How My Innocent Children’s Stories Turn Ugly in my Teens
In August 1981 (when I had turned sixteen), my writing turned a dark and sinister corner. Until then, my stories had been innocent children’s mysteries, rooted in fantasy landscapes. But now, a door in my brain is creaking open. A nasty man began crawling into my head. I would call ‘John’. John was tall, disfigured, scary and knew vile things. He would fuel my first serious novel. I had originally called it The Upstairs Room. Later, I called it The Lessons.
My shift into darkness has now begun. My childhood storytelling is clashing with a deep and black past.
Instead, Donna told us she thought she was pregnant — and then revealed she had been raped by her friend’s uncle.
I was stunned at that horrible word. I was still clinging to childhood, still wanting to play in the garden and hide in the playhouse like a kid. But that word — rape — stained the day. After Donna’s disclosure, I went upstairs and began a ‘story’.
It was called The Mystery of Daler Cottage. I wrote it ‘on my bed’.
This would be my final children’s tale before I became a ‘serious novel writer’.
On 9 September, Dad asked to read my Daler Cottage story. I refused, telling him he could see it only when it was finished. The next day, a black mood descended on me, and I abandoned the story for two weeks.
But the urge to write kept pulling at me. By late September, I was painting jungle cats for an art project, teaching Sunday school, and then rushing home to write again. I dreaded Sunday school — the nerves, the pressure — but Mum insisted I attend. Eventually, on Remembrance Sunday, I quit, unable to bear the anxiety any longer.
I was a nervous, anxious and troubled teenage. Biblical themes were triggering inexplicable intrusive thoughts. I didn’t know why.
Throughout autumn, my writing grew impulsive. I skived off college with depression, suffered crushes I couldn’t voice, endured disastrous dates, and retreated into my Daler Cottage story whenever life felt too much. On 30 December, I wrote in my diary:
“I couldn’t sleep last night so I got up early. Wrote lots of story in best. Mum sat by the fire and corrected the spelling. I’m on page 58 now!”
The next day, I felt terrible and couldn’t write at all. We toasted the New Year quietly. Soon, my Daler Cottage story would go missing until 2017, a year after Mum’s death. My childhood writing has ended.
I named this defining story, The Mystery of Daler Cottage. It was the last story before I began The Lessons.
Little did I see Donna’s disclosure of rape has triggered my writing. Three years later, in 1985, I would write The Upstairs Room, before retitling it, The Lessons.
That man was John.
He began as a joke — a creepy figure we mocked to death, a face I hid under Eve’s pillow or stuck to her window. Once, the wind blew my drawing onto next door’s lawn. I even rang Eve from a phone box, pretending to be John. I used a horrible, sinister voice for a laugh.
But beneath the humour, was a sickness. I feared the tortured air this man oozed. Plotlines assaulted me at night. I grew depressed and I wrote in my diary: “I hate writing in this diary, but I know I won’t give up.”
John was no longer a prank. He was becoming a character, like a real man. Unsettling, insistent. He won’t go away. He lives in my head.
I renamed him ‘Aidan’, just for my story. Yes (I thought). That suits him better. And Aidan he became.
The Derelict House and the Birth of The Lessons.
On 6 April 1983, I heard about a derelict house at the bottom of our lane. It was called the Stables. That same day, I watched Simon’s War, a documentary about Simon Weston’s facial burns. The imagery troubled me deeply. I had already written about decaying houses in earlier stories — The Tall Green Hill (1978), Elkin’s Lodge (1977), and The Mystery of Daler Cottage (1981). For this, the Stables seemed to call to me.
I explored the derelict house with my youngest sister and wanted to stop the night. I wouldn’t return until 1986, while working on the second draft of my novel about ‘Aidan’.
By then, The Lessons had grown huge in my head. This novel would consume decades of my life. It grew from the same place Aidan had come.
Something horrible was fuelling this novel. Donna’s disclosure, a disfigured man, an upstairs room and derelict houses form a crossroads, and this novel sits right at the middle.
I wouldn’t see the truth until 2016, when I was 51 years old.
Read about my book analysing The Lessons A True Story about a Parasitic Novel
About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon or browse the Madeleine Watson Book Catalogue on this blog.
Themes in my work
For external sources related to this topic, visit my Further Reading page
My shift into darkness has now begun. My childhood storytelling is clashing with a deep and black past.
My book analysing my novel, The Lessons
The Evolution of The Upstairs Room
The following is taken from my diaries. On 30 August 1981, my twin Eve and I were sitting in the garden with Donna Jenkins, (a wheelchair‑bound girl who lived nearby). The sun cast long shadows across the lawn, and Nan had come to visit. It should have been an ordinary, carefree afternoon.Instead, Donna told us she thought she was pregnant — and then revealed she had been raped by her friend’s uncle.
I was stunned at that horrible word. I was still clinging to childhood, still wanting to play in the garden and hide in the playhouse like a kid. But that word — rape — stained the day. After Donna’s disclosure, I went upstairs and began a ‘story’.
It was called The Mystery of Daler Cottage. I wrote it ‘on my bed’.
This would be my final children’s tale before I became a ‘serious novel writer’.
Writing as Escape, Obsession and Fear
The following weeks were filled with writing. I worked on my story whenever I could: after Sunday school, between visits from cousins, late at night when I couldn’t sleep. My diary shows how compulsive my writing became.On 9 September, Dad asked to read my Daler Cottage story. I refused, telling him he could see it only when it was finished. The next day, a black mood descended on me, and I abandoned the story for two weeks.
But the urge to write kept pulling at me. By late September, I was painting jungle cats for an art project, teaching Sunday school, and then rushing home to write again. I dreaded Sunday school — the nerves, the pressure — but Mum insisted I attend. Eventually, on Remembrance Sunday, I quit, unable to bear the anxiety any longer.
I was a nervous, anxious and troubled teenage. Biblical themes were triggering inexplicable intrusive thoughts. I didn’t know why.
Throughout autumn, my writing grew impulsive. I skived off college with depression, suffered crushes I couldn’t voice, endured disastrous dates, and retreated into my Daler Cottage story whenever life felt too much. On 30 December, I wrote in my diary:
“I couldn’t sleep last night so I got up early. Wrote lots of story in best. Mum sat by the fire and corrected the spelling. I’m on page 58 now!”
The next day, I felt terrible and couldn’t write at all. We toasted the New Year quietly. Soon, my Daler Cottage story would go missing until 2017, a year after Mum’s death. My childhood writing has ended.
I named this defining story, The Mystery of Daler Cottage. It was the last story before I began The Lessons.
Little did I see Donna’s disclosure of rape has triggered my writing. Three years later, in 1985, I would write The Upstairs Room, before retitling it, The Lessons.
The Arrival of John, a Nasty Man in My Head
The Day I Became a Serious Novel Writer
Four months passed since I finished my Daler Cottage story. I forgot about Daler Cottage. Then, on 23 April 1982, I told Eve (my twin) a “silly story.” It was the first diary entry to mention my dark storylines. Soon I was telling her more — and more. During a thunderstorm, I told her another. On 13 June, I pranked her by putting a drawing of a man on her pillow.That man was John.
He began as a joke — a creepy figure we mocked to death, a face I hid under Eve’s pillow or stuck to her window. Once, the wind blew my drawing onto next door’s lawn. I even rang Eve from a phone box, pretending to be John. I used a horrible, sinister voice for a laugh.
But beneath the humour, was a sickness. I feared the tortured air this man oozed. Plotlines assaulted me at night. I grew depressed and I wrote in my diary: “I hate writing in this diary, but I know I won’t give up.”
John was no longer a prank. He was becoming a character, like a real man. Unsettling, insistent. He won’t go away. He lives in my head.
I renamed him ‘Aidan’, just for my story. Yes (I thought). That suits him better. And Aidan he became.
The Derelict House and the Birth of The Lessons.
On 6 April 1983, I heard about a derelict house at the bottom of our lane. It was called the Stables. That same day, I watched Simon’s War, a documentary about Simon Weston’s facial burns. The imagery troubled me deeply. I had already written about decaying houses in earlier stories — The Tall Green Hill (1978), Elkin’s Lodge (1977), and The Mystery of Daler Cottage (1981). For this, the Stables seemed to call to me.
I explored the derelict house with my youngest sister and wanted to stop the night. I wouldn’t return until 1986, while working on the second draft of my novel about ‘Aidan’.
By then, The Lessons had grown huge in my head. This novel would consume decades of my life. It grew from the same place Aidan had come.
Something horrible was fuelling this novel. Donna’s disclosure, a disfigured man, an upstairs room and derelict houses form a crossroads, and this novel sits right at the middle.
I wouldn’t see the truth until 2016, when I was 51 years old.
Read about my book analysing The Lessons A True Story about a Parasitic Novel
Explore this Blog
Home About this blog and popular posts.About me
Start here How I learned the truth about my past in 10 parts
Buy my books from Amazon or browse the Madeleine Watson Book Catalogue on this blog.
Themes in my work
For external sources related to this topic, visit my Further Reading page
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