Sunday, April 25

YEAR:  2021 | Tags:  | | | |

The woods, 11:00


I have gone for a walk. When I set out the sun had not yet risen, or the clouds had not yet dispersed. As I walk I take a photograph of a lamp post somewhere along the path, in a brief moment when the sun exerts itself enough to colour the grass.

I will get home just as the rain begins, and after this the rain will continue intermittently for the rest of the day.

I will finish reading The Book of Forgotten Writers by Christopher Fowler and make some notes of things to look up if I ever get the chance.

On page 143 I will read once more of the prodigious output of Charles Hamilton who, among many other series, wrote the Billy Bunter stories under the name Frank Richards. “It was estimated that he wrote 100 million words (that’s the equivalent of 1,200 average novels).”

George Orwell attacked him, under the impression that his work could not come from one man and that therefore he led a squad of impersonators or ghost-writers. You can download Hamilton’s reply here.

Fittingly, for a man who allegedly wrote 60,000 words a week, he writes a lengthy and detailed reply.