A typical letter: ‘Dear Comrade Preston: I don’t know what you think of what I’m sending you. I wrote it about four years ago. I sent it to a selection of the usual “reputable” publishers — enuff said! When I saw Boles and Hartley had decided to encourage creative writing as well as the usual philosophical tracts I felt emboldened to try my luck again. Perhaps this decision is the long-awaited sign of a new attitude towards real creativity in the Party? Howsoever that may be, I await your decision with anticipation — needless to say! With comradely greetings. PS. It is very hard for me to find time to write. I am secretary of the local Party Branch (dwindled in the last ten years from fifty-six members to fifteen — and most of the fifteen are sleeping members). I am active in my trade union. I am also secretary of the local musical society — sorry, but I’m afraid I think such evidences of local culture are not to be despised, though I know what HQ would say to that! I have a wife and three children. So in order to write this novel (if it deserves the name!) I got up every morning at four, and wrote for three hours before the children and my better half woke up. And then off to the office and heigh-ho for another day’s grind for the bosses, in this case the Beckly Cement Co. Ltd. Never heard of them? Well believe you me, if I could write a novel about them and their activities I’d be in dock for libel. Enuff said?’

And another: ‘Dear Comrade. With great fear and trembling I send you my stories. From you I expect a fair and just judgement — they have been sent back far too many times by our so-called cultural magazines. I’m glad to see that the Party has at last seen fit to encourage talent in its midst, instead of making speeches about Culture at every conference and never doing anything practical about it. All these tomes about dialectical materialism and the history of the peasants’ revolts are all very well, but how about the living article? I have had a good deal of experience of writing. I started in the War (Second World) when I wrote for our Battalion Rag. I’ve been writing ever since when I’ve had the time. But there is the rub. With a wife and two children (and my wife fully agrees with the pundits of King Street that a comrade is better occupied distributing leaflets than wasting time scribbling) it means a running fight not only with her but with the local Party officials all of whom take a dim view when I say I want to take off time for writing. With comradely greetings.’