Ross Wilson
Born in Dunfermline in 1978 and raised in Kelty, Fife, Ross Wilson has published fiction and poetry in various literary magazines and anthologies, including New Writing Scotland, the MaCallan Scotland on Sunday, Liar Republic and Agenda. He has also reviewed books for Books in Canada and was elected a Hawthornden Fellow in 2004.
Quotes:
"You certainly do have talent as a writer and I do urge you to continue. Your characters came to life, your dialogue is natural and there was a lot of reality, humour and truth in the novel . . . your talent shines through in isolated moments, in wonderfully realised characters (we learn so much about people like Ecky in tiny, casual but vital details), dialogue and situations."
Letter from Hodder & Stoughton Publishers, 8 January 1998 for my first attempt at a novel, The Sleeping Giant (1996-1998)
"You are a terrific storyteller as well as excellent writer, but for me - an ignorant Sassenach, if you like - the Scots dialect spelling severely limits your potential readership."
Letter from the Ampersand Agency LTD, 29 May 2007, for my novel Timeshare.
Ross's Poetry
THE WAY JOHN WENT OUT
In memory of John Gray
I had you in my corner a few years,
talking me into, and through pain.
Weekends, you'd take me into
Edinburgh and Glasgow to train;
mid-week, we worked out in Rosyth.
Days in-between, I ran alone.
We were about the same height then:
Five three, flyweights. I, fourteen, all bone, you, a trim forty,
fitter than anyone in the gym, until I caught up, like time
caught us six years later.
A six foot welterweight that day
we met, books tucked under what had been a left hook, specs on a never
broken nose.
I was awoken that day
like a brawler too clumsy to duck
the surprise counter of your news.
The best punches come from nowhere.
This one hit before we could begin.
A doctor stepped between us, waving it all off; a timekeeper beat the
slow count out of days before a bell could ring.
And it was a daze to stumble into,
like those nights when I'd run alone
in the dark of a wood, no stool to rest on, and no voice in the corner
where I once stood
tired and bloodied with your hand
flying my hand like the kite
we were both high as, walking
down the steps of Meadowbank Stadium,
1993. You came in with nothing, you
said to me, you went out a champion.
The Way John Went Out was originally published in AGENDA (Broadsheet 8) in 2007.
You can read more of my poetry at www.wetink.wetpaint.com
