Norman Bissell was awarded a Creative Scotland Artist’s Bursary in 2014 to undertake research and professional development to enable him to write his first novel about the last years in the life of George Orwell. He attended residential novel writing courses at Moniack Mhor with Lesley Glaister and Jane Rogers, and with Cinnamon Press, North Wales led by Jan Fortune and Pete Marshall. He has also attended editing, writing and marketing courses provided by Emergents Ltd and The Touring Network.

He carried out research in the Orwell Archive at University College London, visited inside Orwell’s Islington flat in London, and went to his Barnhill home on Jura with his son Richard Blair and other members of the Orwell Society in June 2018. He has also learnt lots about Orwell from his novels, essays, diaries and letters and from the many biographies and other books about him. His novel Barnhill was published on 1 July 2019.

He gave talks about Orwell and readings from his novel at the Oban Winter Festival in 2015 and the Bookends Festival in Argyll in 2016. His keynote address about Geopoetics and George Orwell to the Expressing the Earth Conference in Argyll in June 2017 can be read here. Order a copy or let him know what you think of Barnhill here:

Barnhill Events 2020

Tuesday 3 March at 11 am George Orwell on Jura: Oban U3A in the Corran Halls, Oban.

Thursday 19 March at 6 pm Aye Write! in the Mitchell Library, Glasgow with Graeme Macrae Burnet and Molly Aitken. Book here. Cancelled due to Covid-19 lockdown.

Saturday 30 May 10 am to 4 pm Dystopias, George Orwell and Scottish Islands in Bank of Ideas 17 High Street Rothesay with Alan Riach, Christopher Priest, Anne Charnock and Ken MacLeod. More details here. Postponed due to Covid-19 lockdown.

Sunday 28 June at 5 pm George Orwell on Jura: Tayvallich Village Hall. Postponed due to Covid-19 lockdown.

Wednesday 12 August 5.30 pm to 7 pm Writing the Past in the Present: Angus Peter Campbell, Norman Bissell, and Sarah Armstrong chaired by Colin Herd online.

The second in a three part online celebration of the best in new Scottish writing, co-organised by Publishing Scotland and University of Glasgow's Creative Writing Programme. Listen to it here.

Barnhill Events 2019

Friday 5 July at 8 pm A book launch with readings and Q&A at the Atlantic Islands Centre, Cullipool, Isle of Luing.

Thursday 18 July at 7 pm A book launch with talk, reading and Q&A at Waterstones, Oban.

Wednesday 24 July at 6.30 pm A book launch with readings and Q&A at Blackwell's, South Bridge, Edinburgh.

Thursday 25 July at 7.30 pm A book launch with readings and Q&A at Waterstones Byres Road, Glasgow.

Tuesday 13 August at 7.30 pm A talk, reading and Q&A at Seil Island Hall, Lorn Natural History Group.

Thursday 29 August - Sunday 1 September A talk, reading and Q&A at the Islay Book Festival held on Islay and Jura.

Thursday 19 - Sunday 22 September A talk, reading and Q&A at the Taproot Arts Festival, Lismore, Argyll.

Monday 30 September A talk, reading and introduction to the Michael Radford film 1984 at the Wigtown Book Festival.

Saturday 5 October a talk and reading to the Scottish History Society, Rothesay, Isle of Bute.

Sunday 20 October afternoon at Toftcombs, Biggar, A talk, reading and Q&A at The Orwell Society weekend event.

Monday 11 November an evening discussion with a Book Group on the Isle of Seil.

Reviews of Barnhill

“If you want to get a feel for the inner life and personal relationships of George Orwell, and to enter into the imaginative world of the author of Nineteen Eighty-Four in his dying years, then you must pick up Norman Bissell's brilliant dramatization of the life of the man who gave us Big Brother and doublethink - and I guarantee you: you will not put it down until you finish.” John Rodden, world leading authority on George Orwell and his legacy, and author of The Politics of Literary Reputation and Becoming George Orwell as well as many other acclaimed books.

"Bissell fills out and explores more deeply the Orwell’s character and his relationships with those around him. It’s a very believable portrayal, digging beneath the surface of a man who could be awkward, opinionated and intransigent in an attempt to see what made him tick." Alastair Mabbott, The Herald on Sunday and Sunday National - read the rest of the review here.

"Norman Bissell… offers a highly credible, fictionalized account of Orwell’s last few years.. a truly excellent and compelling novel, one which provides a perceptive insight into the wretchedness experience by Orwell as he attempted to finish Nineteen Eighty-Four before his life expired. The author has succeeded in transcending the aura surrounding both Barnhill and Orwell himself, in a book that wholly subsumes the reader in those last years of literary and moral anguish... Possibly the best book you'll read this year." Brian Palmer, The Ileach

"This partly factual and partly reimagined account of George Orwell’s final years is a surprisingly satisfying read… Barnhill is certainly a good novel in itself. It is well worth the time to read." Paul Simon, Morning Star - read the rest of the review here.
Best Fiction of 2019 Morning Star Choice.

"Barnhill is a fascinating and original new addition to the canon of books about Orwell and brings a distinctly Scottish perspective to one of the great backstories in literature." Angus MacKinnon

"A rich absorbing narrative that draws an authentic picture of the life of a great writer." Leela Soma

"Through a literary lens, Bissell does for Orwell what Johnny Depp did for J.M. Barrie in Finding Neverland. He brings the man most vibrantly alive." Alistair McIntosh

"This impressively researched novel by Norman Bissell tells a vibrant, moving and compelling story of the final years of a troubled Orwell’s life. Bissell offers us a fascinating insight into the mind of the tormented and notoriously private author, while painting an evocative and insightful picture of the context of Orwell’s later work. Sitting at the intersection of fact and fiction, Bissell’s narrative is absolutely gripping and engrossing. A must read.' Frank Pignatelli, former Strathclyde Regional Council Director of Education

"This is a remarkably compelling yet profound study of the Jura days of one of the Twentieth Century’s most prophetic writers. I was fascinated and gripped." Lord George Robertson of Port Ellen

"I have just finished reading Barnhill and cannot start another book because it is still living with me! I lived every moment of that incredible story, felt the cold, the pain, the bliss and excitement. You have done such a marvellous thing in bringing Eric to us and allowing us to visit him in such an intimate way. Thank you, I am so glad I put it to one side for a day I might have a little more time to read and digest...I rarely read a biography but this has shown me how an outstanding account of someone's life is a huge education as well as a riveting read." Joy Cameron, Chair, Bookends Festival, Benderloch

Novel Extracts
George Orwell in Glasgow, New Year 1946-1947

George Orwell crossed into Stockwell Street and came to the Scotia Bar. The sound of a fiddle and an accordion wafted out into the street and tempted him inside. The place was thick with smoke and heaving. All the people inside were men. He had to push his way through to get to the bar. The music came from a long, narrow lounge adjoining the bar where a few women were sitting. His head almost touched the ceiling but he liked the look of old varnished wood everywhere and was struck by the feeling of good cheer and expectation that seemed to prevail on that last day of the year. Old guys in raincoats and bunnets stood hunched over the bar nursing their half pints and whisky glasses.
‘A pint of mild,’ George shouted above the hubbub.
‘That’ll be a pint o’ light, you’ll be waantin, big yin,’ the wee barman suggested. He’d served plenty of Englishmen in his time.
‘Where ur ye fae?’ asked an old boy standing next to George.
‘London,’ George replied.
‘A thocht as much. An how dae ye like Glesga?’
‘It’s quite a place,’ George was non-committal.
‘Aye, yer right there,’ said the old guy. ‘A’ve aye lived here, this’ll do me.’
The barman put down his pint on a damp mat, George paid him and turned away to let someone else in and to avoid having to discuss the merits of Glasgow with the proud old local. Before he could leave, the man clinked his glass and said, ‘Slàinte Mhor. Yer good health.’
‘Cheers,’ George replied, peering through the crowd and the smoke. At the far end he spotted what looked like a snug with leather seats round three sides of a table. It had one empty place. He weaved his way towards it saying ‘Excuse me’ and got surprised looks up at him from wee men. Eventually he got to the edge of the snug and ducked his head in, ‘Is this seat taken?’
‘Naw, yer aw right,’ the man nearest to him said.
George sat down and took a quick gulp of his pint. There were six other men gathered tightly round the wooden table that you had to squeeze past to get in or out. Snug right enough, George thought, taking in the black and white pictures of old Glasgow on the walls. They were talking in groups of two and everyone seemed in good humour. On the back seat he recognised Robert, the young man he’d met outside S&P Harris’s, who was talking to an older, white-haired man. In a gap in their conversation Robert looked to see who the new arrival was and nudged his friend, ‘Here, Andy, it’s that writer I was telling you about.’ Some of the conversations faltered when they heard the word ‘writer’. The man next to George gave him an admiring look and asked, ‘What do you write?’
‘Novels mostly… and journalism.’
‘Would I have heard of any of them?’ the man asked.
‘You might have heard of Animal Farm.’
‘I certainly have. I’m Johnny, by the way,’ he shook George’s hand eagerly. ‘Look lads,’ he announced, ‘This is George Orwell. He put the boot right intae Uncle Joe Stalin in Animal Farm.’ The others stopped talking and a couple of them shook George’s hand. He felt unexpectedly proud.
‘Ah’ve read some of your articles in Tribune. Ah really liked that wan aboot the toads in spring,’ Johnny continued. George looked surprised.
‘And what are ye doing in Glasgow on Hogmanay?’ Robert asked George. George noticed his English was clearer than the others’.
‘I was on my way to Jura this morning but I missed the boat, so I’m stuck here for two days.’
‘Missed the boat? That’s the story o’ ma life,’ Johnny laughed, ‘Still there’s worse places tae be stuck ower Ne’erday.’
‘Jura, eh. Your boat must go doon the watter past Dunoon on your way there?’ Robert asked.
‘It does,’ George replied
‘Me and my pals fae the Toonheid used to go camping in Dunoon, that’s where I met my wife,’ Robert smiled.
‘Look, let me get ye a dram tae go wi yer pint,’ Johnny said. George tried to say no, but Johnny wasn’t having it. ‘Jist you move up wan so ye can talk tae yer freen.’
George got up to let him out. He hardly knew Robert but that was enough to make him a friend. ’How did you meet her?’ He asked Robert once he’d sat down and shifted up.
‘At a Friday night dance in the Masonic Halls,’ Robert replied, ‘She’s from Glasgow too, but she was there on holiday.’
‘Any children?’ George asked.
Robert looked troubled for a moment. ‘Just a boy, he’ll be one in January. What about you?’
‘I’ve got a son too. He’s almost three. But my wife died a couple of years ago.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Robert. ‘That must be really hard.’
‘It is. But my boy Ricky’s coming on well. He loves it on Jura, it’s a great place for him to grow up.’
‘Och, ye canna beat growin up in the country,’ old Andy chipped in, ‘Ah’m frae Stonehoose, it's a great place fer lads tae grow up tae.’
‘You’re right there, Andy. Partick’s fine and I’ve got a plot there tae grow some veg, but I’d love my boy to grow up in Dunoon if I could get a job there. I started pushing a barrow for Harris’s after I left school at fourteen, and worked my way up. I got my job back after I came home from the Navy, and it’s a good job, though I say it myself.’ Robert was starting to get a bit fu’.
Johnny sat down beside George again, put down two whiskies and raised his glass, ‘Tae George an Animal Farm!’ The whole snug clinked glasses, repeated the toast and knocked back their drinks.
‘They didnae hae ony Islay malts but ah goat ye a Bell’s fur the bells. It’s the next best thing. An this here is wan o’ the Scotia's ain writers, Freddy Anderson. He wants tae meet ye.’ He pointed to a wee, thin man with a sharp red face and a goatee beard who looked like a leprechaun. He offered George his hand to shake.
‘Who would have thought it, the great George Orwell sitting here in the Scotia at Hogmanay? Now, but ye couldn't make that up, sure you couldn't.’ Freddy remarked in a strong Irish accent, his eyes twinkling.
‘And what do you write?’ George asked.
‘Oh, this and that, I’ve written my fair share o’ scurrilous verse since I cam here from County Monaghan and I’ve started on a play I’m going to offer the Unity Theatre. Tell me, George, have you ever heard o’ the great John Maclean?’
‘I can’t say I have.’
‘Well, he was one o’ Glasgow’s revolutionary socialist heroes. He taught Marxist economics to thousands o’ workers and went to jail for agitatin’ against the so-called Great War. There was nothin’ great about it, I'm sure a man such as yourself would agree. They poisoned him in Peterhead jail, and the streets in Pollokshaws were jam-packed at his funeral.’
‘It sounds like his life would make a great play,’ George suggested.
‘That it would, that it would,’ Freddy was getting excited.
At the back of the snug Robert was feeling merry and started singing,

‘Sing me a song o’ Bonnie Scotland
any old song will do
round an old campfire
a rough and ready choir
will join in the chorus too.

Ye’ll tak the high road
an I’ll tak the low
it’s a song that we all know
tae remind us all of Bonnie Scotland
where the heather
and the bluebells grow.’

He stood up and gestured to the others to join in. At the mention of Bonnie Scotland, George decided it was time to go. ‘I better be getting back,’ he announced.
‘Och, the party's just gettin started,' said Robert, disappointed. 'But I suppose I'm in the same boat. I never go to the pub after work. May doesn’t like me to, but it’s New Year after aw.’ He flashed his bottle of whisky sticking out of his jacket pocket and asked George, ‘Have ye got yer Ne’erday bottle yet?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s an off-licence up the street,’ Johnny checked his watch. ‘If ye go noo ye’ll maybe still catch thum afore they shut.’
George finished his pint, bad his farewells and told Robert it was a pleasure to meet him.
‘I’ll maybe see you again sometime on a boat goin' doon the watter. Say hullo to Dunoon for me,’ Robert joked.

Out in the street, the cold cut through George like a knife. He started coughing as he set off looking for the off-sales. He liked these Glasgow folk, they seemed much friendlier than most Londoners. He looked at his watch. Half past nine. Another year was slipping away. He got to the off-licence just in time and bought a bottle of Bell’s to take back to the hotel with him. The streets were still full of folk scurrying about, message bags in hand, whilst others waited for tramcars to take them home. Revellers with carry-outs were staggering about looking for wherever the party might be. George Square was now a fairyland, its huge Christmas tree all lit up and a myriad of coloured lights blinking around the Square. When he got back to the hotel, he could hear a sing-song coming from the bar and wondered if he would get any sleep that night.

George opened the window of his shabby little room. He leant out and heard Church bells ringing and foghorns sounding along the river to mark the New Year. One boat’s horn tooted after another, and air raid sirens wailed as they would have done during the war. There was something strangely moving about this annual Glasgow ritual that welcomed in the promise of a new start to the year. He thought of all the members of his family who were no longer here to greet the New Year. His father, his mother, Marjorie and, above all, Eileen. Never to be seen again, or even remembered? Would anyone even think of them except him? The Scots make such a lot of this dismal time of year, he thought. Or perhaps they just like to wallow in their misery? A bit like himself. But perhaps they were right to mark this time of change, this old tradition that predated Christmas? A drunk man looked up from the street below and shouted, ‘A Guid New Year! Ur ye no comin oot tae join the party?’
‘Happy New Year. No, not this year,’ he replied.
‘Well, yer missing yersel,’ the man staggered off. George shut the window, wondering what he meant. How could he miss himself? Was this an unanswerable philosophical question? A Glasgow koan? He smiled to himself. Still, it was a truly proletarian city. If there was one place where the revolution would break out, it would be Glasgow. It nearly had after the First War when Lloyd George's Government sent tanks into George Square to scatter the huge crowd of men with their red flag who demanded a 40-hour week to create jobs for returning soldiers. He must find out more about John Maclean. The poverty in the city was tangible. He could see it in the worn faces of the shipyard workers and labourers, in the skin and bone of their wives and children. The very stones of its buildings were black with smoke, but the Glasgow folk he’d met seemed irrepressible in spite of everything. He poured himself a dram from his bottle and toasted the New Year and Glasgow’s proles. Perhaps this would be the year he’d finish his book? He lay back on the bed thinking about all this, then coughed and spat up phlegm into his handkerchief. A solitary figure. Who knew what the New Year would bring?