From Elm Brook Manor to The Highlands University of Ghostology: How Love, Laughter and a Little British Humour Found Their Way Into My Stories
My grandfather once told me something I've never forgotten.
"You can give a woman everything she desires, and she will still be sad. But make her laugh, and you win her heart."
I was much younger when I first heard those words. I doubt I understood their significance at the time.
But as the years passed, and life unfolded in ways I could never have imagined, I began to appreciate what he was trying to tell me.
Perhaps he wasn't really talking about women, or gifts, or even winning someone's heart.
Perhaps he was talking about something much simpler.
The extraordinary power of making another human being smile.
And looking back over my life, my marriage, and the strange journey that eventually turned me into an author of Scottish ghost mysteries, I've begun to realise something rather wonderful.
Humour has been there all along.
I just didn't recognise how important it was.
When You Have Little Else to Give
Life isn't always generous.
There are times when circumstances strip away the things we take for granted. Confidence. Security. The certainty that tomorrow will be better than today.
And when you're going through a difficult period, it's easy to begin measuring yourself by what you cannot provide.
What you haven't achieved.
What you haven't been able to fix.
What you wish you could give the people you love.
I've known those feelings.
And through the challenges life has placed before us, my wife, Marna, has stood beside me.
Not because everything was easy.
Not because I always had the answers.
And certainly not because I could offer her everything the world had to give.
She stayed because of the love and commitment we share, and for reasons that belong to her as much as they belong to me.
But there was one thing I could always try to give her.
A laugh.
Sometimes it was a ridiculous observation.
Sometimes a perfectly timed remark.
Sometimes a joke so dreadful that the only reasonable response was to groan, shake her head and laugh anyway.
And sometimes, on the hardest days, it was simply finding something absurd in a situation that otherwise seemed unbearably serious.
I couldn't always change our circumstances.
But occasionally, I could change the atmosphere in the room.
Just for a moment.
And those moments mattered.
The First Story Was for Marna
Years later, I began writing what would become my first novel, Elm Brook Manor.
I didn't set out with grand ambitions of becoming a famous author.
I wasn't thinking about bestseller lists, publishing strategies or building an international readership.
I wanted to tell a story.
And, more importantly, I wanted to write it for Marna.
There was something wonderfully liberating about that.
I wasn't trying to impress the publishing industry.
I wasn't studying market trends or calculating which fictional genre might generate the greatest financial return.
I was creating a world I hoped she would enjoy.
A Scottish manor.
A mystery.
Characters who gradually became as familiar to me as people I'd known for years.
And, of course, ghosts.
I discovered that writing could take me somewhere entirely different from the world around me.
A place where imagination could wander freely.
Where I could build grand houses, invent strange histories, create complicated relationships and decide what might be waiting behind a locked door.
But perhaps the greatest pleasure was knowing that someone I loved would eventually read what I'd written.
The story began as something personal.
A gift.
Not wrapped in paper or tied with a ribbon, but assembled patiently from words.
I didn't know then how far that first story would take me.
Or how many others would follow.
The Long Road Between Two Books
Writing Elm Brook Manor was only the beginning.
More stories followed.
More haunted places.
More mysteries.
More characters who refused to behave as I expected.
And with every book came another lesson.
Some were about writing.
Some were about publishing.
Others were about patience, disappointment, persistence and the peculiar emotional endurance required of an independent author.
I learned how much work happens after the final sentence has been written.
Editing.
Formatting.
Cover design.
Book descriptions.
Keywords.
Publishing requirements.
Marketing.
And the endless business of trying to persuade people who have never heard of you to take an interest in something you've spent months creating.
I tried different approaches to promoting my books.
Like many independent authors, I explored promotional opportunities, including discounted-release platforms such as New Releases for Less.
There were moments of encouragement.
There were disappointments.
And there were times when the business of being an author seemed to demand more energy than the actual writing.
I began to wonder whether I was approaching the whole thing from the wrong direction.
Because the reason I started writing had never changed.
I loved telling stories.
I loved creating characters.
And I loved entertaining people.
Perhaps I'd been so busy learning how to market my books that I'd overlooked something important about myself.
Something that had been part of my life long before I wrote my first novel.
My sense of humour.
A Ghost Walks Into a University
When I began developing The Highlands University of Ghostology, something rather interesting happened.
I found myself creating a world where the supernatural didn't always have to be terrifying.
Ghosts could be eccentric.
Professors could be wonderfully peculiar.
The living and the dead could misunderstand one another in the most entertaining ways.
And an institution dedicated to the serious academic study of ghosts could become a magnificent playground for British humour.
The more I explored the idea, the more comfortable I became.
I wasn't abandoning mystery.
I wasn't turning my back on the Scottish Gothic atmosphere that had become such an important part of my writing.
I was allowing something else into the room.
Laughter.
Suddenly, the absurdities of human behaviour became just as interesting as the supernatural mysteries.
Because people are funny.
Even when they're trying desperately not to be.
Especially then.
Give someone an impressive title, a grand office and a set of complicated regulations, and it won't be long before life finds a way to make the whole arrangement ridiculous.
And if the person holding that impressive title happens to be dead?
Well, the possibilities are almost endless.
I began enjoying the humour in my fictional world in much the same way I'd always enjoyed making Marna laugh.
It felt natural.
Familiar.
Almost like discovering an old friend in a place I hadn't expected to find one.
And somewhere along the way, I realised that I wasn't merely experimenting with a different kind of ghost story.
I was bringing more of myself into my writing.
The Strange Relationship Between Laughter and Sadness
There's another side to humour that I've often thought about.
Some of the world's most beloved entertainers have also experienced considerable personal difficulties.
Matthew Perry brought laughter to millions through his portrayal of Chandler Bing in Friends, while speaking openly about his struggles with addiction.
Robin Williams delighted audiences with extraordinary comic performances, yet his life also included serious personal and health challenges.
Their experiences were different, and I wouldn't presume to explain what humour meant to either of them.
But their stories remind me of something important.
Being funny doesn't mean someone has never been sad.
Being able to make people laugh doesn't mean life has been easy.
And laughter isn't necessarily an attempt to hide pain.
Sometimes it's simply one of the ways human beings find connection, relief and companionship when life becomes difficult.
I've come to appreciate that distinction.
I don't believe humour magically solves our problems.
It doesn't.
There are things in life that cannot be laughed away.
But I do believe that sharing a moment of genuine laughter can make a difficult day a little more bearable.
It can remind us that we're not facing everything alone.
And sometimes, that is enough to help us carry on.
When the Readers Started Laughing Too
As The Highlands University of Ghostology began finding its early readers, I watched their responses with the familiar mixture of excitement and nervousness that accompanies every new book.
Would they enjoy the characters?
Would they appreciate the eccentricity?
Would the humour work outside my own imagination?
After all, what makes one person laugh might leave another completely bewildered.
That's the risk you take when you write comedy.
You can't explain a joke into being funny.
You simply have to trust your instincts.
And then something encouraging happened.
Readers began responding positively to the humour.
Not everyone will enjoy the same kind of story, of course. That's part of reading, and part of writing.
But the early responses suggested that this combination of Scottish supernatural mystery and British humour was finding people who appreciated it.
I cannot tell you how gratifying that felt.
Because it wasn't simply that readers were enjoying a new book.
It was that something deeply familiar to me — something I'd shared with Marna for years — had found its way into the lives of strangers.
People I'd never met.
People who knew nothing about the difficult days, the private jokes or the long journey that brought me to this point.
And yet, somehow, we were sharing a laugh.
What a remarkable thing.
Perhaps I Had Been Marketing the Wrong Thing
That discovery began changing the way I thought about promoting my work.
For years, I'd approached marketing as something separate from writing.
A necessary task.
An obligation.
Something to be endured if I wanted people to discover my books.
But what if I could approach it differently?
What if, instead of constantly trying to sell a book, I could invite people into the world I'd created?
What if I could entertain them first?
Make them curious?
Give them a reason to smile?
With the launch of The Highlands University of Ghostology, I began experimenting with short, humorous promotional videos.
A royal telegram.
Eccentric ghosts.
A spectral rock band.
A golden Labrador who appears to believe that ghosts exist purely for the purpose of playing fetch.
And finally, the grand opening of a university where the dead seem to have considerably more fun than the living.
I had enormous fun creating these little scenes.
And something else happened.
People began responding.
They commented.
They laughed.
They shared their enthusiasm.
The conversations felt different.
More personal.
Less like advertising.
More like inviting someone to join in a joke.
I don't know what the long-term commercial results will be.
And I don't want to pretend that a few encouraging responses mean I've discovered some miraculous secret to selling books.
But I do know one thing.
I'm enjoying the process.
And that matters enormously.
Because when you love what you're doing, that enthusiasm has a way of finding its way into your work.
Perhaps the most important change wasn't in my marketing at all.
Perhaps it was in remembering why I started telling stories in the first place.
Reporting Live from Africa
Which brings me to a little video I recorded recently.
Following the launch of The Highlands University of Ghostology, I wanted to thank the people who had supported my writing journey.
The readers.
The fellow authors.
The friends who had offered encouragement.
The people who had taken a chance on one of my stories.
Nothing elaborate.
Just me, speaking directly to the camera.
I wanted it to be genuine.
A simple message of gratitude.
But, naturally, I couldn't resist adding a little mischief at the end.
After thanking everyone, I looked into the camera and announced:
"This is Iwan Ross, author of The Highlands University of Ghostology, reporting live from Africa. Time to feed my giraffe and take my elephant for a walk."
And then I winked.
Of course, I don't have a giraffe waiting to be fed.
Nor do I have an elephant standing patiently outside, hoping I'll remember his afternoon exercise.
It's simply my way of having a little fun with the wonderfully imaginative ideas people sometimes have about life in Africa.
But the best part wasn't recording the joke.
It was showing the video to Marna.
She laughed.
And suddenly, I was reminded of something my grandfather had said all those years ago.
Watch My Little Message of Gratitude
Watch until the end. There may be a giraffe involved. And possibly an elephant.
I Think Grandpa Was Onto Something
Looking back, I can see a thread running through so much of my life.
It begins with a grandfather offering a little wisdom.
It continues through difficult days, when making Marna laugh was sometimes one of the few things I felt capable of giving her.
It passes through the writing of Elm Brook Manor, a story I created for the woman I love.
It winds through years of ghost mysteries, manuscripts, publishing adventures and all the strange challenges of independent authorship.
And eventually, it arrives at a fictional Scottish university where the living and the dead are apparently incapable of behaving themselves.
Perhaps that thread was always there.
Perhaps I simply needed time to recognise it.
I've learned that I don't have to choose between writing meaningful stories and having fun.
I don't have to make every supernatural encounter terrifying.
I don't have to approach every book launch as a solemn commercial exercise.
And I certainly don't have to pretend to be someone I'm not.
I can write mysteries.
I can create haunted places.
I can explore serious emotions and complicated human relationships.
And every now and then, I can allow a ghost to make an absolute fool of himself.
Because laughter belongs in stories too.
Just as it belongs in life.
The Gift I Could Give
I began this article with something my grandfather told me.
"You can give a woman everything she desires, and she will still be sad. But make her laugh, and you win her heart."
I wouldn't claim that laughter alone sustains a marriage.
Love requires much more than that.
Patience.
Kindness.
Trust.
Commitment.
The willingness to stand beside someone when life is anything but amusing.
Marna has given me those things, and more.
But I do believe my grandfather understood something precious about the joy of sharing a laugh.
Because sometimes, when you have very little else to offer, you can still give someone a moment of happiness.
A smile.
A ridiculous joke.
A reason to forget the troubles of the day, if only for a few seconds.
And perhaps that's what I've been doing all these years.
First with Marna.
Then through the stories I wrote for her.
And now, with readers who have never met either of us.
I couldn't give her the world.
So I tried to make her laugh.
And somewhere along the way, I discovered that I could invite a few more people to laugh with us.
If The Highlands University of Ghostology makes someone smile, if one of my silly videos brightens an otherwise difficult day, or if a reader closes the book feeling just a little happier than when they opened it, then I've accomplished something worthwhile.
Something my grandfather might have understood rather well.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I really must be going.
My giraffe is getting hungry.
And the elephant has been waiting patiently for his morning walk.
Wink.
Discover The Highlands University of Ghostology
A Scottish supernatural mystery filled with eccentric characters, restless spirits and a generous helping of British humour.
https://iwanross.com/books/the-highlands-university-of-ghostology
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