This article appeared in the Sunday Times on 3 July 1983.
Author Tom Sharpe talks to Derek Hall. Photograph by Alex Dufort.
I start ‘writing’ more or less the minute I wake up, usually about half-seven when Nancy brings me a cup of tea. I sit on the edge of the bed, hoink some snuff and . . . think. Might spend half an hour like this, staring at the wall trying to dream up a lunatic situation or resolve some tricky plot problem. Scribble notes on anything to hand — end-sheets of paperbacks, newspapers. Get some of my best ideas this way. And it pleases Nancy since it keeps me out of the way while she’s getting our three children up, fed and off to school.
Then I shave. Can’t go anywhere, do anything, until the chin’s done. Probably a throwback to my National Service days. I’m trying to shed a bit of weight at present, so breakfast is hardly a thing of joy. Half a pint of natural yoghurt and bran, and cups of unsweetened tea. Not helped much by reading The Times, either, with its daily catalogue of disasters and cruelties being perpetrated in the world. About half-eight or so, I either walk into town, where I’ve a pokey little office, or wander into a hut in the garden. The office window provides a singularly dismal panorama of assorted brick walls; the garden hut’s a bit more appealing, since it overlooks a greenhouse. When a book’s not going too well, I like to get up from time to time and check the geraniums. Make sure they’re okay.
I’m writing the current opus on a word processor/computer. I’ve got another one upstairs that the children use. I like gadgets although I’m no hi-tec buff, much more a trial-and-error bod. Got 13 typewriters in all, many of them scattered about the house in unlikely places — on shelves, chairs, even the floor. Usually have something in them, bit of dialogue . . .half-written letters. I write letters all the time: ‘the great unsent letters’ as Nancy calls them, since I write far more than I send. One thing I learned early in life from my mother was never to write and send letters at night. Wait till morning and read them again. Could end up vilifying some poor sod and regret it after it’s in the post.
When a book’s going well, I’m somewhere else entirely, having imaginary conversations and chuckling to myself. God knows what the locals think since I do the same when I’m out. Occasionally I have to get up and go out into the garden, convulsed with laughter, clutching my sides. Mind you, if it doesn’t make me laugh I can get into a trough of despair. I show everything I’ve written to Nancy. If she doesn’t like it, I chuck it out. She’s an infallible judge.
I jack in writing for the day just before 1 p.m. and listen to another dollop of news over lunch — a bit of salad, fruit and black coffee. Sometimes I say ‘sod the diet’ and take Nancy for lunch at the local.
In the afternoons I work on our four acres. Gardening’s my real love. Lot of people think I garden for inspiration. Balls, of course. If you garden properly, it’s like any other job — you need to concentrate on what you’re doing. Even digging. I’m particularly fond of digging, love the physical slog involved.
And like my heroine Eva Wilt, I’ve a passion for compost. Got six compost bins and make gorgeous stuff that really steams. Bit obsessional about it, I suppose, but the proof’s in the produce. Grow all our own vegetables. Soft fruits, too.
At five o’clock I do an hour’s pottering in one of the greenhouses and listen to some news. Absolute addict for it, ghastly though it invariably is. Then around six I might pop up to the local or go for a stroll with Nancy. Summer evenings we like to wander down to the River Brit or potter about in West Bay.
Although I’m not into sports I go on the golf course once in a while. My handicap is I’m a terrible player — lose more balls than I hit. What I like about it is the chance to amble round the course with someone and have a good old natter.
Occasionally we eat out for dinner or visit friends; but mostly we eat at home, as a family, with fish being our usual favourite. After that we often play games — ping-pong, Scrabble, cards. Nancy and me play quite a lot of piquet. I don’t watch much television, although I do like old films. Sometimes sit and browse through the Dictionary of National Biography and listen to a bit of Mozart, Beethoven or ancient jazz. Now and then I do a bit of printing in my dark room.
About half-10 or 11 Dandy, our Border terrier, takes me for a walk. I then bring him back and leave him to the mercy of our three cats — Sonny, Louis and Tinkerbell — for the night. When I’ve got a book on the stocks I try to avoid any fiction, so bedtime reading is usually something on roses, or perhaps the encyclopaedia of composting.
Photo caption:
At home in Bridport, Dorset: Tom Sharpe and his American wife Nancy and their children Melanie, 18, Grace, 12, and Jemima, 10. Born in 1928, he was educated at Lancing College and Cambridge. After National Service he went to South Africa where he worked as a photographer. In 1961 he was deported for political reasons and returned to England, becoming lecturer in history. He has been a full-time writer since 1963 when his first book, Riotous Assembly, was published [sic].