While some writers are born, this one was dragged into the world by one woman’s sheer bloody-mindedness, says Gareth Crocker, international author and filmmaker.
“Every cent I’ve ever earned has been as a result of my ability to work with words.”
“There’s no easy way to say this,” my teacher told my mother. “We adore Gareth – such energy, lovely hair – but we believe he’d be better served at a school equipped for his condition.” My mother’s eyes narrowed. “What condition is that?” I already knew: I was clearly being sent to a school for children with exceptional hair. But it turned out the issue was my reading. “He doesn’t seem to have any,” she said. I wasn’t bothered. I could still name the pictures: cat, dog. I even shared some fun facts. Only later did I learn the words were mat and ball.
“We believe Gareth suffers from a severe learning disability and needs to be sent to a school better equipped to deal with his limitations,” my teacher declared.
My mother leaned forward and offered my teacher what appeared to be a smile but wasn’t. “I’m not taking him out of the school. There is nothing wrong with Gareth. I’ll work with him.” With that, she grabbed my arm and marched me out the classroom.
And so for the next six months, she worked tirelessly on my reading. Seven days a week. We argued. I threw tantrums. There was crying on both sides.
I can recall regularly faking injury and illness, offering up some real gems. Having overheard that someone in our extended family was unfortunate enough to be suffering from simultaneous bouts of alcoholism and breast cancer, I thought I would adopt these ailments into my repertoire of medical misdirection. “Mom, I really can’t read today. I have alcoholism in my breasts. It’s really bad.”
Then, one afternoon, something entirely unexpected happened. We were wading our way through a Secret Seven novel when, all at once, what we were doing didn’t feel so horrible anymore. I actually didn’t mind that we were reading a book. After that, things quickly fell into place. I began to understand how phrases worked. Saw the rhythm of language and story, the power of narration. The magic of words.
In hindsight, those months didn’t just change my life. They gave me one. They enabled me to become a journalist, columnist, copywriter, editor, author and screenwriter with ten novels, two films and five international TV series to my name. Pretty much every cent I’ve ever earned has been as a result of my ability to work with words. The same words that, once upon a time, threatened to condemn me.
At the end of that pivotal school year, my teacher handed my mother my report card. I can’t recall what my marks were but I do remember what was written in the special notes section. Best Reader in the Class.
Sadly, my mother recently passed away. As I process her death, it occurs to me that she didn’t just set me on the path to becoming a writer, she taught me how to be a parent to my daughters. How to fight for them. How to put in the work when it really matters.
Now, whenever I sit in front of the blank page and wonder if I’m capable of writing another novel or script or anything else, I think of her. Then I sip my coffee, take a deep breath, glance out the window and start writing.
In this gripping sequel, detectives Ruben and Zander face a terrifying case: cops are dying from a brutal designer poison, and the killer leaves no trace. With bodies piling up, they enlist a counsellor to dig into the mind of a presumed madman – only to uncover a calculating professor whose brilliance hides a deadly motive. Tense, twisty, and smart, this thriller probes the line between genius and pure evil. Now You Bleed hits shelves in this month.
This article was originally published in The Penguin Post, a magazine about books for book lovers from Penguin Random House South Africa.
