack, because my resolutions, pitiful as they are, are “more yoga” and “write more”. Yes. Of course there are writers who do not write. I do, of course, but not the right writing. I set up a 1000-word a day target a few months ago to improve my writing discipline. I pick a tag from my database, and I write 1000 words on it, sometimes reading through my research files, sometimes not. I’ve enjoyed it, and I now have 30,000 words of unfinished bits of writing on zebrafish, fishwives, how fish get named and the Durex cat. Did you know I’m writing a book about fishes and fishing? I am. My publishers are, as ever, Granta, and in the US a new publisher for me, WW. Norton. I switched publishers very reluctantly, having been with Metropolitan Books and my editor Riva Hocherman for 15 years or so. But Norton publishes the fabulous Mary Roach, who is a) amazing and b) my mate, and that for me was the highest recommendation.
Oh. I wasn’t sure what this newsletter would be about but so far it seems quite writerly. I don’t intend it to stay that way. Although I don’t have many intentions at all. But I suppose I will write about things that buzz around my head, and that will be how writers work or don’t; how books get written or don’t; how it feels like to be a 53-year-old woman in the menopause and on anti-depressants; how it feels like to be a 53-year-old woman whose chosen hobby is fell running (that’s hill/mountain running for non-British readers), and who likes nothing better than to run over wild moorland in midwinter and get as muddy as possible.
For example, on New Year’s Eve, I spent an hour and a half running across the moors of Haworth dressed as Grumpy, one of the Seven Dwarves, along with five of my fell-running clubmates (Happy was ill), and Snow White. Why? Why not? Auld Lang Syne fell race is an annual institution, and I have so far run across moorland dressed as Dangermouse, half of Noah’s Ark (complete with inflatable animals), Norah Batty with rolling pin, a suffragette in very long and heavy skirt, one of Santa’s eight reindeer (I was Donner), and now Grumpy. I liked being Grumpy because every time a spectator cheered us on, I turned and shouted SHUTUP! and there was always a second of pure shock before each one laughed.
Here are some of my fellow competitors, in the Yorkshire Post.
And here is this year’s effort:
My running club is North Leeds Fell Runners. We are fell runners and we mostly live in north Leeds. This is what it’s like to come out on a run on the moors with us, according to the courageous Emma Beddington of the Guardian, who I am pretty sure will never go fell running again.
Substack is suggesting that I talk about what kind of community I’m expecting to find here.
But I have as many expectations as I have intentions. From 20 years of writing books (nearly: my first book was published in 2004), I know that my readers are a wide-reading, geographically spread mostly fabulous bunch of people. I have been sent compliments, complaints, corrections; a beautifully made key-ring made from a fishing rope knot; letters written in gorgeous calligraphy and others in the hand of an elderly person, shaky and heartfelt. I welcome and treasure every communication, whether it is in calligraphy or a quick email. A community like that would do me.
I’m also meant to introduce myself. But you can just go to my website and see what’s what and who’s who there, if you don’t mind.
I do have one intention. I will publish a newsletter every week. It will include my rambling thoughts, but also things that have struck me, things I have read and liked or not, oddities from my book research, and perhaps my latest discovery about how bloody cool animals in wartime were and are. Actually maybe I’ll have a weekly animal hero.
Today’s animal hero is Red Cock the pigeon. In 1917, when the armed fishing vessel Nelson was being shelled, and its captain, an extraordinary fishing skipper named Thomas Crisp, had been cut in two by a direct hit, Red Cock was the only pigeon of four that were launch that successfully delivered the message “Nelson being attacked by submarine. Skipper killed. Jim Howe Bank. Send assistance at once.”
Thomas Crisp died on his boat, in his son’s arms, and was later awarded the Victoria Cross. What I like about Thomas Crisp apart from his astonishing bravery (he told the crew to abandon ship but to throw him overboard so they wouldn’t be weighed down with him. They refused) are the two images of him. In one, he stands with his family. He is wearing a fishing gansey (a tightly knit sweater) and a fisherman’s cap, and he has a moustache. He looks like a skipper. In the other, he is in a form of naval uniform, clean-shaven, and he looks like anything but a rough fisherman. I’ve been obsessed for the last couple of weeks with the fighting fishing vessels of both world wars, and Thomas Crisp, I think, is the image of what a whole industry, almost, had to do: to transform into something else, a fishing vessel but armed with guns and depth charges and demining equipment, or a fisherman who when he wasn’t fighting was fishing but he was mostly fighting but still a fisherman, even when he was forced to wear whites or naval uniform. Thank you, Thomas Crisp.
When Red Cock died of natural causes, he was stuffed and put in a museum, as a testament to his bravery and service. Thank you, Red Cock.
For now, this newsletter will be free, but I will be switching at the end of January to producing mostly paid content, because this. So if you can, please do subscribe. My beautiful cat Dora — not a wartime cat, thankfully, but a wonderful one — must be kept in biscuits.
