On the decline of reading

 I've written about growing illiteracy in The Spectator. Read it here.

 

On the decline of semi-colons

 My piece on the decline of semi-colons for The Spectator is here.

 

 

A Writer's Diary: Ten Years Later

 

A Writer’s Diary. Part Two, May 2025

By Philip Womack

Ten years ago, I wrote a blogpost about my daily life as a writer. A few weeks ago, it suddenly rocketed to the top of the most-read list on this blog; I sent it to my current  writing students, who enjoyed it; and so I decided to do another one. Writers are often supposed to live quiet, monastic lives: to which my response is: if only.

The major difference, in writing terms, in the decade between now and then, is that I came to the end of a contract last year, so I’m now writing on spec. 

This has  benefits and  drawbacks. The benefits are that there is no immediate pressure; the downside is that, for this very reason, the writing  tends to be pushed to the sides.

Domestic life also plays much more of a part than it did ten years ago: children must be nourished, driven about, collected; dogs must be walked; et cetera. 

 

Monday 12th May 2025

My day begins at 6am, and I lurch to my laptop intending to look at my new children's novel. I am instead distracted by the online Shakespeare wars. Some time ago, I wrote an article about the ridiculous theory that Emilia Bassano was the “real” writer of Shakespeare’s plays; and ever since then I’ve found myself fascinated by the world of Shakespeare deniers.

Most of them are harmless. They show themselves up, denying and distorting all facts in order to prove their idees fixes. I’ve even heard one of them say that the Earl of Oxford came back from the dead to write Pericles. Which rather makes you wonder why he didn't do a better job. One favourite tactic of theirs is to claim that Shakespeare didn’t go to the Stratford Grammar School, because there are no records of him attending.

The fact is, that we don’t have any records from the Grammar School in Stratford at all, until 1700; and yet there was a school there, and Stratford upon Avon produced some very fine and learned men. One of these was Shakespeare’s first publisher, Richard Field, his direct contemporary.  Field's life is a great analogue to Shakespeare's. Suggest this to the deniers, and they will say that Field didn’t go to the grammar school either, and that he only needed a rudimentary education to become a printer.

We do have records of teachers at the school being paid, including one who was a Latin poet; this leads the deniers to claim that the teachers were not teaching, and the school was  in fact empty. Their persistence leads them into untenable positions. Some of the deniers are very inventive; and I do often wonder why those talents can’t be used in a different manner.

So why continue to involve myself? Four reasons: one, it reminds me of how much I love Shakespeare, and often I’ll return to his works; two, it can lead to some very surprising and interesting discoveries amongst the minutiae of Elizabethan and Jacobean literature; and three, I find it both stimulating and amusing. But perhaps the most important is the fourth: I believe in fighting falsehood with truth. 

Back to real life: having dropped off the various children at their various schools, and having chatted to the eldest’s history teacher about St Edmund the Martyr, I rush home to wait for the piano tuner, beginning writing at 9am on the dot. He does not appear, and so I continue to write until 10am, by which point I have placed my protagonist into a situation so impossible that I have no idea how I’m going to get him out of it. A common theme with me.

At 10am, I switch to editorial work. This is bread-and-butter stuff; the bill-paying aspect of the business. The piano-tuner comes, and I continue with the editorial work (with breaks for lunch and errands) till 2pm, when I practise the piano for half an hour. I’ve been learning Ravel’s Ondine for over a year now: a shimmering, impossible piece; music and writing are so clearly interlinked, and one day I hope to write about it. For the moment, though, I simply enjoy its ravishing effects.

In the early afternoon, I read for the Literary Review children’s round up which I produce three times a year. Again, I do this for many reasons: it keeps me abreast of the children’s book world; and I also aim to give children’s books a serious place in the annals of criticism.

At 330pm, it’s out to fetch the offspring. Traffic, and a quick visit to the bookshop, mean that I’m not back home till 445pm. I have approximately an hour in which to work. I begin to look again at what I wrote this morning, but a storm breaks. In my study, the atmosphere feels electric; it’s not long before hail is pounding the rooflight. At one point, it looks like the River Nile is flowing down our street.

Fortunately, it abates, and then I head off to the Stationers’ Hall on a crammed rush hour tube train, where somebody taps me on the shoulder, mistaking me for a friend of his called Harry. I assure him I am not Harry. He shows me a picture. We are not very alike. He says he’s not wearing his glasses.

I’ve been on the Livery at the Stationers for a while. Tonight’s event is a lecture on Henry Purcell, given by Sir Nicholas Kenyon, who was Controller of Radio 3. It’s a fascinating talk, with gorgeous performances by a tenor and a theorbist: close your eyes, and you could, just about, imagine you were at the wedding of Queen Anne and Prince George of Denmark.

There are drinks and sandwiches afterwards, and I gossip with an ex-Tatler staffer and an antiquarian bookseller (who has a folio of Two Noble Kinsmen), before heading home.

Tuesday 13th May

A later start than yesterday; I spend about fifteen minutes looking for the dog’s lead before heading out for the drop offs and dog walk. It’s 845am before I settle down at my desk, and I must undertake a bit of admin, before writing for an hour. I have, essentially, reached the end of the narrative, but it all feels very bare bones, and I know I’m going to have to spend a long time sorting it all out. However, it is a milestone, and I feel pleased with it.

The rest of the day follows much the same pattern as yesterday: editorial work, piano practice, and reading for the round up. I also spend some time with the newspapers, which I do every day: partly to keep informed, but also, if I see something interesting, I can pitch an article or review off the back of it. A couple of things look promising, so I note them down.

In the evening, I take the eldest to cricket, and read whilst he’s playing: Park Honan’s biography of Christopher Marlowe, a rich and fascinating study of this elusive playwright. This, too, is research: all reading is. You never know.

Wednesday 14th May

Up at 5am. Domestic chores, then I read over what I wrote yesterday with the agonising clarity of dawn (it’s rubbish, it’ll never work, etc etc.), and then jump into the car to drive to rural Kent, and a school where I’m leading a writing workshop.

It’s a huge school, with over 1,000 pupils. The sun is shining, the green fields are lush; the sixth formers I’m teaching are keen, quiet and polite, and, despite some initial fluster with photocopying, the workshop runs smoothly. Most writers will have some kind of educational string to their bows: I enjoy it, not least that I see swathes of the country that I otherwise never would, but also to meet and talk to young people. Although none of them have ever heard of Joseph Conrad, I can say with confidence that all is not lost.

I reach home in the early afternoon, and write my report of the day for the workshop organiser; then I read for the round up for half an hour before pick up time. I have, however,  forgotten that the eldest is in a debating competition; so having chatted idly to the history teacher for ten minutes before wondering where he was, I return home via the other school, scooping up the rest of the family (including the dog, who’s been in the office with my wife today).

At home, though I manage a bit more reading, work effectively ends for the day, and later (having, of course, retrieved the eldest), we relax with Jonathan Creek. Preposterous plots, but wonderful characters.

Thursday 15th May

The day is overcast and gloomy, but it does begin at a more usual time. I manage a bit of research between 610 and 630am; then musical instruments are located; bags packed; schedules checked; and the children dispersed.

I have a meeting at 10am at the Stationers Hall; I want to retrieve information about Richard Field. I spend an hour looking through Liber B, which holds the Stationers’ records. It is an experience both quasi-mystical and entirely pragmatic. I tend to wax lyrical about the handwriting on the page: the quill held by a real person, several hundred years ago, writing down details of Shakespeare’s publications, Spenser’s, Sidney’s, and all the rest of them. I find what I want, plus more information about apprentices at the time, and return home to type it up for a Substack post. I’ve recently joined Substack, and it’s a platform I find more congenial than most.

At 230pm, a commission comes in from The Spectator; the deadline is tomorrow. So I drop everything to draft a piece, which I work on till pick-up time.

In the evening, (with offspring having been read to and put to bed, etc) I continue on the piece until about half past eight when the old eyes begin to droop, and I hear the siren call of the sofa.

Feelling a little sad that I haven’t been able to look at my novel for two days, I remind myself that I’ve gained much useful information today; I’ve received a commission; and I’ve also been discussing a new project with a friend via text, and we'll be meeting next week to plan it. 

Friday 16th May

Up at 6 to work on the commission; then the school run, which is in two parts today thanks to choir practice. When I get home I fetch the newspaper, and two books I’ve ordered from the bookshop (one about the playwrights Middleton and Rowley, and one a present for my eldest’s friend), and then sit down to finish the article, which I send off with a great sigh of relief by 10am. Of course, I immediately re-read it and wish I hadn’t sent it; though the editor likes it, and it will be on the website on Monday morning.

I then head to Kensington, and up the long, imposing avenue that is Kensington Gore, to the Royal Geographical Society, for Peter Usborne’s memorial celebration. 

Usborne died last year, and the event celebrated his extraordinary life. By all accounts an enthusiastic, eccentric and kindly man, he set up two of our greatest cultural institutions: Private Eye, which grew out of Mesopotamia, the magazine he founded whilst at Balliol College; and, of course, Usborne Publishing itself. I doubt there’s a house in the country that doesn’t have an Usborne book in it: they are synonymous with childhood.

There were speeches from Peter’s children, who now run the company; and from Ian Hislop, who didn’t know Peter well, but detailed the history of the founding of the magazine. Peter left, apparently, because he couldn’t stand having to work out whether small ads for rubber were actually code for something insalubrious, for the rest of his life. 

Many staff members recalled anecdotes: my favourite was the lady who came up with “Specs for T Rex” as a title for an early reader. Peter, astounded, roared: “Sex for T Rex! Sex for T Rex! That’s not appropriate for children!” And then there were the little red notebooks that he took everywhere, which were full of lists of random words that he hoped might be turned into books, such as “Gorillas. Cannon. Mahatma Gandhi.”

I chatted to Julia Eccleshare, a colleague in the world of children's books; we both wished there was more room for them in the newspapers. And I chatted to a couple of other friends, too, whilst enjoying delicious finger sandwiches and a scone or two. Or three. 

It was a wonderful memorial, and made all the more special by  three of his grandchildren reading out from an Usborne book on death. Peter Usborne was a man of energy and enthusiasm: he had an extraordinary life, and he seems to have loved every minute of it. His best achievement, he said, was his children. I can’t think of a better way to approach things.

Home, and after a bit of catching up on emails, there's now a bona fide reason to have a rest. I’ll do some work over the weekend: mostly reading, but I will scribble away at my novel, too. Writers rarely rest; we have too much to do. 

Richard Field: Shakespeare's publisher

 

A Substack on Richard Field, William Shakespeare's publisher.

What All Teenagers Should Read: Part 2

 Over on Substack, here's part 2 of what all teenagers should read.

More Ivy Compton-Burnett

 I've written about More Women than Men by Ivy Compton-Burnett over on Substack.

A Writer's Diary

 

I've written a little diary over on my Substack.