Having just rushed to finish an article for Bloc, I’ve come to realise how much I enjoy writing features, and may consider changing my option for next term. I arranged an interview with a writer friend of my parents, Brigid McConville on Tuesday. I’ve known Brigid all my life, but I had no idea that she’d achieved so much as a writer and filmmaker.
Equip with my new Dictaphone and digital camera, I spent an hour with Brigid discussing her unconventional career from a travel writer in London to a journalist in treacherous, war torn Somalia and Afghanistan, all in pursuit of the most intriguing stories. Her bloody-mindedness is an inspiration; her over-arching goal is to give a voice to marginalised women through her writing and films.
What I admire about Brigid is her willingness to cross any terrain – literally and metaphorically to source her stories. I was astounded to find out that she had narrowly missed being shot several times in Africa and Afghanistan. A few years ago she went to Afghanistan to interview a Taliban governor. She was the first woman he’d ever spoken to and apparently he was extremely hostile and uncooperative.
She wasn’t even allowed to write anything down, but she took the risk. Not only has she risked her life for the sake of outstanding journalism that has won her prizes, she has written over a dozen books, brought up three children and been a freelance features writer for many of the nationals and women’s magazines.
For a writer with no formal training, she has risen to a comfortable level of recognition and she’s gained a sufficient list of regular slots with the Radio Times, Woman magazine and most recently, Mslexia magazine. I really appreciated her honest view of the media machine and hope I have relayed as much as I could of her advice in my article.
It was my birthday yesterday, and so I am twenty-four and I care less and less for birthdays, as I get older. The day was vague and uneventful. Luke made me breakfast in bed; I had a late lunch with dad and Lilli, and then donned my heels for a night out in Bridgwater. On the way out of Wetherspoons, I hit upon an idea for a good story opener.
As we walked down the street, a section of the pavement in front of us was littered with glass and splinters of wood. A few lads were talking to two policemen, looking up at the broken window. The perpetrating object of the angry incident had landed in the boot of a swish new car – shattering the back windshield. Who ever threw that fire extinguisher must have thrown it from the huge bay window above, minutes before we walked past.
The reason I thought this situation would be a good story opener is because there is so much intrigue behind it. Who threw the extinguisher and why? What if someone was on the street as the window shattered? What caused the instigator to react so violently?
