Please see the Catalogue and Bibliography pages for Richard’s articles and books. Also references to the children’s ‘dark green’ adventure stories which currently enchant him. One, The children who wouldn’t... is already published and the sequel Darkness under the mountain seeks a publisher as we speak. He is currently writing the third in this trilogy, The sort of girl things happen to.
His thesis on the ecology and behaviour of the Cornish Chough and some other related scientific papers may be found here https://richardmeyer.co.uk/index.php/writing/bibliography.
Introduction: I may have doubted my ability to draw (see Art) but never to write – it was something that just seemed to come naturally. One of my earliest memories is sitting at the kitchen table writing a story about aeroplanes and a pilot (I was probably about 6 or 7 and been reading a Biggles story) when I heard my older brother say to our mum “Richard’s going to be a writer.” Strange but this tiny remark stuck and somehow validated me. Otherwise, it's always been a battle with authority figures telling me what I couldn’t do.
Now, whenever in the dumps, I go for a walk, ride my motorbike, or just write, in my diary, or a poem (which is rapidly becoming my salvation). If feeling strong, I delve into my alternative world where children deny their childhood, and adults are allowed to be children. I might write a too-long letter, but some old correspondents, those still with us, no longer reply in kind; they ignore my overtures and ramblings, or send a short email, or, even worse, a 'txt msg'. There are a couple who still write proper letters in pen and ink – brother John, and a dear old retired countryman*. The female perspective, always compelling, seems lost to me now; they have all got busy, married (often these two conspire), fed up or been seduced by SMS.
* Poor Bob Huddleston has now (summer 2018) also died; RIP Bob, in your wooded heaven.
Vincent (van Gogh) had Theo as a repository for his voluminous writing. A year or two ago my family clubbed together and bought me the sumptuous 5 volumes of his complete illustrated letters - now among my most cherished possessions. I too have a brother though not one as regular or as tolerant, and certainly not one as interested in my paintings but a good if erratic correspondent. [I say this confident in the knowledge he will never read it, being even more IT averse than me.]
But, dammit, none of this stops me! And if my diary must be the long-suffering patient (interesting how this word as noun / adjective has diverged from the Old French pacient before that from the Latin patientem, meaning supporting, suffering, enduring, permitting) then so be it. My family can burn them, as my mother did my father's.