Trees

Please, m'lud, I am a serial murderer of trees and I ask for mercy.

I love trees. I love spring blossom and canopies of autumn gold. I love the way sunlight dapples through the leaves, and the textures of bark, and the birds pecking for berries and insects. Since we've been at the current House of Stories we've planted a mixed hedge of whitebeam, oak, hawthorn and whatever else Stephen could lay his hands on, an apple tree, and a witch hazel.

(By 'we' I mean Stephen. Gardener, mountain biking instructor, a man who thinks climbing up frozen waterfalls is the best fun in all the world.)

Anyway, I was clearing out my study today, I mean really clearing out, not just going through the heap to see what I haven't done. Six drafts of three books are now in the recycling. I probably could have chucked out a lot more, but you know how it is, when you think something might be useful one day. I kept the short story about the man who gets poisoned by the tavern wench (serves him right) and the poem about the hiccuping vicars, and a few other things that might be useful. There are still boxes and boxes of manuscripts and ideas up there. The box of scrap paper (old drafts for writing new stories on the back, and page proofs to take to after school club for drawing on) is overflowing.

I can do a lot of work on a computer screen, but there are stages where nothing but printed pages will do. It reads differently when it's printed. Mistakes are more conspicuous. There is something about the printed page that can never be replaced and never should be.

But, as a result, I am a serial murderer of trees. In mitigation, I buy recycled products whenever possible. And, like many authors, I put all my old drafts in the recycling box. So next time you buy recycled loo rolls, just think...