Happy Birthday, Mr Dahl.

Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it
Roald Dahl.

It is far beyond my capability to say anything about the man, his life or his work that hasn’t been said already; but the idea of allowing this day to sail past without marking it in some way didn’t sit quite right with me.

To say this man influenced my writing would be more than a slight understatement. It would be more accurate to say that the entire idea of trying to put words together to try and form something coherent from the odd walks that my mind takes would never have entered my head at all without his work.  Quite apart from that, until fairly recently I found it  difficult to communicate with people my own age, and for about three years when I was a child I didn’t really feel like I had anything to say to anyone, and that the things I did say were the wrong ones. I spent a great deal of that time making medicine with George and hanging out with giant grasshoppers and watching the Twits torture each other. I’ll never be able to repay my debt to Roald Dahl, but my own writing is, in part, an attempt to thank him.

An awful lot of people struggle to externalize what happens within their imaginations and an awful lot more don’t think that their imaginations are worth the effort. Well I’m sure Roald Dahl, and certainly myself, think that the world needs a little more magic so take a leaf out of one of the storyteller-in-chief’s many, many books and have a go.

 

Somehow it feels fitting to share a (very short) extract from my own book, inspired by my time wandering around in Roald Dahl’s head;

“His mind could still reach for the reverie that had lead him to drink the rain and he had found himself retreading the same path more than once in the time since, his journeys through the clouds in particular sustained him during the solitude and he had allowed his mind to wander much further than his body ever would. Exotic lands like Cambodia, so far from the reach of his steam powered legs, were no issue for his imagination. The heights of the Himalayas had been scaled, and he had partaken recklessly in the continued destruction of the Palaces of Montezuma and the city of Pompeii. His limited frame of physical reference created no barrier to Arnold’s mind and as he walked he once again allowed himself to relax and reach towards the clouds that directed him, conversing in a language that made no sound and had no real form and becoming himself weightless once more.”

Please note that the image at the head of this post is the work of an extremely talented artist I’m lucky enough to spend my life with, Jessica Arrowsmith Stanley, (JazzStan)  whose beautiful work is available here.

Stay magic.

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