Writing from Memory: Real Moments Behind Off Track

I write from what I know, using memory as scaffolding for the story I want to tell.

Off Track is not an autobiography; it’s a novel. But to write it, I had to dig into my own memories – like an actor preparing for a role – to inhabit the world of the story. Writing the opening chapters meant returning, in my mind, to Shoreham beach and the feeling of being a teenager during the summer holidays: the heat, the boredom, and the sense that nothing is ever going to happen. Memory gives me the textures I need before imagination takes over and shapes those fragments into a story that belongs to the characters rather than to me.

This process is at the heart of how I write. It’s not about recalling the past perfectly; it’s about using what I remember to get closer to the essence of a moment – the way a teenager might see her life, or the way a place can come alive on the page.

To illustrate, here’s an excerpt from Off Track. It’s 1969, and Lucy is with her family on the beach at Shoreham – a moment drawn from memory, captured on the page.

_“Boxing Day. I sat up to examine the state of my tan. After two hours’ sunbaking, it was looking quite good. I adjusted my brand-new pink bikini and checked out what else was happening on the beach. _

_Nothing, as usual. The tide was coming in. Andy was reading a comic book and Gina seemed asleep. My father, of course, wasn’t there – he hated the beach – but my mother sat in her chair, a newspaper spread out over her knees. Down at the water’s edge, some toddlers were trying to drown themselves. Heat haze shimmered above the sand and a catamaran skimmed across the sea. Somewhere a transistor was on, but not loud enough for me to hear the songs. _

_I sighed. I’d been coming to that beach all my life and frankly sometimes I wish I hadn’t. It was always the same. Boring. The only excitement we ever had was when some day-tripper got his car bogged in the sand launching his boat. Or when Buster decided to lift his leg against someone’s beach umbrella. _

Still, a beach is a beach, I thought and lay back on my towel. I rolled onto my stomach, hitched up my bikini bottom and nestled my chin into a hollow in the sand.”

Continue reading the chapter here: https://bushtelegraphxpress.com/off-track-chapter-3