I am a storyteller not an author.
There is a difference, and it’s not just down to long words and grammar.
It’s more to do with what the aim is.
I tell stories out loud, often with profanities but few farmyard noises.
Mostly I tell them to people who know me, often in some venue where I am asked to entertain. I sit, they sit, I meander round the tales I tell and the good folk who are within earshot listen. Mostly.
Sadly, ‘Anno-Bloody-Domini’ precludes me wandering far from home these days,
so in order to tell stories to people I have never met, nor am ever likely to meet, I have to use words writ down. Because I’m not a writer these words are writ down in the sort of order and the way I would speak them. So it’s a bit like radio but without the sound just sub-titles. Sub-titles that I hope are capable of painting pictures behind your eyes that will allow you to share my tales and enjoy some light entertainment that you might find amusing. There will of course be no farmyard noises.
Well I am getting old and if I don’t nail the buggers down soon they could well be forgotten. Also I am a man with many grandchildren and I hope that if there is a way I can bridge the time of their growing and my declining by the telling of tales, then I might not be just remembered as a photo in an album.
Are my stories true?
Like any teller of tall tales some of these stories are close to three miles high in stockinged feet but they are true in part. Like every storyteller I have always listened like a bloody Hoover. Long hours of night duty spent in smoke filled canteens or parked up in some discrete lay-by while the Police radio crackled I listened to the ‘old sweats’ I served with. They told tales of ‘daring do’ and the doings of coppers long ago. Some of these tales go back to the 1940’s others happened whilst I watched.
Only the names of the guilty have been changed along with their description, rank, marital status and or sexual preferences.
In some cases there were farmyard noises, but I have left them out – mostly.
Bernard Pearson – Wincanton, Somerset. Autumn 2015.