The scream — a sharp, agonised cry — cut through Jamie like a broadsword. His bedroom dark, the hour late and sleep long overdue, it would’ve been easy to convince himself that he’d imagined it, but he knew down to his bones what he’d heard. The shriek that had pierced through the night had been Claire’s. Adrenaline pumping, he blindly stumbled into the corridor, head turning from left to right as he tried to gauge which direction the sound had come from. Silence — save for the storm still raging outside. Where was she? Was she in pain? His muscles tensed with anger at the image of his precious Claire being hurt by anything or anyone. Pushing the frightening thoughts aside he took off along the landing; his feet thudding on creaking floorboards as he desperately began to search.
The hallway lanterns still burned low, allowing just enough light to guide Jamie’s way. Trying the handle of every door he passed, most were locked but those that weren’t he urgently swept into, only to have his hopes dashed when they were empty aside from furniture covered in dust sheets. With increasing desperation he pushed back curtains, ducked his head under side tables and even forced open the lid of an old oak chest. No sign of her. Panic rising as the minutes ticked by he began calling out; voice raspy from the tumult of emotions he tried vainly to keep in check.
“Claire! Where are ye? Can ye hear me?”
From somewhere in the semi-darkness came a weak moan. Was that her?
On my annual road trip in Scotland last month I travelled on a section of the West Highland Way (WHW).
We had dinner at the Kingshouse Hotel, mentioned by Sam in his memoir, Waypoints. It is a beautiful place (close to the WHW fork from Glen Coe up the Devil’s Staircase*)
a natural stop for walkers, cyclists and bikers, offering luxury hotel rooms, and accommodation for 32 in the bunkhouse; stunning views of Buachaille Etive Mòr and the surrounding mountains.
My husband and I attended Sam’s Waypoint book launch in Edinburgh last October, which we enjoyed immensely, in spite of having to queue in the incessant rain for over an hour. The fact that it was held in the beautiful McEwan Hall and hosted by Cameron McNeish was an added bonus.
A memoir is often conflated with an autobiography, but there are important differences. An autobiography is more or less chronological, comprehensive, prioritises events, emphasis is on facts, written by prominent individuals. A memoir gives more importance to emotions, is based on memory and revolves around a theme in the writer’s life. People read memoirs to experience a story built around specific themes. Memoirs, as such, tend to be more relatable, personal, and intimate. Well known and less well known people write a memoirs.
I enjoyed reading Waypoints, not only a memoir but also a travel journal; there were things touched upon which resonated with me and probably with other readers.
Like other successful authors, I’m sure Sam wrote his book with an ideal reader in mind; the supportive fan who watches OL without needing to question the narrative, without even realising there is a narrative; what he included or left out would have been weighed whilst addressing his chosen audience.
Promote and Market Your Book Like a Master **
1. Identify your audience. This is a vital step in the promotion and marketing of your book, and – if done right – will make the rest of the process infinitely easier. Find out who your book appeals to, get to know those people well, and be where they are, both online and off. (Bonus points for authors who do this prior to writing their book!)
If anyone got the idea he was suddenly going to back-pedal six years of narrative and upset his main employers and bread and butter fans, then disappointment was inevitable.
Sam’s book addresses his early life and his relationship with his father.
I never underestimate the effect of early life experiences. As a barely five year old I spent 4 months in a hospital 150 miles from home (a five hour/3 train journey). A father who worked away ten days out of fourteen, three other young children to consider, as well as the financial implications; parental visits were restricted to once a fortnight. I was well cared for and among other children in the same situation, but I’ve come to realise that through nobody’s fault I suffer from abandonment issues***, which as an adult I can rationalise the whys and wherefores.
Would it be surprising if Sam also has these issues, realising his father had walked out on him, maybe he’d have feelings of guilt (was it his fault? Was he unloveable?). Characterized by insecurity and codependency, symptoms of abandonment issues may manifest differently from person to person, other common signs are: anxiety in relationships, feelings of worthlessness, need to prove oneself, excessive neediness or clinginess.
While I was on the West Highland Way I had time to think through my own Waypoints: leaving home, career, marriage, children etc, but the older I get the more I think of that 5 year old child, my memoir catylist; I doubt Sam has left behind the feelings about his father even though he described Waypoints as cathartic.
Feelings of abandonment don’t necessarily stop us having and enjoying relationships, though may cause us to be a bit ‘clingy’; along with many others I believe that Sam has achieved a personal life with a partner and at least one child (I’m not getting in to that discussion), isn’t that the reason we are all here on this side of the line.
I’m here because I enjoy watching OL and I got hooked on the confusing relationship between the two leads, I don’t go down the judgement line, ‘walk in my shoes’ is my motto. I don’t feel the need to know all their personal and private business but I believe they are together.
*The Devil’s Staircase is a difficult path up and over the Aonach Eagach ridge, taking you from Glen Coe to Kinlochleven. It was built and named by British soldiers working for General Wade during his road-building programme in the early 1700s, roads through the Highlands to facilitate the subjugation of the Jacobite population.
Whenever a stupid, annoying and predictable thing happens (the three criteria must simultaneously be met), somebody fundamental to me does an eloquent, unique eyeroll and lashes out with gusto: más se perdió en Cuba. The precise English translation of it being "worse things happen at sea".
Mordor's horrified reaction at the sight of S sporting recently a nice cigarillo, while holding the Belgian flag, is hilarious. Until it isn't. This is at best gullible, at worst parochial - you pick your side - and it goes to show how easily people spit on something completely foreign to their world, without checking for context or meaning.
Presenting yourself as a cigar aficionado is a deliberate marketing choice. It enhances the image of a grown-up, sophisticated man-about-town, flaunting Old World charm and an access to gentlemen's clubs worldwide. Most of which feature humidor rooms, where profitable networking and business conversations happen. In 2023, this hobby is akin to what fox hunting was to the Victorians: an occasion to meet and greet, stay relevant and keep up your social standing. It is also what remains of that Bond dream, shaken and stirred and long lost: but let's not scratch a wound that didn't properly heal, yet.
Lo and behold, the Naysayer Brigade quickly gathered speed, on Twitter and Tumblr: oh dear God, Mary, the Apostles and all their spoons, this is pure insanity, he is doing it again, how could that be, the Viking God is smoking like a mere mortal, good grief did you think of the ozone layer, what a stupid peasant, how dares he encourage such a VICIOUS THING?
In an effort to calm the menagerie, Miss Marple herself gave us her usual smug two cents, writing confidently something like "my favorite would be he does not inhale". This is where I parked my drone and laughed and laughed and laughed like a drain.
YOU NEVER INHALE A CIGAR, MEVROUW. EVER.
But you can do plenty of other fun things with it (don't be dirty, don't think Lewinsky). You can plunge the uncut tip in brandy, let it dry, savor the new complex aroma, cut and go for it.
I know I do. Not everyday, but from time to time. And it's glorious.
