I've had a very busy few days sorting through photographs. Three months ago I started writing a book on school life in the 1970s and 80s; a time I look back on with fondness. As I approach my 47th Birthday, I have become somewhat nostalgic for a childhood, spent happily in my hometown of Fareham, on the south coast of England. It wasn't until recently, that I even thought about those first ten years as a child; a lot has happened since that time after all. However, after moving abroad, I have started to learn the importance of my background forty years ago. I have made a lot of mistakes since those early years; my life never really went in the direction I wanted it to. I have a lot of regrets, wishing I had taken different opportunities when they arose, taking the right path instead of the wrong one. I also have a lot of good memories that I enjoy sharing on my blog and wouldn't change them for the World. None of us can alter the past, but we can learn from it!
Living in Spain has afforded me the luxury of being able to write, in a way I haven't been able to in the past. As I look out of my sitting room window, I can see miles and miles of scenery in front of me; peace and tranquility; the perfect environment in which to write. Living away from the distractions of city life, I have been able to reflect over my history and just what it means to me. Until I moved here, I lived for the moment, day by day and never reflected, or imagined what could have been. Most of the time I wanted to block it out, preferring to put the bad memories to the back of my mind. For a time, I really thought my youth was that bad.
It was difficult for me growing up gay, a fact I was aware of at age eleven. A realisation that I was different from my peers was arduous and awkward at best, disturbing at worst, causing me much anguish. I spent most of the time on my own, away from others, because I didn't fit in, not because I didn't want to but because I thought it was best. When you are carrying around secrets, the last thing you want is people around you, who could blow your cover, or discover who you really are. From eleven years old, my life was terrible, the worst and I had no end of problems to contend with. I never followed my dreams and ambitions, because I didn't know how; I was too busy hiding who I really was.
The years before eleven were good. I had a very normal, almost idyllic childhood, spent with a wonderful Mother and Father and extended family. It was the 1970s, we didn't have a lot as a family, but I never went without. I had many friends at school, spending quality time in their company, playing outside until the sun went down, enjoying the newness of life. Away from the muddle and confusion of the past, I am able to see through the pain and anger now and start looking back at the happier moments. Writing '
Short Stories From My Youth,' as part of my blog, has given me the motivation to write a book about this particularly enchanting period, between five and eleven years old; finally understanding the importance of recalling events that made me who I am today.
Thankfully I have been brought into contact with many old friends and others from the schools I attended. I have enjoyed reading their impressions of life four decades ago and have been amazed to see many old photographs from the era; jogging my memory further, I have been able to reconnect with my upbringing. Embracing all of my adolescence is going to be challenging. I have at least started the process of recalling carefree and joyous experiences, producing a story to be proud of; so many people playing a part in its conception. This will be a book about my life and many others who played their part; a history of the time; the sharing of memories, deeply rooted in the foundations of the past.
