All recognise the obvious link between writer and reader. Without his or her readers, the writer is as nothing, a mere beater of air. In a very real way the writer and reader are partners, much more so perhaps than most of the latter are aware. Especially in fiction, the novel and the short story. For the reader contributes, even if barely conscious of it, and every reader makes a somewhat different and distinct contribution.

Consider it for a moment. Written words are but black marks on white paper. The letters have to be strung together to form words, and the words to form sentances and paragraphs. The reader is doing this part without thinking. But he or she is in fact thinking actively and constructively otherwise, turning those words into mind-pictures, moving pictures, talking pictures, more or less vivid and real depending on a variety of factors - the reader's age, background, experience, temperament, mood and so on. And here is the significant point - no two readers can possibly have the same background, experience, temperament, etcetera, can they? Therefore the pictures they make up from those same written words must vary often very notably. And here is another thought - since the writer is also different in his qualities and perceptions from each and every reader, inevitably the mental picture he conjures up and sets on paper must to some extent differ from all their's. However basic and explicit the storytelling and description, the images produced by him are bound to vary with others.

Suppose, for instance, that an author is addressing a roomful of people - as not infrequently happens; shall we call it an occupational hazard? Say that he reads aloud, or declaims a single passage from his work. Were it possible for each of his hearers to project on to a series of screens their individual moving picture produced by listening to and absorbing those words, I am certain that there would be a dozen, a score of different pictures - and none would be exactly the same as the writer's own original.

Which is a thought, isn't it?

The readers then are making their own individual contributions. Partners, as I said - and working partners. For they cannot read without making it a positive exercise. Not like watching the television set, to which you contribute nothing. One can fall asleep at it - as has been known to happen - and the thing goes on quite happily on its own. The radio is rather different, in that one has to translate sounds into mind-pictures, which involves some application. But this is much less demanding than reading. Mind you, the last thing that I want to imply is that reading is a chore - heaven forbid! But it is an activity, and a positive one.

All this has been very much brought home to me by one form of reader reaction - fan-mail. Not all readers realise the amount of such mail some writers receive - although the term fan-mail may give the wrong impression, the word fan having perhaps misleading connotations. Letters from readers can vary enormously as to content, purpose and length, some a few lines, some a dozen pages. And seldom a day passes without two or three reaching me, from all over the world. Indeed, the Americans, Canadians and Australians are more inveterate letter writers than folk nearer to home. I reply to them all - although it inevitably takes up too large a proportion of my time. And I wish that frequently that stamped and addressed envelopes were enclosed!

Not all letters are entirely appreciative, I may say, even though most start out by saying how much the reader has enjoyed this book or that. Then comes the real point of the epistle. For instance - how did it come about that King James was aged eighteen on page 21, but four years later he was twenty-three? Or has Barbara had her hair dyed, for she was only reddish brown in the second chapter, and titian in the sixth. For some, you see, accuracy of detail takes priority over the story, or so it seems. And at times I do stand rebuked. I can make mistakes and my publisher's editors miss them.

This particularly applies to history buffs, needless to say - as I suppose it ought to. Only, there are often more sources than historical record, and the authorities do not always agree. Indeed some of them are quite obviously in error; for it must be remembered that much of the source material of history was written by the winners in their struggles, not infrequently because they had killed the losers! In other words, highly biased accounts. Take for instance John Knox's famous "History of the Reformation". The good Master Knox makes no attempt to see the other side's point of view; he was concerned with fighting a battle for the faith, and those who held a different viewpoint were damned. Yet this book of his has been taken as almost gospel by generations of historians, since his great enemy's records, Cardinal David Neaton were, aturally, destroyed by the Reformers. The diametrically opposing pictures of Mary Queen of Scots, a prime example, can largely be traced to this sort of treatment. Also it must be remembered that, in medieval and still later times, the writing of records was confined almost wholly to the clerics, the monks and the ministers - this because the Lords, Chiefs and great ones frequently could not even sign their own names but used seals and crosses. As a result, although these lofty ones were usually the ones who made the history, with their swords, plots and alliances, it fell to be written up by the churchmen and clerks - and very varied versions resulted. Some monkish chroniclers' descriptions of battles for instance, are so far-fetched as to be laughable. So the history buffs and critics may be right - or again, I may be, who have tried to make a coherent and believable account of what actually happened, since I have got to carry my general readership's belief and acceptance with me throughout. So many history books state that things happened, and leave it there, however unlikely it may seem; not how it happened and why.

Which brings me to another brand of critics - the geographical ones. These are apt to say how much they enjoyed, etcetera - but why did I make so-and-so go such a round-about way to here or there, when there was an obvious direct route? Or why make the site of the battle or some other event where I have done, when the accepted site is elsewhere and even maps and signposts show it - Bannockburn being a glaring example. What these readers forget can be summed up in a single word - drainage. Modern drainage has transformed the face of the land. Try to visualise a fairly wet terrain like Scotland's before drainage was general. Nearly all the low ground and valley floors were either flooded or marsh and swamp, grown with scrub forest, much of it impassable. So roads and tracks stuck to the high ground, not, as of now, avoiding gradients. They had to twist and turn and make detours. Bridges were few and far between, fords being the norm for crossing rivers and bogs - and these were apt to be sited very differently, for bridges are usually placed at narrows, whilst fords are the reverse, at widenings where there are shallows.

But enough of critics, however amiable and constructive. The majority of letter writers are not so. Some indeed are almost embarrassingly otherwise, all but falling in love with me, whom they have never met. The reason is not far to seek. Keen readers, especially female ones, can so identify with characters in a novel that their empathy and appreciation transfer to the author, feeling ever closer to him the more they read. One lady, from Spain, actually got so far as to threaten suicide if I did not come to her; and then turned up at my house at Aberlady, hiding in the shrubbery, to waylay me after being refused entrance to the house. This was an extreme case, admittedly.

Perhaps the most frequent and time-consuming of my correspondence relates to roots, yes, roots. Especially from overseas, America particularly. Because I write historical novels and seem to know about the characters of the past, it is assumed that I will be able to tell the writers all about their own ancestors - and folk overseas, I needn't tell you, with even the tiniest proportion of Scots blood in their veins, and there are millions of them, want to trace their roots back here. Which is admirable. Only they do not realise that historical records and details almost entirely refer to the powerful, the famous or the very notorious. Ordinary folk just didn't get recorded - and most of us are descended from quite ordinary folk. So there is no way that I can trace their individual ancestors without enormous amounts of detailed research in local parish registers, on tombstones and in interviewing far-out relatives - which needless to say is not for me, sympathetic though I may be. But this accounts for quite a large proportion of all my mail.

Then there are the helpful ones, who write suggesting subjects for future novels. Sometimes very good subjects, too. But most refer to their great-grandfather or some other forebear, who led a most interesting life and who deserves to be enshrined in novel form. It is difficult, sometimes, to have to tell them that, however special these characters may be to them, and perhaps a limited public, they are not the stuff any publisher would consider spending thousands to bring out. Sad, but there it is.

Frequently I get letters from very faithful readers, who make a point of referring to all the novels of mine they have read over the years, and asking where I got this or that item of information, or what happened to so-and-so after the novel ended, or was the time when the hero fell in the bog fact or fiction? This sort present more difficulty to me than the others. For, of course, some of these stories were written twenty-thirty-forty years ago, and I just cannot answer the questions without going back and reading through the old books - which God forbid. Often I cannot even remember who the character is they are writing about. After all, an author has to put previous novels right out of his mind, if possible, when writing another, or the characters are going to get hopelessly mixed up in his mind, especially if he is dealing with the same historical period. One of these seekers of extra information, for instance, wrote - "What happened to Madeleine afterwards?". Who on earth was Madeleine, I ask myself? The reader had omitted to mention the novel's title. Had I ever written a book in which Madeleine was prominent? If I had, I could not recall it. The trouble is, you see, that books go on in libraries for donkey's years after they were published, and meantime I have written another couple of dozen of them. One regular correspondent from Canada, who signs himself 'Norm', may well start his letter saying - "Only thirteen questions for you this time, Nigel."

Then there are the enthusiasts, the crusaders, who want me to do something - save this castle from demolition, ensure that a battle site is not given over to new housing, help set up a clan society, agitate for road improvement. All very worthy causes, and I help where I can. But....

Visitors to Scotland ask me to compile itineraries for their trips - following in the footsteps of Bruce, Montrose, or Rob Roy, that sort of thing.

Undoubtedly the most time consuming of all are the requests for lists and locations of ruined castles capable of restoration. Because I have made a special study and appreciation of the Scots castle and tower house, having drawn and described 663 of them in my five volumes of "The Fortified House in Scotland", would-be restorers and longers to be castle-owners write from all over. Giving them the information they desire is no light task - whether such-and-such still survives, whether anyone else is working on it, whether the owner would be willing to sell, whether the surroundings are sufficiently attractive to want to live in, and so on. I try very hard to help all such, for I do greatly want to see these irreplaceable items of our heritage saved; but it takes a great deal of labour and time, sending lists that might be possible, their present state so far as I can ascertain, and so on - and in many cases I never hear another cheep. But it is worth it, for I have now been instrumental, in some measure, in the saving and restoration of fifty or more such buildings - to my great satisfaction.

As well as letters, I get 'presents' sent to me - some very acceptable, such as boxes of chocolates or biscuits. And of course photographs, scores of photographs, some quite extraordinary, for instance of the reader's cat, or bedroom or pot plants. Then I also receive heavy typescripts, expensively sent air-mail and intended to be returned that way, usually of novels or articles which have failed to find a publisher, and will I tell the sender why, and suggest editorial amendments? These I do find trying, for I do want to encourage would-be writers, but not to have to read and comment on all their efforts - some, of course, being all too obvious why they have been rejected. Sad.

I hope that all this does not sound a moan on my part, a complaint. It is not meant to be. For an enormous amount of goodwill is represented in it, and I should see it as a privilege to try to cope with it. It makes me aware of how many lonely people there are in the world, needing to identify with somebody or something outside themselves. And I, who have been given, in some measure, the gift of storytelling, and am able to slip at will into another world of colour, drama and action with people who, however imaginary, are entirely real to me, am greatly blessed. I am grateful, therefore.

So, no complaints.....

© Siol nan Gaidheal, 1993