18 January 2011
Posted in
Books and Poetry
Gail Renard reflects on the experience of writing autobiographically for the first time
Last year I was thrilled to have my autobiographical book Give Me A Chance published. It started when, for the first time, I publically told the story about how I gate-crashed John Lennon and Yoko Ono’s Bed-In for peace when I was 16, was asked to stay all eight days to help, and was befriended by John who helped me to become a writer. He also gave me his original handwritten lyrics for Give Peace A Chance. Looking at it now, not a bad storyline.
As is every writer’s dream, I was contacted out of the blue by a respected publisher, who asked if I considered writing a book about my experiences? The email hadn’t hit my inbox before I speed- typed back, ‘Yes! Yes!’
The deal was done quickly. I reminded myself that sometimes things can go easily for a writer. Then the writing gods laughed at me as I sat down to start my book.
I’ve written professionally across the media since my teens: comedy, drama, children’s, the lot. I hate to brag but I’ve even written for the Chuckle Brothers. But nothing prepared me for writing about myself.
With any other project I’d begin by thinking about my lead characters; living with them for a while wherever and whenever they’d pop into my head. It’s a process which can’t be rushed. It could take days, weeks or months. It might simmer on a back burner while I’m slaving away on something else at the front. I’d get to know my characters intimately, jotting down notes about their lives, relationships, back stories, hopes and fears; anything that would help me to understand them and to avoid facing a blank screen when the time came to write. My characters would become very real to me, as if they existed. There was the rub. My dramatis personae actually did exist. It dawned on me I was writing about real people and I froze like a rabbit in the headlights. Some of them were cultural icons, and even worse , one of them was me.
One thing I hate about any factual work is when the writer, who often didn’t know their subject personally, puts words into their mouths that jar or are just plain lies. I owed more to the Lennons, who both sacrificed a lot to get their peace message across at the Bed-In and were also my friends. I had to get it right. As John wasn’t around to speak for himself (and my, how he would have!) I vowed I wouldn’t use any quote or experience to which I wasn’t directly party or couldn’t find on film. To my naive amazement, I found a lot of the Bed-In footage available online. Try watching yourself as a 16-year-old who didn’t always realise the camera was on her. Scary. And bang goes my alibi that I’m naturally blonde.
But even after I was able to get the Lennons’ and everyone else’s voices right, one major problem remained. My book had to be written in the first person, as told by my 16 year old self. Who was I?
No matter how I approached me, I got me wrong. I was either too knowingly adult, too glib, or not glib enough. I couldn’t find my own voice. And there I remained until I had a casual chat with BBC TV drama exec John Yorke, who’d rashly asked me how my book was going. Lucky man; I poured out my problems. Hepaused for a moment and then said, 'Did you like yourself at 16?'
I realised I did. I admired the courage and conviction I had as a teen that anything is possible if you work hard enough. I had ideals and I stuck to them. I had heroes who lived up to my expectations and beyond. I respected my adolescent self. Suddenly I was able to get a handle on me and could start to write. I also realised why John Yorke is BBC TV Controller of Drama Production. He’s good.
Almost immediately after, I had a second bit of good luck. I found the diaries I kept at the time. I’d been tearing the house apart for them for the best part of a year; they now magically appeared. And not wanting to forget any moment of my time with the Lennons, I’d written down everything in the finest detail. I’d even cut out relevant newspaper clippings of the time, and put them all in a file, complete with a word count I’d added; and this was before computers. I wish I was that together and far-sighted now but I’m grateful to my 16 year old self.
The actual writing of my book wasn’t a bed of roses either. The diary unleashed scores of memories; things I’d long forgotten. Writing autobiographically became like regression therapy... and Proust was right about the madeleines. I relived sights, sounds, and even smells that I hadn’t experienced for decades. I couldn’t believe the intensity and at times, I was back in that hotel room with John and Yoko at the Bed-In, demonstrating for peace. In some ways it was cathartic; in others exhausting. I’d never felt so spent after a day’s work.
I finally finished Give Me A Chance; it’s now out and I’m proud of it. Immediately after, I raced to write a new comedy screenplay, a fictional one, as quickly as I could. It was a relief to not to be writing autobiographically.
The only thing I have to worry about now is when I write the screenplay of my book.
Give Me A Chance is published by Walker Books
