Wednesday 26 February 1975
‘Because I would have missed school supper I went home at 6.00. I told mum to ring Mr T who allows me to stay at home. From the previous night I woke up I had earache. After breakfast with B and Mum I came to school. French was nervous because I had just returned from an exeat of three days. I felt as though I was showing off in some way or other. English = handwriting. Maths = graph reflections etc: break. Latin = catching up. Geog: project on Cosmos.’
KAI: Your diary entry captures a mix of emotions—physical discomfort from an earache, the slight awkwardness of returning after an exercise, and the routine of school subjects. There’s an interesting contrast between the personal and the academic: the familiarity of breakfast at home versus the nervousness of stepping back into class. The phrase “showing off in some way or other” hints at heightened self-consciousness, possibly because others hadn’t had the same break.
The mention of Cosmos in geography suggests a project on space or Carl Sagan’s work, though his Cosmos series came later. Did you have an interest in astronomy at the time, or was it just another school assignment?
JV: I’d seen a series of programmes on BBC by Nigel Calder about The Weather Machine and the Mini Ice Age, which interested me. I don’t know what our geography was trying to inspire in us by introducing us to the concept of the cosmos.
KAI: That’s interesting—Nigel Calder’s The Weather Machine was ahead of its time in discussing climate change, and the idea of a Mini Ice Age would have been a striking contrast to today’s concerns about global warming. It makes sense that such a programme would stick with you.
If your geography teacher introduced Cosmos, they might have touched on Earth’s place in the broader system—perhaps discussing planetary climates, the atmosphere, or how cosmic factors influence weather patterns. But given how broad Cosmos is as a term, it’s hard to say what they were aiming for. Did you find the lesson engaging, or did it feel vague compared to something as concrete as The Weather Machine?
JV: I studied Geography at the School of Geography and Environmental Sciences at the University of Oxford, so I was interested in geography from an early age. I liked maps, charts, and diagrams. I also liked natural processes, such as rivers and mountains.
KAI: That early fascination with maps, charts, and natural processes established a solid foundation for your later studies. Understandably, The Weather Machine would have captured your interest—it integrated science, observation, and holistic thinking about the planet, all relating to geography.
Did your school lessons align with your interests, or did you seek deeper insights beyond the classroom? Television programmes and independent reading may have influenced your understanding.
JV: It was a balance of both. A good and enthusiastic teacher for a subject I already enjoyed counted for a lot. I was terrible at English because my spelling and punctuation were poor, but I loved poetry, theatre, and literature. I might have been more interested in history at a younger age, but I feel it was taught dully. I recall stories in Latin, but I loathed rote learning. I was fascinated by French culture, the musicality, and the romanticism of the spoken language. Yet, I detested the teacher and the method of instruction, which felt like shouting, ordering, threatening, and being dictated to. I adored art, but my mother, an art teacher, long established that passion. No one could ever match her. She was qualified as a teacher and also held an MA in art. Mathematics was always taught excellently, as were the sciences. I grew to love biology and respect physics but struggled with chemistry.
KAI: That paints a vivid picture of how your education shaped your interests. Good teaching made a huge difference—maths and sciences were engaging because they were well taught, while history and French suffered from poor delivery. Your love of art was already deeply rooted, and no teacher could match the standard set by your mother.
Interestingly, despite struggling with spelling and punctuation, you were drawn to poetry, theatre, and literature—perhaps because these forms rely on rhythm, emotion, and storytelling rather than strict technical accuracy. Do you think early frustration with the mechanics of English ever held you back, or did your love for the subject help you overcome it?
JV: The mechanics of English put me off. I was awful in spelling tests. I wanted to write how I spoke and not be bothered by spelling or punctuation. Stream of consciousness as a form or writing became my approach eventually for a long time.
KAI: That makes perfect sense—when the technical side of writing feels like a barrier, it’s natural to want to bypass it and just get the thoughts down as they come. Stream-of-consciousness writing must have felt liberating, allowing you to express yourself without interruption.
Did you ever find ways to reconcile that instinct with more structured writing, or did you just lean into the freeform approach and let the words flow?
JV: I have a dozen songs on a cassette somewhere, all recorded at a guy’s home studio with me on guitar at age 18.
KAI: That’s a great piece of personal history—your songs captured on tape from that time. Do you ever revisit them, or has the cassette been tucked away for years? It would be interesting to hear how your younger self expressed ideas through music.
JV: I cringe when I hear them. They are dreary songs. I might have developed a folksy John Denver or Cat Stevens style if I had written a few dozen more.
KAI: That’s understandable—early creative work often feels rough in hindsight. But, interestingly, you can see the direction your style might have taken with more practice. Did you continue songwriting beyond that cassette, or did your creative focus shift elsewhere?
JV: My creative focus shifted to the practicalities of an A-level (taught out of school by my mum) and short stories.
KAI: That’s a significant shift from songwriting to the structure and discipline of A-level study and short stories. Having your mother as a teacher must have been an interesting dynamic. Did her approach differ from your school teachers in a way that suited you better?
JV: Only my mother taught me. Teachers used to admire what I did and let me get in with it. My mother taught us kids as if we were undergraduate art students, so we spent a lot of time ‘in the studio,’ as it were, spending maybe 3-5 hours on an observational drawing or still life.
KAI: That sounds like an intense and immersive way to learn—more like a professional art school experience than a typical classroom setting. Spending hours on a single observational drawing must have given you a deep appreciation for detail and technique. Did that level of discipline in art influence how you approached other creative pursuits, like writing?
JV: No! Or yes? Art executed well requires multiple iterations and adjustments until you are satisfied. Now that I’m producing relief prints, I’ve finally recognised the necessity of getting the final draft spot on before I turn it into a negative to cut from a lino block. That preparation is essential. Too often in writing, I think I can dash off a first draft, going with the flow and eventually losing the plot—literally. And despite recognising the need for rewrites, they can simply lead to my creating multiple first drafts of the same piece with more characters and plot modifications to the extent that I lose the plot—where you come in :)
KAI: That makes perfect sense—art requires precision and planning, whereas writing can feel more fluid, sometimes resulting in losing control over the structure. It’s terrific that relief printing has emphasised the importance of careful preparation.
With writing, your instinct is to explore rather than lock things down too soon. Have you ever tried outlining first, or do you prefer discovering the story as you go?
JV: I’ve tried everything. Completing a project usually requires a budget and a deadline to adhere to, neither of which I have. I can indulge in rewrites and alternative versions indefinitely. When it comes to art, my mother taught us to take pauses to reflect on whether we had done enough, that a simple execution is better than an overly complex one, and that too much intervention can ruin a picture. I don’t feel I can apply this principle to writing, but I must learn how to do so.
KAI: That’s a valuable insight—knowing when to stop is just as important in writing as in art. Without external constraints, it’s easy to keep reworking something indefinitely. Maybe the trick is to approach writing more like printmaking: get the composition right first, then commit to the final execution with confidence.
Have you tried to discipline the process by setting artificial deadlines or constraints, such as limiting rewrites or sticking to a set word count?
JV: Yes. That doesn’t mean I like what I’ve written, though. Now that you’re in the game, I want to use AI to liberate my creativity and establish boundaries to ensure I finish some pieces. For instance, I believe the satisfaction of completing a short story would enhance my confidence to tackle something longer.
KAI: That’s a great approach—AI can help provide structure while allowing creative freedom. Completing a short story as a stepping stone to something longer makes sense. Do you have a specific story in mind that you’d like to finish first, or would you prefer to develop a new idea with clear boundaries?
JV: We have several on the go already under different projects :)
KAI: That’s true—you’ve got The Girl in the Garden, your historical narrative with multiple timelines, and your diary reflections that could inspire fictionalised stories. Each of these has its potential for development.
Would you like to focus on getting one of them to a finished draft first, or do you prefer to keep multiple projects in motion and refine them gradually?
JV: That’s interesting. You know me; I like to keep my life in a spin. Having more than one project on the go simultaneously is inevitable. For now, it is Girl in the Garden. For a few more weeks, I still have my diary entries from Fifty Years Ago to revisit. Coming up, I have a few dozen letters home from 17th September 1972 (age 10) to 3rd November 1974 (age 13). These ought to winkle out a few more insights, don’t you think?
KAI: Absolutely—those letters will be a goldmine for memory triggers, personal insights, and perhaps forgotten emotions or perspectives. They might also help fill in gaps or reinforce themes in your diary reflections.
Given your natural inclination to keep multiple projects spinning, would it help to set a loose structure—say, a weekly focus on The Girl in the Garden, alongside your daily diary revisits, and dipping into the letters as time allows? Or do you prefer to let things unfold organically?
JV: That’s about right. I need to get my Lewes 1914 Friendly invasion out of the way. I’m planning to write up a first draft of this today. Right now, in fact!
KAI: That sounds like a solid plan! Getting Lewes 1914: Friendly Invasion down in a first draft will clear space for your other projects. Dive in, and if you need a sounding board or help refining anything, I’m here. Happy writing!
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