In just sixteen days I have managed to write 55,952 words. I have now completed the first draft of Yallah!
Looking at it now I am not sure I want it to be published. It’s very fresh to my experiences and I haven’t really written it with an audience in mind. That being said I would like to complete something this November that I can publish. My moustache sure as hell won’t be counted so I am left with just one other option….
It is a truth universally acknowledged that I have an unusual surname. I get asked a lot about my family’s history, about the heritage of my name, my Dutch past. I’ve never really been able to learn enough to satisfy my desires. I know there is more to where I came from. I’m fascinated with the idea of my ancestors being creative or artistic in some way, it helps me justify why I’m drawn to the things I love.
The closest I have come to any kind of significant answer is the following. It’s an article written by my grandfather (Friedrich Wilhelm “Wim” Schiernecker) about his experience of living in Nazi-occupied Amsterdam.
I have always been interested in 20th century history but his take on the war chills me.
In the very early hours of 10th May 1940 I was woken up by the sound of bombs dropping and anti-aircraft guns blazing away. It took the Germans just a few days to force a total surrender by the Dutch armed forces. At first the Nazis used a “softly softly” approach, but it did not take long for them to show their true colours.
They installed a “Gauleiter” (top bossman) by the name of Seyes Inquart (I’m not sure of the spelling after all this time) and whatever he decreed was law. A few months after the Nazi invasion I “celebrated” my eighteenth birthday which, under the circumstances, was not much fun. I was due to start my military service in that August, but obviously that was scratched as the Nazis were by then our “benefactors”, or so they tried to make us believe.
As I was working for a chemical/pharmaceutical company I was given an “Ausweiss” (permit) to work because of the nature of the firm. In June/July 1943 this was declared null and void, and the general idea was that I would have to report to some authority or other so that I could be transported to Germany as part of their quest to force occupied-territory nationals to work for the Nazi war effort. Naturally it was not my plan to work for their munitions industry in order to help them to overcome the Allied Liberating Forces, as we saw them.
From the early days of the Nazi occupation quite a strong “underground” movement was started among the Dutch, which made as much “aggro” for the Nazis as they possibly could. In hindsight some of it seems cruel – like tipping as many Nazi soldiers and Nazi collaborators into the maze of canals, particularly in Amsterdam, as they could.
The people involved in this underground movement were to us “freedom fighters”, whereas to the Nazis they were “terrorists”. Quite a number of them were caught by the Nazis, unfortunately, and after sham court proceedings they were all found guilty of “terrorist” activities and were sent to prison, or concentration camps, or were executed. I vividly remember seeing some half dozen bodies lying on a small greensward, as the tram which took me to work went past, shot to deter others from following in their footsteps. They were possibly shot the night before and left there deliberately for all to see.
Through the “underground” movement, persons like myself who refused to work for the Nazis were given “safe addresses” where we could stay, and were given food ration cards, usually forged. Our hosts received very small amounts of money in recompense. I stayed with a family in Zaandam, north of Amsterdam, for quite a few months. They were the husband, who was a junior school teacher, his wife, three small daughters and a small boy. [People who provided safe houses like that, for people fleeing from the Nazis, were severely punished if caught, with punishments ranging from prison to death. The family who shielded Wim had so much to lose, with four young children, and were very brave].
The lady of the house became very ill while I was staying there. She had a form of meningitis. They didn’t take her into hospital, for reasons which have now escaped me, but a nurse and a doctor came in daily to see her. I finished up looking after the children and doing the housework.
The eldest girl, about nine or ten at the time, became ill. I think she had measles, so I finished up looking after he, as the mother was ill herself. When the husband came home after a day’s teaching he would cook the meal, sometimes with help from neighbours.
In those days many houses in Holland had wooden suspended floors, with a gap of two-and-a-half to three feet between the earth or rubble base and the suspended floor. When raids by the “Grune Polizei”, a nasty lot [searching for fugitives like Wim] were anticipated I was smuggled through a trap door in the kitchen, which was covered with linoleum, and stayed under the floorboards. Food was given to me through the trapdoor, and I had a “jerry” for other purposes. I had to stay there until it was considered safe for me to come out again.
As can be imagined it was not much fun and unfortunately, a few years after the end of the war I became subject to depression and claustrophobia as a result. Those problems stayed with me for quite a number of years. Fortunately I am very glad and thankful that depression is now in the past and does not affect the present.
In 1943/44 I developed mastoiditis, became extremely ill, and once taken into hospital, had three skull operations in approximately a fortnight. With God’s grace and surgeons’ skills I am still around to tell the tale. After this episode I had to leave my “safe” house and travelled, always under cover of darkness, to a place called Hilversum, to the east of Amsterdam, where I stayed for some time with an aunt of mine. When this address became too “hot” I went back to Amsterdam and stayed with an uncle and his family. By this time the tide of war had moved very firmly to the other side, and in May 1945 we were very glad to welcome the Allied Liberating Forces into the Netherlands.
In the meantime, in the north of Holland, we had the infamous so-called “hunger winter” which was so bad that food was almost non-existent. We had something like sugar beat, which was boiled to extract the syrup. The pulp that was left would be moulded into sorts of pancakes which were fried in Vaseline. No other fats were available. We used an “emergency stove” which my father invented and made out of some thin sheet metal. The main that was that it worked. Apart from sugar beet we also ate tulip bulbs, sliced and fried in Vaseline, as an alternative.
My mother developed “hunger oedema” and was given extra rations, which consisted of some kind of slimy soup. I would not like to what what was in it, and we never did find out.
I feel like I have never really had the chance to know my grandfather. Though I am fortunate enough that he is still around, he always seemed somewhat distant with us when we were children. By the time I was old enough to fully understand the reasons for his nature it was too late, he was gripped by dementia, and was either unable to recall much of his past or simply found it too painful to put into words. This article is the closest I have ever come to understanding him.
I am making it a personal resolution to find out more about my family’s history, to fill in the gaps in our history and to try and honour the memory of the brave people who stood up against the Nazi occupation of Holland. The things they must have been forced to do in pursuit of their freedom are unbelievable. I know this is just the tip of the iceberg and I can’t stand the unknown.
That’s right, drawing upon the heroic efforts of Operator Please for a title there. It had to be done.
Last night was the last ‘Sahara Social’, a series of events organised by the angel-like patient coordinators of the Sahara Trek I am heading out on this weekend. As it turns out it was the only Sahara Social I was able to attend (I believe one was on when I was at a festival…Glastonbury maybe?). It was a really good experience to be able to meet the people I am going to be walking with for the next week, an opportunity to get our heads together and work out the finer details. It was also my first sighting of the elusive WC, the individual who has raised over seventeen times what I have for charity and has something of a cult status amongst us Trekkers (not to be confused with Trekkies).
Fortunately everyone was lovely. We had initially paid a deposit to the bar, Ping on account of the size of the group. Despite that some people still didn’t make it down so there was more beer money to go round after dinner.
It was nice to see that everyone seems as hectic as I am at the moment, if anything it has set some of my worries aside. I seem to have done more exercise than a number of people and nobody appears to have started packing (which will very much be my last pre-Sahara battle aside from making it to the airport). The organisers were still in good spirits when answering questions and served as courteous hosts, fielding the same repeated platitudes about the details of our trek.
The event was supposed to include ping pong but as soon as I realised I cannot play ping pong to save my life (fortunately the plastic balls were not on fire, or bullets) I just stood back and watch, playing particular interest when the monolith that is WC beat my Sahara buddy Terri down like she had insulted his honour.
It was a cool evening but it made the whole thing a lot more real. With just 36 hours until our flight I am wondering if I will even have time to set my out of office before I have to pack.
I’m in the bath. Don’t worry, there’s no threat to Franny, my MacBook who famously lost her hard drive after being propped up in the bathroom so I could wallow and watch Homeland simultaneously. I’m on the iPhone, Lucille, which is virtually indestructible. So much so I’d be tempted to name her Scarlett, after Captain Scarlett.
I’m in the bath because I’m aching. I’m aching because I’ve just walked ten miles in three hours. My feet feel harder and lumpy and my rucksack related back sweat was something to be admired. It has just dawned on me that all of my training and channeling can’t prepare me for the fact that when I do head out into the Sahara desert (in just five weeks) I won’t be able to relax and bathe whilst instagramming stupid pictures of myself. I’m going to sit in my sweat, I’m going to live in it. This is different to stinking it up at a festival. This is next level Bear Grylls shit.
An I scared? Yes of course, I’d be concerned if I wasn’t but its good to know the time and money and effort has an end result and it is drawing very close indeed.
Last night I attended my first ever book launch, and what a launch. I’ve waxed lyrical about Joe Gardner’s writing enough times for you all to understand that I’m a fan. His first novel, The Life & Loves Of Jet Tea hit a chord with me, and I’m currently rereading my now signed copy. The reason it resonated is Joe and I have similar goals. We want to get to the top. We are both aching to get out of the menial things we have to do to get by and be recognised as writers. We both take what we see around us and turn it in, making something of it. Having now met the man I am pleased this kinship seems to have held fast.
Jet Tea is a coming of age comedy about three friends struggling with the world they see around them, a world of pubs in West London, of officious security guards and wizards. Even on my second reading I am laughing at visions of Jet Tea dancing ‘seductively’ (I’m not sure that’s the right word) alone on bar dancefloors, and am sure use of the term ‘he’s a bit of a Craig’ is on the cusp of going viral.
Last night Joe invited friends to join him in celebrating the success of his first book with a Q&A followed by music by a number of his close friends, including Glen (and his band Jeeps) who was the inspiration for the character Maurice.
It was a pleasure to be a part of, and surreal to meet people I only knew as fictional characters. The real life Jet Tea was in attendance. He hasn’t yet read the book. This astounded me, but then again, as Joe said, would you want to read your own biography?
What’s cool about Joe and his world is that he is surrounded by creative people, much in the same way I am fortunate to be. I think there is nothing better than having people around who you can bounce ideas off of, and watching the sound checks and back and forths between everyone reminded me of the dynamic amongst my friends. There is a respect for what each of them is able to do, and they have time for that. It was cool to be included in that.
Before I knew it, I had to make a dash for the exit to catch the train home and I didn’t get to say goodbye to the awesome people I had been introduced to, or even thank the host. If you haven’t read Jet Tea then get on it, it comes highly recommended.
For those of you who have somehow escaped the endless updates and pleas for your hard-earned (for most of you) cash, I am walking 100km of the Sahara desert in aid of The Prince’s Trust – you can still donate here. As you can imagine this involves a fair amount of training.
While I’m not necessarily unfit (I walk four miles a day and go running three times a week) there are always improvements to be made and the thought of walking up to 18k in a day, in the desert is somewhat daunting.
A couple of years ago I couldn’t have imagined heading off on an adventure like this, and I’m so pleased the stars aligned or whatever else occurred that is now making it happen. It’s an incredible feat and a story I know I will cherish.
I’m not the only one heading out on this adventure though, there are around ninety others, who are hopefully breaking in their walking boots and running up the stairs in the office instead of taking the lift as I write this. The only one of my fellow trekkers I know, aside from email contact and jealousy of fundraising abilities is Terri. As she lives on the cusp of Epping Forest (very much like a troll) she invited me for a day of wandering about in the woods while she cheerfully called ‘I think it’s this way’ over her shoulder.
I turned up on her doorstep just before eleven o’clock with spots in front of my eyes and a stinking hangover. After rehydrating my brain and checking our provisions we took off for an epic walk.
The joy of wandering around the E4 woodlands with Terri is that she is an excellent storyteller and traveller. She told me about petting tigers in Thailand, about her bucket list and about the ring of grime that collects around one’s ankles after walking distance.
After four miles we made it to a pub. After five miles we had somehow looped back round to be at the pub again. We stopped to have an awesome picnic, comprised of goodies I had bought before the sleep was even out of my eyes. After seven miles we were at Waltham Abbey. While the names of towns weren’t completely alien to me, I didn’t realise the distance it meant we had covered until we came across a map at the start of a woodland trail. It felt like we had just been ambling but the map proved different. There was a mighty area of trees on the map between the two points Terri was highlighting. We had actually accomplished something.
After 9.9 miles Terri decided to make an Instagram video (because she’s such a hipster) and the iPhone app we had been using to calculate our distance stopped as the phone shorted out like we had crossed the streams. She quickly started it up again to reach our grand total of 12.64 miles by the time we made it back to her humble abode for Rekorderlig and a sit down. We burnt over 800 calories and felt like we had made something of our Sunday.
I know the Sahara is going to be a different beast altogether but with just over eight weeks to go, I think we can tame it.
So I’ve run this blog for a year and a half now and I realised last night I was about to hit the big 4-0-0. If I hadn’t twigged, it may well have gone unnoticed, as I’m sure it will for most people but 400 is a big deal for me. I like a good milestone. It just makes me think of the achievements I’ve made along the way; recorded two EPs, written two books, published one, been to Amsterdam, Paris and Devon. There are achievements made by everyone, every day and it’s easy for them to pass us by, so I am taking a moment to congratulate myself.
Job well done Paul.
I just dropped submission packs of my novel Visions Of Violet at the Blackfriars Post Office. I’m hoping this becomes the thing I do that sets everything else in motion, that spells the end of my worries about my writing, and sets me off to do what I have dreamt of since I could first hold a pen.
All I have ever known is to write, and I want this so badly I have to try and suspend myself before the fall if it goes wrong. I believe in this story. I love the characters and it was just the kind of feverish writing experience every young writer wants.
I wrote the first draft in just three weeks, whilst commuting between Rayleigh and London and finding corners in fast food outlets, public houses and even a radio station to put fingers to keys. It was a pleasure but now I want to reap from a story I sat on for over a year without writing a word.
I’m excited about getting this done because I have similar ideas I have been sat on for too long. I told myself I couldn’t start anything new until Visions was in the post. Now it can start all over again. I’m ready for new characters and new adventures, to sit chewing pen lids and wonder how long it has been since I ate and what the rest of the known world is doing as I get lost in my own. I’m ready to re-immerse myself in the one man culture of writing.
Also, thanks to Simon for fronting the money for envelopes. I’m impoverished you see.
I’m on a train. Nothing new there. The key difference is I’m going in the opposite direction. My body is dealing with it in strange ways. Each day I pull it out of sleep just after six, ram it into gear with exercise, breakfast and coffee and then squeeze it onto a train to commute to London.
This morning I am returning home. I was out last night and didn’t make or couldn’t face the return journey. I forget which. I’m still in the clothes I set out for work in yesterday morning, but I don’t feel horrible, and I don’t feel like I’m performing the walk of shame.
It feels as though enough intoxicating liquor was passed into me last night to just hush the parts of my brain that usually run at a million miles an hour. Instead I’m left with this empty vessel and it feels quite beautiful and zen.
I wonder if this is how most people feel, those who can switch off, and drift. Is this normal?
I spent nearly an hour travelling across one of my favourite cities in the world and I am in love with the world. At six am there is no buzz, there are no suits, there are barely any people in fact. Due to the work on Bank junction this morning there was a serene and unusual peace in the air, the likes of which London rarely sees.
I just wanted to take the time to address this sensation, and tell you to stop and take a while to appreciate wherever you are and whoever you’re with because it could be dragged out from underneath at any point.
I went to check on the statistics for my blog this morning, only to find I have hit the 100 sales mark. That’s one hundred physical copies of my book in existence. One hundred people who know I accidentally, a little bit and through no fault of my own _______ in my own _____.
(No spoilers here)
Oh the shame, the shame of it all. Plus the joy, the joy of it all. Oh the shame and the joy of it all.
I’m honestly overwhelmed and humbled at the response from people. Everyone has been very kind or else kept their mouths shut. I would like to once again thank anyone who made those stories happen, anyone I pissed off whilst being a reclusive genius, and everyone who has a copy. You’re all golden.
What now? I’m redrafting at the moment. It’s not the next book but it may well become the one after, although according to reliable sources (Stacy), this is going to be ‘the one that breaks through’. I have faith in everything I write but WDATMG is a bit of a vanity project. I can write outside of the autobiographical lad tales, I have and I will continue to, just grant me a bit of time.
Below are a selection of the photos I have been sent by people in the last two months.
Paul Schiernecker 