Why I'm called Welford Soar.

I very much like the pseudonym that I have chosen for myself. My own name, although I have no objections to it, I fear is too 'personal.' Also, I doubt very much if NMH would be taken seriously as a historical novelist. Another reason is that my pieces seem better written by someone totally anonymous. A person with a name and an ability for writing, that is all.

The Bronte sisters chose pseudonyms that were neither male nor female names, as we all know. I love the idea of a non-gender specific name. Especially as I have a very masculine writing style. NMH could be accused of all sorts of crimes, but Welford Soar is simply a name.

I live in New Wharf Hall on the banks of the River Soar. George Orwell chose his surname from the name of a river, in which case, so shall I. What about a first name? In the great city of Leicester, there is a great road. An artery pumping the citizens and their motors in and out of the city's generous heart. The name of this raod is Welford Road. 'Welford' goes well with 'Soar.' Welford Soar it is then! Welford Soar, I like.

Welford Soar is not a man, Welford Soar is not a woman. Welford Soar is not a feminist, Welford Soar is not a misogynist. Welford Soar is not a Communist, Welford Soar is not a Facist. Welford Soar is not black, Welford Soar is not white. Welford Soar is not gay, straight or bisexual. Welford Soar has no political opinions. Welford Soar has no spouse. Welford Soar has no children. Welford Soar is a contradiction in terms, just a name, a veil, a screen. Welford Soar is simply Welford Soar.

The Writing Question

I am always being asked to consider the question: "Why do we write?"
It is a conjecture I do not find easy to solve although I know I love to write. It is almost impossible to explain my love for writing. Ideas simply enter my head, one after the other and jostle in my mind like people in a crowd. The side effects of this are nausea, insomnia and a mind that will not let go of painful memories.
I find the insomnia part of it terribly irritating. It is far from uncommon for me to be writing at four am while my flatmates have just arrived back from a night out. Many writers I admire have suffered insomnia: Charles Dickens, Rudyard Kipling and Vladimir Nabokov were all raging insomniacs to name but a few. Dickens often walked late at night, which he described in his essay "Night Walks," and Kipling often wrote late into the night, in the same fashion as I sometimes do.
However, despite the trouble it gives me, despite the insomnia, the painful memories and the infuriating sensation I experience when I am inspired and do not have a notebook to hand, I love writing. I am a true Paramour of Prose. I love the physical sensation of the blood throbbing through my writing hand. I love the sheer freedom of writing. When I write, I do not feel I have to follow the conventions of speech. If I had to say the words I write, I would choke on them, but it's so easy to put those very same words down on a page. I also love the fact that writing acts as an outlet for all the ideas that enter my head and scream in my ears until I want to cry "Enough!"
I cannot give up my writing. Without my poems, short stories and my novelettes, I am nothing. They are me and I am them. Without them I do not exist.