Memories can be triggered by any number of things, but in thinking about the origins of Christopher Tyson, I began remembering some of the first stories I ever wrote. Why am I telling you this? So that I don’t forget! This is as much for me, as it is for you, reader. When I’m forty five (maybe fifty) and senile, re-reading this might make me smile and say “Ooh, I remember that!”
I’m sure there were stories I wrote in school, but my first memory of writing involves a short science fiction story called “Richerd and the Alien Prince” (Obviously the character’s name was ‘Richard’, but my typing or spelling, most likely both, left something to be desired). If my maths is correct, the year was probably 1985. I was about nine, my father was still alive, and we had been in the UK for perhaps less than a year since returning from the Bahamas (his job, not holiday). Being a Church of England Priest, my father had various tasks that required the use of a typewriter, one of which was the church magazine.
I have little doubt that his creation of these monthly releases was an influence on me. Most likely at its height when I published the ‘Rebel Review’, but I shall go into that on another occasion. At this point, however, what matters was my access to a typewriter, combined with my love of science fiction and adventure.
Dad (referring to him as ‘my father’ is far too formal) had been loaned an old, blue typewriter upon starting his new position (edit – I have it on good authority from my sister, that it was grey). He was ever the gadget fan, a habit and addiction which I have most certainly inherited (genetically or by influence), but in finding aforementioned typewriter functional at best, he soon purchased a wonderful new electric typewriter (this was just before the days of word-processing computers, which themselves will garner a few paragraphs in a later post). The new typewriter was quite the marvel of modern technology, with gleaming white plastic sides, at least one or two glowing LEDs, and magical buttons that seemingly required little-to-no pressure before a letter was suddenly printed on the page with all the speed and power of a nail-gun on full power. However, I digress. Apart from its untouchable wonder, this typewriter was important because it freed up its small blue relative, until such time as it was eventually returned to its original owner.
I metaphorically (perhaps even literally) rubbed my hands together in glee. Here was my chance! And so was spawned ‘Richerd and the Alien Prince’. My ability to think up original character names must have been somewhat lacking (And may still be, depending on the opinion of my readers), because Richard was the name of my best friend of the time.
Richard is a local guy living a quiet and seemingly solitary life, who then witnesses the crashing arrival of something in the local woods. Of course he investigates, only to discover it contains a refugee alien. Somewhat pathetically (considering the alien prince looks human), Richard faints from shock twice in a row. What can I say, I was convinced that meeting an alien for the first time was so shocking, that one’s brain ceases to function momentarily, even when they look no different than someone you would pass in the street (yes, this foolish story element embarrasses and bugs me even to this day). Anyway, despite having different languages, they make swift friends.
All is not well, however. The enemies of the alien prince are hunting him in order to stop his ascension to the throne and removal of their power. A car chase ensues and soon our heroes (rather easily) steal a jet from the local RAF base, and subsequently manage to shoot down the dastardly enemy spaceship, saving the day. That isn’t quite the end, though. In an edge-of-your-seat denouement, our heroes go back to Richard’s house to celebrate by having a meal of roast chicken and chips (probably with Worcester sauce). I’m not kidding. It was my favourite meal as a child, so that’s what my heroes ate to celebrate. If you don’t like it, tough.
I sat on the floor with the little typewriter, that in complete opposition to my Dad’s electric counterpart, required fingers to be used like mini-hammers to ensure the letters were typed on the page with legible pressure. No doubt many hours later, a two-page short story was completed with plenty of errors, lots of words stricken through, and unusual grammar that will probably puzzle alien scientists in a post-apocalyptic world, when it is the only surviving manuscript they discover.
The main point is that I started writing. Adventures, stories, ideas and characters have always been bubbling over in the back of my mind, whether I have taken the effort to write them down, or they occurred to action figures in numerous miniature adventures.
Of all the things that story achieved, one shall never be forgotten. The immortal words of an alien language that meant something along the lines of: “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what you’re saying.” Words that shall long be remembered in my family…
“Baggy La Nifnook.”
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I had no idea your writing career was already well underway when we were at school Warren! Loved the post, and I hope you still own a typewriter. If it was blue, that’d be even better 😉
Thank you! 😀 And that was before we moved to Girvan, believe it or not. Wait till I get to writing about the Rebel Review, which was mostly (apart from the last couple of issues) whilst we were in Scotland. 🙂 Unfortunately the closest thing to a typewriter that I now have, is a netbook, which I use for writing in bed. And my sister tells me the typewriter was grey lol! (Me and my great memory!)
Thanks for being the first person to leave a comment!!