A Different Kind of Day

I knew as soon as I got up this morning that I wouldn’t be going to the shops.

And there seemed to be little point in finishing off my current picture book manuscript. Editors are too busy with holiday matters right now and anyway the post boxes are full to overflowing. So I decided to do something scarily different. I decided to bake some cakes.

For me cake baking is close to magic. If I don’t wave my wand... sorry, wooden spoon in quite the right way, it’ll be a disaster. So I spent some time consulting the book of spells... I mean, cookbook [lent to me by a very good friend] and I set to work measuring, mixing...

...baking and *abracadabra*...

I’ve only gone and magicked up a lemon drizzle cake! (It’s quite easy this baking business.)

Encouraged by my success I try a second cake. It’s a tad more complicated and so Mr A is called in to help with the decorative bits.

This goes into the oven and *izzy wizzy*...

...we have a Danish Apple Cake. There's only one thing left to do. As they say, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Delicious!

Talking of yummy food, I’d like to send a great big THANK YOU to one of my Twitter friends, Keris Stainton, for the lovely box of chocolates which is in the post to me as I type. I won her recent blog competition and the prize was a box of Hotel Chocolates from the Chocolate Tasting Club. I can recommend a visit to her blog post of a hilarious Strictly Come Dancing extract. [And yes, I'm still missing Strictly.]

  

Do you remember when cars were fun and quirky?

Every now and then I get an attack of nostalgia. I yearn for the way things used to be before the modern world came along and ‘spoilt it’. I’ve already blogged my rose-tinted memories of post-war food and those 1950s holiday-camp holidays and now I’ve come over all nostalgic about cars. It started the other day when I saw a classic car chugging down the road. It was a Ford Popular and it reminded me of Dad’s little car that he had when I was young.

This is me a long, long time ago sitting on the bonnet of Dad’s little car with my sister and mum.

The car looks so small and basic. It’s hard to believe how much they’ve changed. Surely they were better then than now... weren’t they? They were fun and quirky with things like:

•  Indicators that pretended to be little orange arms. They popped up from the side of the car and when they got jammed you had to bash the door to knock them back in again. They were to replace hand signals, I suppose. When I took my test you still had to show you could give hand signals. I had to demonstrate a signal for slowing down, a circular backward movement with the arm held straight out of the window. You’d get your hand chopped off by overtaking cars if you tried that now.

 

•  Bench seats in the front as well as the back of the car. When the car turned right the passenger would slide into the driver as, of course, there were no seat belts. This was particularly good for courting couples but not so exciting if you were taking your granny out for tea.

 

•  That big yellow AA badge fixed to the front grill of the car and whenever an AA man drove by on his motor bike he would salute you. I seem to remember that this happened a lot, especially when Dad took us for a Sunday afternoon ride into the country.

 

•  No wing mirrors but you could buy clip-on ones that were supposed to fit onto the window. They never did and they inevitably fell off if you opened the window... which you had to keep doing to give hand signals.

 

•  No in-car music, not even a radio. I used to hold my tranny (transistor radio) up to my ear and shuffle it round to try and get some sort of reception every time Dad turned a corner. Listening to your own music in the car was a non-starter. Can you imagine playing vinyl records with a stylus?!

 

•  The crank handle - talking of non-starters - which was kept under the driver’s seat in case the car wouldn’t start with the key, which in those days was most of the time, especially early in the morning, and there was the choke button which you pulled right out when the car was cold and slowly back in again as the car warmed up. If none of that worked we had to push and then run and catch the car up before Dad chugged off without us.

Oh yes! Those were the days!

  

Was this the last train out of London?

It was going to be a bit of an outing… well not much of one to be honest, but two days of tests for Rod at the National Amyloidosis Centre, at London's Royal Free Hospital was as good as it gets these days. It was the first time Rod had been out since his stem cell transplant four months ago and so, if nothing else, we were planning to include a bit of window shopping in the new, shiny St Pancras Train Station on the way home. 

Fortunately the consultation at the end of Rod’s two-day test marathon was good. He is progressing as well as can be expected. The statistics show that the stem cells have just about done what they were meant to do. All we need now is for him to get stronger and put on a bit of weight which will, the consultant assured us, happen all in good time. 

There were light flurries of snow as we shivered our way from the hospital but at St Pancras 'cancelled' signs screamed at us from the departure boards. This was no time for window shopping. We joined the mass of panicky travellers and wedged ourselves onto what, according to the information displayed, was the only train heading to the East Midlands. It was going to Sheffield to be precise, with Leicester as its first stop. 

The journey was beautiful, white fields lit by dazzling sunshine, but by the time we reached Leicester it was snowing and as we alighted from the train we heard the announcer breaking the news to the remaining travellers. The train was no longer going to Sheffield but would terminate at Derby. We’re home now, heating on full blast, cuddling hot mugs of tea, but I keep wondering what happened to all those people who thought they were on their way to Sheffield.

  

What exactly is sparkle anyway?

I arrived home from the shops yesterday to the sound of hammering. It made me smile. Rod was repairing a stool. In the afternoon, while he pottered in his potting shed, I settled down to work on some picture books. Life is slowly returning to some sort of normality.

It’s quite some time since I worked on picture book fiction so I dug out some of my guideline notes from way back. In amongst all the bumf about double-line spacing etc it said to make sure the story had lots of sparkle. I had no doubt faithfully written this from a book I was reading or a talk I attended but I don’t think I stopped to analyse it. I mean, what exactly is sparkle anyway? And never mind getting sparkle into picture books. If it’s so important, then I need to know how I can get sparkle into my life.

In my last blog post I talked about how we felt about ourselves on a scale of one to ten, ten being fantastic. I can’t remember the last time I was a ten. A number of you said the same in your comments. If we could work out how to get sparkle into our lives would it increase our scores? An eight would be good.

As far as writing picture books is concerned I reckon that the way we can add sparkle is to write with an easy-to-read rhythm, to include a fine sprinkling of alliteration and inner rhymes, and to feed the illustrators with many and varied spreads so they can add sparkle too....

Hang on a minute! Maybe I can do the same with my life. Maybe it’s all about an easy-to-live rhythm or maybe I have an inner illustrator who needs to be fed? Now there’s a thought.

p.s. I tried to take a photograph of the sun sparkling on the frosty grass but it wouldn't show. However many times I tried and whatever setting I put the camera on, the grass and frost were there but the sparkle wasn't. Sparkle is elusive - official!

What Not To Wear

On Friday I went to a big, 'dressy-up' do - a charity lunch in aid of Rainbows Children’s Hospice. I know that all charities are worthwhile causes but I do believe that Rainbows Hospice is even more worthwhile. I can’t understand why the hospice receives hardly any government funding. It provides such worthwhile services to ill children and their families... but don’t get me started on these injustices. Visit Rainbows’ website and see for yourself.

All morning I moaned, ‘I’ve got nothing to wear!’ which was especially pertinent as the topic of the after dinner talk was ‘What Not To Wear’. I rummaged through my row of impractical, outlandish outfits bought in the misguided belief that they would make me feel good. I finally found an Adini skirt and top accessorized with silver dangly jewellery and I was ready to face the world.

We were treated to a complementary box of chocolates (which I took home for Rod, of course!) 

...and a big goodie bag. What is it about goodie bags? Everyone dives in, dabbing lip gloss onto lips and moisturiser onto hands as if we’d never seen such luxuries. 

We ate and drank and ate some more and finally the after dinner speaker was announced. I have been known to doze off during after dinner speeches but not this time. Pippa Rees, style consultant, certainly knows how to keep her audience entertained. The BBC featured her in their 2009 ‘The Speaker’ articles and in her Style Boutique she offers one-to-one advice on how to discover our own personal style. [Sadly I can’t include a link as her website is displaying a malware warning.]

She began by asking how we felt about ourselves on a scale of one to ten, ten being fantastic. Some people put their hands up for ten. Wow! When was the last time you felt like a ten? And what were you wearing? Pippa believes there’s a connection, the outfit is crucial.

She asked what we said in the morning when we opened our wardrobe door. She received a chorus of, ‘I’ve got nothing to wear!’ It’s not just me then. Why do we keep clothes that don’t fit, are far too loud/dull or just plain uncomfortable? Her advice was to get rid of the items that we know we’ll never wear again and go clothes shopping with a list, just like at the supermarket.

But when I’m standing in a clothes shop I never know what style to go for. Pippa’s advice is to take a good look at those few clothes that we wear regularly and go for more of the same. It doesn’t mean we’re boring. It means that we’ve found our style. It would be good to think that I could find mine. I’ve spent long enough looking for it. I suppose it’s never too late to try but I know I’m still likely to buy something impractical and outlandish in the misguided hope that it will make me feel like a ten.

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Save the Words

90% of everything we communicate is done with only 7,000 words. I just read that on a fascinating website called savethewords.org. The screen is filled with words that are slipping out of usage and in risk of disappearing altogether. The words are animated and keep calling out ‘over here!’ and ‘choose me!’ It's hilarious but you'll have to visit it for yourself to obtain the full amusement value.

The Guardian Newspaper ran an article about the site this week. They urged us all to adopt a word, slip it into our conversations, emails, letters, reports, blogs and all manner of places to save it from extinction. 

It’s not hard to see why some words are on the way out. They’re not exactly relevant. [If they’re relevant to you then apologies but please start using them!] Here are just a few:

Stiricide = falling of icicles from a house

Sevous = like tallow

Frutescent = looking like a shrub

On the other hand, there are many words that deserve to be rescued. Here are three of my favourites:

Blateration = blabber or chatter

Woundikins = mild profanity

Piladex = a game where an inflated bag is hit with the hand across a table

Of course, it’s us lot who make it difficult for people to use obscure words. We’re apt to make fun, tease, say,

‘Oooooh, get him! He’s swallowed a dictionary for breakfast!’ 

As I write this, BBC Radio 2 is playing in the background. The language used by the DJs is simple and uncomplicated. It’s the sort of language that the majority of us hear and use every day. We have not only allowed, but have played a significant part in the dumbing down of our own lovely language. Isn’t that a shame?

I think we should join forces and try to turn this trend around. I’m going to adopt my three favourite words. Blateration describes the way I talk on the phone – I know it does! Woundikins is so cute even if it does mean a mild profanity, and piladex sounds like my type of game, not too energetic but with a bit of competitiveness to spur me on.

Anyway, enough of my blaterations. I do hope you’re all going to visit savethewords.org and adopt a word or I shall have to resort to woundikins! And now, anyone for a game of piladex?

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I'm a writer not a teacher

I dreamt last night that I was still teaching. I’d made the decision to hand in my notice but had left it too late and would have to wait until the following term. I should (and in real life would) have been devastated but I wasn’t. In my dream I was worried about:

• losing my identity
• the absence of a daily routine
• What would I say when people asked, “What job do you do?”

That third point is one that really hits home. People treated me differently when I said, "I'm a teacher." I get such varied and strange responses now when I say, “I’m a writer.” Why is that? I've been asked all of the following questions, some many times over.

• “Why are you a writer?”
• “How do you write a book?”
• “What do you do with yourself at home all day?”
• “Where do all your ideas come from?”
• “Aren’t you ever going to do a real job again?”

You wouldn’t dream of asking a teacher questions like that. Why should writing be so different?

I've been a writer, not a teacher, for many years now and yet fragments of that dream won’t leave my head. It’s made me feel flat. I guess I miss the companionship of going to work and the rhythm of a working week, but I’m writing this with the radio on in the background. The London Underground is at a complete standstill due to strike action. There are severe hold ups on all roads in and around London, and even though I don’t, and never have, lived in London, it reminds me how lovely it is to get up and ‘go to work’ in my comfortable, warm home and if I need companionship I know I can chat with all of you, even if some of you live over ten thousand miles away... especially as some of you live over ten thousand miles away!

[Example of me chatting with people who live over ten thousand miles away!] One of the comments to my recent blog about bird feeding got me thinking about whether there are different varieties of birds in gardens around the world or do you all have sparrows, blue tits and pigeons like here in Leicester?

Talking of bird feeding, my good friend, Pippa Goodhart, popped round the other day. [You can find Pippa’s website here and the interview I had with her is here.] She's bought me a fabulous present, a super-gourmet bird feeder. It contains every nut and seed the local birds could possibly want and my Yew tree is now a regular pit stop for green finches, chaffinches and a beautiful thrush, as well as the usual flocks of tits and sparrows. It’s brilliant and I certainly wouldn’t be able to enjoy it if I had to dash off to school every day.

Rod update: Rod is home from hospital yet again. Hopefully he’s going to stay home this time. He’s certainly eating better and, although he’s very weak and suffering from flu and virus infections due to his reduced resistance, he’s starting to look more like my lovely husband again.

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Feeding the Birds

Many years ago I tried to set up a bird feeding area in the garden. I even wrote an article about it. In fact, that article became my first ever published piece of work. It was called Birds’ Eye View and was in the August 1999 edition of The Lady magazine. It was a proud moment and a new path for me. It marked the beginning of my transition from a teacher who attended creative writing classes to a writer who does a bit of teaching now and then.

You may have noticed that I said, ‘tried to set up a bird feeding area’. I had to abandon the project because my lovely old cat, Rosie, was far too interested in the birds and my darling dog, Josh, used to eat all the seeds that fell to the ground, but now they’ve gone. For the first time in my life I have no pets and with Rod still in hospital this is not the time to even think about it... but it is the perfect time to resume my bird feeding attempts.

I thought it would take weeks for the birds to notice a new food supply but not a bit of it. With nothing more than a new seed holder and half a coconut of fat/seed mixture the birds are back. I hung the feeders up two days ago and already I’ve seen coal tits, blue tits, dunnocks, sparrows and a robin, not to mention two hefty pigeons who are eating all the seeds that are falling to the ground. I’m enjoying their company. In fact, I may even write another bird feeding article.

There were loads of birds there when I started to take the photo. Really there were!

Rod update: Following a bronchoscopy (camera investigation of the lungs), the doctors have identified a specific flu infection. This is what has been causing the fluid on the lungs and heart and the high temperature. They’ve changed his antibiotics and say that he may be able to come home within the next few days. I must rush off to clean the house!

What if...

What if I’d made different choices when I was younger? Where would I be? What would I be doing now? I don't think I'm alone with such thoughts. Robert Frost wrote about two roads diverging in a wood in The Road Not Taken. He took the one ‘less travelled by’.

I marked the first for another day.

Yet knowing how way leads on to way

I doubted if I should ever come back.

But what if he’d taken the first path instead? We’ll never know.

The song Crossroads, sung by Don Mclean, has a different take on this idea.

...there's no need for turning back

`cause all roads lead to where we stand...

The song implies that it doesn’t really matter what choices we make, life ends up pretty much the same anyway. We'll never know if that’s true either and it reminds me of the storyline for Gwyneth Paltrow in the film, Sliding Doors, but of course that’s a film. This is real life.

I often think ‘what if’. What if I’d never joined Val Moore’s creative writing class at Writing School Leicester? I’d still be teaching. I was never happy as a teacher but wasn’t sure what else I wanted to do. Creative writing was the answer but what if I’d never discovered that?

Then there’s the time I posted off a manuscript called Bathtime Rap. I almost didn’t bother. I’d received a few rejections that month and in my notebook I wrote, ‘posted off picture book ms to Franklin Watts today. What a waste of time!’ But it wasn’t a waste of time because it was accepted and became my first children’s picture book. What if I’d never sent it?

There’s a fine line between ‘what if’ and ‘if only’. When I was a teenager I was seriously thinking of moving to Israel when I met the man who became my first husband. I abandoned the plans and I often think ‘what if I’d gone?’ But I’d never, ever think ‘if only’ because then I wouldn’t have my two wonderful children.

There's no harm in the occasional 'what if' thoughts and I'm sure I'm not the only person who thinks 'what if'... am I?

Rod update: Thank you so much for all your kind wishes. Rod went back into hospital last Thursday with a high temperature, shortness of breath and chest pains. He has fluid on the lungs and heart. The doctors think this is due to an infection that could have been there for the last month but wasn’t picked up when he was readmitted a few weeks ago. The positive thing is that they’re now doing a whole battery of tests to identify the type of infection and hopefully will be able to eradicate it before they discharge him once more.

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Positive Thinking

I have often blogged about therapeutic writing and I do believe in the power of positive thought, and yet, as my sister recently pointed out, I have taken on a negative title “Writing in the Rain” and a negative tag-line “It hasn’t stopped raining yet” for my blog. She thinks I need to be more positive. Even my frilly umbrella is trying to get the message across. Last week it broke. I think it’s time I took notice of the two of them (my umbrella and my sister, that is, but not necessarily in that order!)

I’ve been writing this blog for almost a year and I don’t want to change its title now. Besides, there will inevitably be rain in my life and I will, no doubt, continue to write in the rain. We all have to write in the rain sometimes, but I hope there will be sunny writing days too. And so I’m going to change my picture from

to

just to prove that I can and do write in the sun too.

Friends in Need

The last few weeks have been horrible. It will take me a long time to get used to not having Josh in my life. He was such a lovely and lovable dog but I scarcely had time to mourn his loss before Rod’s health deteriorated again. Last Wednesday night he collapsed. I called the emergency ambulance but he was in so much pain they called the paramedics. It took over an hour of ECGs, inserting lines and administering morphine before they took us to Accident and Emergency. By now it was 1 am. I was trembling, frightened and confused but thankfully my friends followed the ambulance. They sat in a drafty, drunk-strewn waiting area until 3 am, then they drove me home and calmed me down.

Over the last few weeks friends have brought in meals, done my shopping and generally been there for me. One friend took all of Josh’s food to the Huncote Kennels (Leicester Animal Aid where we first met Josh as a three month old stray). Another friend took the wormery away. It was a responsibility too far and an unnecessary risk of further infection for Rod.

After lots of tests and high-dose antibiotics and antifungal treatments, Rod was discharged yesterday. He’s able to keep proper food down for the first time in over two months so I’m hoping that life will start to return to normal, although it will never be quite the same as it was. I can never replace Josh. He was truly irreplaceable but with my friends there to support me I hope that very soon life will start to hurt a little less.

Sad News

Last week my darling dog, Josh, died. He became ill very quickly. He spent three days at the vets on a drip but he didn’t respond to treatment. I miss him very much. It still hurts too much to talk or even write about him. I need to take some time out to get over this.

Talking to yourself...

... what’s so wrong with that?

She wears fluorescent green wellies, her jeans are turned up a little too much to be fashionable, and her blue waterproof coat is one size too large. Her dog trots along beside her and she is talking. She could be talking to the dog but, as he never appears to reply, she is in effect talking to herself. The writers among you will be preparing to use her as the batty lady who inadvertently becomes a key witness to a crime in a who-dun-it, or as the under-cover witch with awesome magical powers in a children’s novel, but before you unashamedly include her in your next piece of creative writing I must warn you that the lady is me.

I often talk to myself. It’s not a new phenomenon brought on by the recent stresses of an ill husband. I can clearly remember many years ago a teacher colleague looking round my classroom door, her brow furrowed at the sight of me chattering away to a pile of Year 3 artwork and an emerging wall display.

But why is there such a stigma in talking to yourself? I bet loads of you have done it in private and would happily do so in public if it wasn’t for those worried glances from passers-by in the street. Even in a crowd I’ll bet you’ve muttered things under your breath, keeping the tone way down low so others won’t hear, but why should you keep the tone low and why shouldn’t you talk to yourself?

Talking to yourself can clear the mind. When you read a manuscript out loud, you get a better awareness of the lumps and bumps that need ironing out. It’s the same with your thoughts, concerns, plans for the day, anything that’s going round and round in your head. Say it out loud and you can more clearly see what the problem is and what needs to be done. It’s also an excellent way of letting off steam, like shouting out ‘I don’t believe it!’ (or similar phrases) after running for a bus only to have the driver pull away as you reach the door?

Even if you’ve never, ever had the slightest desire to hold a conversation with yourself, there is one thing that I would urge you all to try at least once. You see, it is possible that when people thought they saw me on the park talking to myself they were mistaken. I was probably singing. I wouldn’t suggest trying this in a crowded street. If my voice is anything to go by it could well offend, but when I’m on my own I stride across the field in my fluorescent green wellies with my jeans turned up high enough to avoid the long wet grass and I sing to the birds and the trees, to the bushes, even to the rising sun. What's so wrong with that?

Apple and Honey

It’s tradition. Pass round the apple and honey at the time of the Jewish New Year for a fruitful and sweet year to come.

Every year I chop up apple, pour out honey and wonder if it can possibly make a difference. I know that eating apple dipped in honey can’t change my future life but it can change the way I view life in general. It makes me think of that lovely holiday in Bruges, those atmospheric early morning walks with the dog, that morning coffee and chat with a good friend. This has not been the easiest of years but it has been a fruitful one and there have been sweet times. My beautiful new grandson was born. I had my children’s history book accepted for publication. I’ve make a lot of lovely new blog friends.

The sun will be setting in a few hours time. I’ll soon be getting out the pot of honey and selecting the rosiest of apples, only this year I’ll peel them and chop them into thin pieces so Rod can manage them, and together we’ll look forward to a year that’s not only fruitful and sweet but full of good health too.

Happy new year  

Almost home... but it’s Bank Holiday Weekend

Rod is recovering from his stem cell transplant. He’ll soon be discharged from hospital but not while he has a Hickman line in. It’s yet another source of infection and this is something he must avoid with his present low levels of resistance... but it’s Bank Holiday weekend which means that the lines can’t be taken out until Tuesday so they allowed him home for the afternoon as long as he was back by 8 pm, a bit like being a prisoner out on licence.

Rod’s resistance is so low that I’ve been given a long list of dos and don’ts regarding cleanliness and food hygiene. It’s scary but when I got up this morning I only had to disinfect the door handles and brush the dog to put the finishing touches to my newly super-clean house. All was going well until I stepped into the downstairs toilet. Water was dripping from the hand basin. I tried to phone the plumber... but it’s Bank Holiday weekend and there was no reply so I decided to tackle the leak myself. How hard can it be to tighten a nut under a tap? I found the nut. No problem. I turned it and... OK, so I turned it the wrong way and once the water started to pour it was impossible to get a grip on it with wet fingers. Thankfully a kind neighbour came round with his toolbox, fixed the leak and I was able to finish my cleaning and get to the hospital in time for Rod's 'day-release'.

Rod is very weak and has by no means recovered from the treatment but today he had two good meals, he sat in the conservatory and admired his garden (which fortunately is still surviving) and he was reunited with the dog. Josh-the-dog has a manic streak. When the kids come home to visit he does crazy circuits, the sort of circuits where back legs overtake front legs with hilarious consequences. It’s been almost four weeks since Rod went into hospital. When we arrived home we braced ourselves for a daft dog explosion but Josh didn’t move. He stood and stared and then he pressed his head against Rod’s legs. Rod sat on the stairs. Josh laid his head on Rod’s lap and there they sat. If dogs could cry Josh would have been shedding tears of relief. Dogs can’t cry but we can... and we did.

Hospitals and Wormeries... Aaagh!

Rod will have been in hospital for three weeks on Tuesday. They said it would take three weeks for the entire stem cell transplant procedure, but they didn’t reckon on the chemotherapy sending his kidneys into hibernation. It would seem that the kidneys are lazy organs. That’s what the specialist said, and now they need to be coaxed into working again. The doctors are hoping to avoid dialysis because of the risk of infection but the machine is all set up and ready beside his bed just in case.

While he’s in hospital I’m in charge at home. I’ve managed to get the recycling sorted. The composting regime is easy but I made the mistake of buying Rod a wormery for his birthday earlier this year. A colony of worms is one responsibility too many. Those who know me well, know how much I loathe worms. If I touch a worm while I’m gardening the entire street knows about it but I overcame the fear. I had to. Rod’s wormery was letting in water. Some worms have drowned. I was mortified. I may not like them but I didn’t mean to kill them. The main problem is that it will not stop raining! So I’ve turned the mixture to let in some air. I’ve stirred in paper and oats to dry them out. Today I moved them all into the shed... without screaming once. Who’d have thought it?

Not all of my additional responsibilities are yuk, for example taking Josh-the-dog for his evening walk. The evening walk was always, always Rod’s job but I’m starting to quite enjoy it... if only it would stop raining! It hasn’t stopped raining since the day after Rod went into hospital. He’d set up an elaborate array of watering cans etc to make it easier for me to water all the pots but I haven’t had to use them once. I’m starting to wonder if someone up there has noticed the title of my blog and decided to be ironic!

Rod is still not able to eat solids, his kidneys are still struggling, his resistance is rock bottom because of the high-dose chemotherapy and he’s very weak but he is really hoping to be home by next weekend or the beginning of the following week. I hope he’s not disappointed. I guess you’ll all be relieved too because it’ll mean that I’ll stop moaning on about hospitals and treatments and start talking about something more interesting instead so, for all our sakes, here’s hoping.

...and now I’m writing in a downpour

I may have mentioned before the reason for the name of my blog. Bear with me if I’m becoming repetitious. It’s not old age so much as stress... I hope. I’m writing in the rain because Rod has been heading for a stem cell transplant since I set this blog up last year, but right now the blog should be called ‘writing in a downpour’.

This week has been grim. Rod has been on morphine most of the time. Visiting times have consisted of me sitting staring at him... but yesterday when I arrived he was sitting up sipping a cup of tea. He asked normal questions like ‘Has the Bank Statement arrived?’ It was brilliant. He’s not through the worst quite yet. They’re concerned about his kidneys and he may have to go onto dialysis for a few days but he’s talking and thinking. He’s more like my Rod.

I’m feeling overloaded at the moment. I’d like to wrap myself in fluffy pink candy floss and not have to face the world but it looks like the world needs me. Josh-the-dog had his stitches out on Thursday after a lump (a nasty one as it turned out) was removed from his thigh. It’s healing well at the moment but he’s still consigned to the bucket when I go out and at bedtimes because he wants to pick the last few scabs off. You can’t blame him. There’s something irresistible about a crunchy, black scab. But he’s happy and eating and roaring round the park after his ball so fingers crossed...

What’s more I am truly writing this in a downpour, not just my metaphorical one. I now know why my dog-walking coat is called shower-proof and not water-proof. It’s a horrible feeling when icy rain trickles down your back. Still, at least the weather has provided me with one positive. I’ve not got to water the garden while Rod’s in hospital. In fact, it’s all looking green and lush and I know he’ll be delighted when he’s sitting right here looking at it... and so will I.

Hospital Visiting is Exhausting

Having someone ill in hospital is hard enough without having to find your way to the appropriate ward, work out what you can and can’t do as a visitor and then, having got all that sorted, you have to think of interesting, uplifting things to say. Parking the car is yet another problem. Our hospital has an almost permanent queue of cars attached to it. With Rod undergoing a stem cell transplant this is affecting me on a daily basis. But here’s the twist. The queue has become a source of fascination and a useful discussion point. Before I explain I’ll give a brief Rod Report for those of you who have kindly been asking after him.

Rod Report: He’s now in isolation as the high-dose chemo (Melphalan administered on Wednesday) has upset his digestive system badly and his blood count is dropping. I’m allowed to go in and see him but I must wash my hands and gel them before I go into and when I come out of his room.

 

They reintroduced his stem cells on Friday but the doctor did warn that this procedure would feel like an anti-climax. Three bags were removed from a huge tank with liquid nitrogen floating around (as I had imagined). Each bag was placed in a warm bath and as soon as it reached body temperature the liquid (red with tiny white dots i.e. the baby stem cells) was fed in through his drip system. They are helping him to fight the chemotherapy but he won’t feel the benefits for some time.

 

He’s very uncomfortable and is on a saline drip because they’re concerned about his lack of fluid intake and the condition of his kidneys. He’s likely to be in the unit for at least another two weeks. We’ve been warned that during this week the symptoms will get steadily worse. I’m trying to busy myself with writing so I’ll get back to my blog now.

 

Talking is making Rod feel sick. I’ve never had a problem generating idle chatter so as soon as I arrive, I start chatting to him... but I keep mentioning food. This is not good. Fortunately I’m sitting on a chair beside the window overlooking the queue of cars for the car park and I can give Rod a running commentary about the many and varied quirks of queuing drivers.

Here are just a few:

‘Swap the driver’ These people must be first-time visitors. The regulars know that the one with the appointment needs to be in the passenger seat so that, after inching along the road for half an hour, they can jump out of the car and run into the hospital (health permitting) to avoid being late.

 

‘The crawler’ Some drivers won’t pull forward when a car goes through the barrier. They try to play the ‘let’s see if I can keep moving very, very slowly’ game. Please don’t. For those people behind you it’s highly irritating.

 

‘The entrance blocker’ Most drivers leave the orange box areas free for delivery vehicles to enter other hospital gates, but just a few steadfastly don’t. It causes chaos.

 

‘Alternative pick up point’ I’ve done this for quick treatments like blood tests. Rod gets out of the car as I join the queue. I crawl along and before I reach the front of the queue he’s finished and rejoined me. We pull out and the driver in the car behind thinks I’m great.

‘The ignorants’ Every so often a car speeds down the outside lane and swerves into the car park when it reaches the front of the queue. This has happened in front of me on several occasions and it’s infuriating. There’s nothing you can do about it because they’ve got through the barrier by the time you’ve decided to get out and tackle them and you’re left with high blood pressure. At least the hospital has an A&E Department if it all becomes too much.

I know that the official line about hospital parking is that it’s preferable to get the bus but it isn’t, truly it isn’t. When I get out of that hospital all I want to do is to climb into my car and drive myself home. Hospital visiting is exhausting.

Bruges, Blakeney and Holiday Snaps

Do you remember when you had to wait at least two weeks for the holiday photographs to be ready and then when you went to collect them most of them were duds? Well mine were anyway. Now I can look at a photo instantly, take a whole stream of shots until I get it right, email that perfect picture round the family at the press of a button. It’s clever stuff.

Dad used to have his snaps developed onto slides. When guests arrived he would draw the curtains, set up the screen and get the projector out. Mum always complained. She wanted printed photographs to hold in her hand. She makes the same complaint now when I get my mobile out or sit her at my computer for a photo show. Some things never change... including the post-holiday blues.

It’s always difficult when you get back from holiday, washing to be done, food to be bought and you’ve even got to cook the stuff yourself, but this time we topped all the usual problems. We arrived home to hospital messages calling Rod in for extra tests before next week’s stem-cell transplant and, something we weren’t expecting, Josh-the-dog was rushed into the vet’s to have a lump removed from his thigh. We’re hoping it’s going to be ok. We’re hoping it’s from the fox bite he had a few months ago. It never really healed properly.

But this blog is meant to be about holidays not illnesses. 

Two weeks ago we went to Blakeney in Norfolk. I enthused at length about Blakeney here so I won’t bore you with repetition but it is my all time favourite holiday resort and this time we treated ourselves. We stayed at The Blakeney Hotel.

   
I could get used to living like that. We lounged in their lounges and Josh-the-dog walked all his favourite coastal-path walks. The restaurant overlooks the creek and we watched the tide rising and falling while lovely young waiters served up three-course meals every evening, followed by coffee (or mint tea in my case) and home-made chocolates.

Talking of chocolates, last week we visited beautiful Bruges. It’s a place where the sound of bicycle bells and horses’ hooves on cobbles merge with the aroma of artisan chocolate. Bruges has managed to retain its old-world look unlike any other place I’ve ever visited but I wouldn’t have been able to say exactly why until our tour guide pointed out that there are no aerials, no satellite dishes, or electricity wires. All the 21st century services, including internet connections, are ducted beneath the cobbled pavements...

...and there are very few ‘impossible to walk over’ cobbles. They’re mostly modern ones which are easy on both the feet and the eye. Why can’t our pavements look as good at that?

Bikes seem to be the favoured method of travel for the locals. For the tourists the horses are continually ‘doing the circuit’.

Our guide was keen to impress upon us how well these horses are cared for, never working more than one day on and one day off, and having numerous rests and meal breaks.

The canals contain very little traffic as only the local tour boats are allowed to navigate them...

...along with the swans which, our guide assured us, are almost as well looked after as the horses.

And so we move on to next week and all the hospital treatments but we have these lovely memories, not to mention megabytes of photos, to remind us... and I don’t even have to warm the projector up to view them.

Not enough blogging time

I’ve run out of time this week. I haven’t been to visit all my favourite blogs or made my usual blog comments and I know how much comments mean to bloggers. [In fact, some of us can be childishly overenthusiastic about them!] But I have a good/bad reason. Rod [Mr A.] was hoping [we were all hoping] he could avoid having that stem cell transplant that I’ve been muttering on about in my blogs, but the hospital say that it must be the next course of treatment. The amyloids are building up and if left unchecked they’ll damage his kidneys and spread to other organs in his body. He has no choice and so he will be going into the bone marrow unit on 3rd August.

I used to think that a stem cell transplant meant putting something new into the body, much like a heart transplant, but it’s not. It’s a way for them to give him an extremely high dose of chemotherapy. The dose would be fatal without the reintroduction of his own stem cells to help his body to recover. They were harvested last year and are stored at the hospital in what my mind imagines to be a container full of swirling dry ice, akin to something from a Frankenstein movie. Joking aside, it’s an aggressive treatment. He’ll be in hospital for about three weeks and convalescing for about three months. During that time he must avoid infections. He won’t even be able to touch his lovely garden. [I will try to make sure that it still is a lovely garden when the hospital gives him permission to dirty his hands again but I’m no gardener. Truly I’m not.]

And so we’re going to go out and about this week. We’re going to spend time with good friends, visit exciting places, keep busy and have fun. I won’t be around much in blogland for the next seven days so I thank you in anticipation [that’s a lovely old phrase, isn’t it] for your visits and your comments. Once he’s undergoing treatment I rather think I’ll be visiting you all quite a lot.

At the end of WHAT day?

‘At the end of the day’ is an annoying modern cliché. I wouldn’t mind if people were talking about bedtime but they rarely are. I can accept its use by people chattering over a pint when language is far less important than a good gossip but I have heard news reporters using it. I’ve heard government officials too, specialist doctors, solicitors, people who should have a better command of the English language.

I’m not suggesting that we all create totally new and exciting phrases each time we speak but we could try to be a little more original. Shakespeare, it seemed, was always creating new phrases. It’s a shame that we’re so lacking in originality ourselves that we’re still copying his ideas.

‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet,’ from Romeo and Juliet.

‘All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players,’ from As You Like it.

'There's method in his madness' which was originally ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in 't,’ from Hamlet.

I could go on and on... and on. His command of language was truly inspiring. When his contemporaries heard some of those lines for the first time they must have leapt about with excitement.

‘Don’t use clichés’ has become a mantra of creative writing classes. They’re normally referring to the old, well-worn type, like ‘dull as ditchwater’. City dwellers rarely see ditchwater and I suspect it’s not really dull. There are probably insects hopping around in it, the odd lizard or mammal and maybe even fish. In other words the phrase does not create a useful picture in my mind. The mantra should extend to modern slang too, like ‘end of’. I’m sure I heard the PM use that the other day.

If it’s good practice for writers to avoid clichés then it’s not unreasonable for speakers to do the same. So, if you’re a reporter, a government representative or even the Prime Minister, please don’t use the phrase, ‘at the end of the day’. Why not use the word ‘ultimately’ or better still nothing at all. Just tell us what it is you’re trying to say and remember, at the end of the day, the phrase adds nothing.

Is there a cliché that really annoys you?

‘To cut a long story short’ was a Tweet suggestion from my Twitter friend @mariaAsmith and I agree with her. It’s really irritating.

Is there a cliché that you rather like?

‘Count your blessings’ was a Tweet suggestion from my Twitter friend @MiriamHalahmy. Her Mum would say this and then tap the heads of her six grandchildren. Now that’s lovely.

Thanks for your contributions.

World Cup Sack Race

So it's over. The streets were almost deserted on Sunday evening. Any public place without a wide screen TV might as well have shut for the night. Even I watched the last half hour. I saw extra time and the only goal. But why is football so special? In Medieval times FIFA would have been accused of sorcery, of controlling people's minds with magic chants or with magic football dust. 'How else could this worldwide obsession happen?' a person from Medieval Times would have said.

So humour me for a moment or two and consider what the world would be like if that magic dust had been sprinkled over the Sack Race rather than football:

• All local parks would have Sack Race fields.
• Shops would sell designer sacks in local teams' colours at prices that unashamedly exceeded costs.
• Any self-respecting kid would have his own sack. Girls would sometimes have sacks but men would inexplicably consider girls to be temperamentally unsuitable for the game.
• People would drive round with tiny sacks in their team's colours flapping from their car windows.
• Drunken fans would sing Sack Race chants, 'Come on you Bouncers!'
• The top Sack Racers would earn more money that was good for them but their careers would be short-lived due to repetitive strain injury on their knees from all the bouncing.
• Children would look up to Sack Race stars even though they elbowed, pushed and tripped up other Sack Race competitors.
• Those same Sack Race stars would be driven to playing 'dirty' because the prize for winning... the chance to hold that golden Sack Race Cup at the end of the World Cup Sack Race meant so very much to them and their fans.

OK, so it was only pretend but football is just a game where men kick a bouncing ball around. How did it come to mean so much to so many people?

The Ups and Downs of a Big-Zero Birthday

This is going to be a very quick blog as today is my Big-Zero Birthday... hurray!

But we had to set the alarm early for Mr A’s hospital appointment... boo!

Family and friends are coming for the weekend... hurray!

But I have a shopping list that’s almost as long as the Isner/Mahut tennis match... boo!

The weather is going to be scorching... hurray!

But that will make guest babies, oldies and dogs fractious... boo!

We have people staying in relays, some on Saturday night, others on Sunday night. I’m so organised... hurray!

But I may well run out of clean sheets... boo!

Hang on! None of this matters because today is my Big-Zero Birthday and I’m going to enjoy my weekend. Next week I may even blog about it.

There once was a dormouse...

It’s that time of year again. The delphiniums are big, blue and beautiful and the geraniums, which should really be called pelargoniums, are starting to fill the window boxes with colour.

And every year I think of the poem about delphiniums blue

and geraniums red and it makes me smile.

I’ve always loved that A. A. Milne poem. It’s called ‘The Dormouse and The Doctor’ and it began,

‘There once was a dormouse who lived in a bed of delphiniums blue and geraniums red.’

I didn’t know what delphiniums or geraniums were when I was a child but it didn’t matter. The rhythm was enthralling. Mum used to read it to me at night before I went to sleep when I was very young... which is almost the name of the poetry book. The actual title of the book is ‘When We Were Very Young’. There’s a second book called ‘Now We are Six’. I had them both. I remember some of those poems so well that I can still recite them today.

‘The King’s Breakfast’... I just love the way he slid down the banister,
‘Us Two’... where, of course, there was always Pooh and me,
‘Vespers’... I too had a blue dressing gown but it didn’t have a hood.

Anyone who has never heard of A. A. Milne or Winnie the Pooh must think I’ve gone crazy. The point I’m trying to make is how important the bedtime reading routine was for me. It was the best time of the day, the most magical, special, well remembered part of my childhood. We didn’t only read poems. Mum read stories too. My all time favourite was ‘The Caravan Family’ by Enid Blyton. In fact I loved anything by Enid Blyton and once I could read I worked my way through every single ‘Famous Five’ and ‘Secret Seven’ book many times over.

I thank Mum for creating those special times and introducing me to the wonder of poetry and prose. How sad to think that not everyone has the chance for quality time and those precious moments with a parent at bedtime. Reading to kids ought to be compulsory.

Well done me!

This is not something that I’m used to saying. It almost feels obscene to praise myself... but then again why not. I have driven over 500 miles in the last week. We’ve been out and about visiting family and, as Mr A is continuing to have trouble with his eyes, he’s having to put up with my driving. I hate driving distances so I think I deserve a bit of praise.

I have two major problems with long distance motorway driving; boredom and lane discipline. As a passenger I’d often overcome the boredom by writing. Obviously this is not an option for a driver but I can’t even think about a current story plot while I’m behind the wheel. My mind is totally engaged and yet it is so boring.

I know! I know! I need to drop my shoulders but somehow or other they always want to touch my ears when I’m on the motorway.

The other problem is anticipating which lane to get into. Why do motorways have to have left hand lanes that suddenly become a different road? One minute you’re driving along the M6, the next you’re being swept into the M56 and heading for Wales. How confusing is that? I do have a Sat Nav with a nice Irish man called Sean who talks to me in a gentle, reassuring way but even with his help I have been dangerously close to being swept onto the wrong road several times during this last week.

The reason we’re doing a bit of travelling is that Mr A has just completed a six-month course of chemotherapy but unfortunately the levels in his blood are continuing to rise and the doctors are concerned that the Amyloidosis will spread if no further action is taken. They want to refer him for a stem cell transplant but we’re trying to delay them... just a little. He needs a break. It’s summer. We’re going to get away, visit family, go to the seaside, enjoy some typical British ‘warm’ weather. The family visits over this last week are just the start of our summer of busy... although I have to say there’s busy and there’s busy.

Last Sunday was spent daughter-visiting. It was a lovely day so we decided to take Josh-the-dog exploring. Nothing too energetic. It was more of a stroll than a walk. We wandered, we watched the ducks, Josh socialised a little...

...but everyone around us was so busy.

We were overtaken by joggers, cyclists, even canoeists – and yes that is a canoeist ‘shooting the weir’ or whatever they call it.

What is it with all this need for physical activity? Can it really be healthy, especially on such a warm day? The picture on the left doesn't quite show it but the joggers were passing us constantly. At one point I feared that it might become busier on that path than on the motorway... still at least there was no danger of being swept onto the M56 to Wales and I could do some of my Nosy Adam people watching and story-idea gathering without having to concentrate too hard on where I was going.

A note for other Nosy Adams/Parkers/Smiths/etc like myself: A project called Bugged has just been launched. There’s more information on their website but basically they’re asking writers to ‘go forth and eavesdrop’ on July 1st. We have to write something based on what we hear and send it to them by August 15th. There’ll be an anthology of the best coming out in October 2010.

Permission to be nosy… now that’s what I call fun!

Blog or newspaper article... What’s the difference?

The Leicester Mercury is one of the largest local newspapers in the UK with an estimated daily readership of almost 200,000. It features a mix of local and national news plus items of local interest which, last Friday, included an article by me. It was my blog posting called Strictly Limited Experience but seeing it published on the pages of the Leicester Mercury made me feel uncomfortable and I’m not sure why. It’s not as if this was my first published article. That happened way back in the 1990s when The Lady published an article about my involvement in a local bird count. I admit I was ecstatic at the time but I’ve had many articles published since then so why did this feel different?

It could be because the piece was never intended to be a newspaper article. I know that this blog can be read by anyone in the word but it’s my blog and I can choose to talk about whatever I wish. When I received a copy of the paper I scrutinised the article for any social gaffe or misdemeanour that I may have committed. I’ve yet to find out if the mother of the boy who wanted to see a close up of the goal during his first trip to live football has recognised herself. It may be that she doesn’t mind being written about. Mum expressed surprise at being discussed in her local paper even though she had no objections to being mentioned in my blog. Maybe we’ve lulled ourselves into a false sense of security. I mean, I’m only talking to myself here and you lot don’t really exist... do you?

Hang on! You must exist because I can hear you all asking, ‘If it was never intended to be a newspaper article how come it was in last Friday’s edition?’ Good question and the answer is Twitter. I was tweeting away late Sunday night with several of my local Twittermates. They were agreeing with me about the issues of accessibility at that particular venue when the editor of the Leicester Mercury tweeted me an offer to publish it as a First Person article. Of course, I agreed but this was gone 11 pm and it was all rather surreal. I felt more reassured when he emailed me during working hours to confirm but, and here’s a note to all those friends who think I waste my time on Twitter, I certainly have Twitter to thank for it being published.

So, has the article reached a wider audience? The Editor promised that it would and I’m not disputing it but I have no proof. The good thing about a blog is that people who read and appreciate my words will spend a few moments adding a comment at the bottom. Non-bloggers can’t ever understand how much that means to a blogger. I wondered if the article would increase my local blog following but so far it hasn’t. Mind you, at Mum’s day centre a well-thumbed copy was being passed from table to table and it was suggested that, as it really did read quite well, I might think of becoming a writer. I smiled politely. They probably think that all writers walk around with a quill in their hand and a whimsical look in their eye... but that’s another blog story.

Strictly Limited Experience

Forgive me if I have a moan but...

...I took Mum to see Strictly the Professionals at Leicester’s De Montfort Hall the other afternoon. We both love Strictly Come Dancing and were looking forward to more of the same. We were hoping to see a selection of ballroom as well as Latin but it was mainly modern freestyle. The dancing was good but even the Waltz was jazzed up and the Quickstep never got a look in. The show was all about skimpy clothes and loud music – not exactly appropriate for an afternoon matinee where a large proportion of the audience were elderly. I’m willing to bet that they were all there for the ballroom too. What a shame.

I couldn’t even get to see Vincent Simone’s raised eyebrow properly, but then I suppose that’s the theatre experience. I blame television for raising my expectations. I’m so used to seeing close up shots of everything that I find it frustrating to have to squint from many rows back. A friend commented recently after taking her son to see his first live football match that he was disappointed when he didn’t get a close up of the free kick. I wonder if he was expecting an action replay too. I suppose what you lose in close ups you gain in atmosphere. There’s nothing like the buzz of being in a football crowd when a goal’s scored and there was certainly a friendly and warm atmosphere in the theatre that afternoon.

But I’m afraid there are more moans. I had booked our tickets well in advance and explained about Mum’s limited mobility and yet to reach our seats we had to go up two steep steps and shuffle along a row. In the end the entire line of seated people very kindly filed out to let Mum in. We were grateful but embarrassed and if any of them are reading this now then I would like to thank them very much. Once seated, we watched as other people struggled to reach their seats. It was reassuring to know that it wasn’t just Mum but worrying to think that one slip could mean a major incident.

When the show was over it took some time to get back down again as there was only one very small lift available. Mum has trouble standing for any length of time and so we had yet more problems when we finally reached ground floor level. There was nowhere for Mum to sit and wait with a view of the front door while I fetched the car for her and so she had to stand outside. I don’t think we’ll be going to the theatre again, well not that theatre anyway.

My blog is carbon neutral

We put all our kitchen waste onto the compost heap and something akin to magic happens. It turns into fine, brown soil. Mr A. spreads it throughout the garden, especially on the vegetable plot and when his beans are read we eat beans at every meal, every single meal, and that’s good because I like beans. Really I do. But then I go to the supermarket and their shelves are full of vegetables that have been flown in from all over the world. Is that really necessary?

[This is one of our three compost heaps. It’s overflowing at the moment but Mr A. will soon be layering it and then the magic will begin.]

We’re always careful with our use of electricity. We turn lights off when we leave a room and we use low carbon bulbs where possible even though they’re not always the prettiest of choices. But then we go into the centre of Leicester of an evening and we are surrounded by brilliance. Do we need to have so many of the City’s historic buildings soaking up all those kilowatts?

I try to buy food from the corner shop so that I can support local business and leave my car at home… I try. When I was small there was a row of shops within easy reach for most people in Leicester. The shops sold fresh stuff because everyone used them regularly. These days it’s too easy to fill up our supermarket trolleys and we end up with out-of-date food that goes onto our compost heap... which shows that I’m even recycling my words because this is where my blog began.

I thought that keeping a blog couldn’t possibly harm the environment but Lorel Clayton at I’m Blogging Drowning Here has shown me otherwise. My blog has a carbon footprint. According to Alexander Wissner-Gross, PhD, physicist at Harvard University, the carbon dioxide emission of a typical blog is 8lbs a year. The carbon dioxide absorption of a tree is 11lbs a year, so that’s the answer. I need to plant a tree. I love trees but, as you can see in the photo above, we have no room for any more trees in our suburban back garden.


This is where Mach's grün! comes in. They are trying to raise people’s awareness of this issue and will plant a tree for every blog that explains their work... so there you have it. I’ve owned up to the fact that my blog has been adding to the world’s carbon dioxide overload. Many apologies for that, but many thanks to the people at Mach's grün! and thanks to Lorel for passing the information on to me. Click on the leaf below if you’d like to find out more about it and maybe you could get your blog carbon neutralised too.

We look but do we see?

We hear The Voice in our heads but do we obey?

...and what has this got to do with a visit from Salley Vickers?

How many times do we look at things without seeing them? I was in the garden the other day as it was getting dark. The lights were on in the house but the curtains were not yet drawn. I looked and thought, ‘What a lovely house.’

Yes, I know that Mr A. is always reminding me of this when I moan about things like windows that won’t open. It was because I was looking at the inside of our house from an unusual angle that I really saw it.

I was reminded of this last night when Salley Vickers visited the Leicester Writers’ Club. She told us how she often wanders through art galleries when she’s working on a novel. One day she found herself looking at Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus. It was a painting she had looked at many times but this time she really saw it. The story it portrayed gave her the inspiration for The Other Side of Me.

Salley, who used to teach ancient literature, says that she finds reassurance in the grace and value of ancient stories. Miss Garnet’s Angel emerged from the story of Tobit. As a teenager she had accidentally discovered the Venetian Church with Tobit’s story told in a series of painted panels. Years later she taught the story to her students, revisited the Church and Miss Garnet appeared.

Salley is an author who never plans, has never been to a creative writing class and is quite sure that if she were to attend one, just talking about her novel before it was completed would make it disappear. Her talk last night was not so much an account of her writing life, but more a challenge to get us thinking.

Do we hear the author’s voice when we read or do we see the words and absorb the story that way?

When Salley reads a novel she has the author talking to her from the page. She enjoys the rhythm of the writing and delights at being surprised by the actions of the characters. Salley likes to write about those characters that we think we know... but we don’t really know if we know them until we get to know them better... and then we realise that we didn’t know them at all... or maybe we did know them all along. We just thought that we didn’t know them. [Sorry. I know what she means. I just couldn’t quite put it into words.]

Do we hear The Voice in our head?

In Salley’s current book, Dancing Backwards, one of the main characters is The Voice. She says that we all have The Voice in our heads. The Voice is that part of ourselves who knows what’s what and what we should do. The problem is we sometimes don’t listen. It can get us into all sorts of trouble. During the question and answer session at the end I wish now that I’d asked Salley if she can remember ignoring The Voice with interesting consequences. If you’re reading this, Salley, do please comment below and let us know. The same goes for the rest of you. Have you ever refused to listen to The Voice? And what happened as a consequence?

[If anyone has read Dancing Backwards please don’t let me know how it ends. I bought a copy last night and so have not yet read it!]

Writing Styles and Writing Goals

After my indecisions of yesterday I’ve managed to choose some goals for Merrilee’s Creativity Workshop. I need to select three goals and each one will be central to a group of short stories. I would love to hear your views on the ones I've chosen.

My first is setting:

I usually set my stories in the present day or in one case in the future and yet I have a history degree and used to teach history so I’m going to try placing my first group of stories into a historical setting. I don’t often read historical novels and I know a lot of you do so what do you think makes a really good historical novel?

My second is point of view:

I love writing first person present tense and have never written from the third person omniscient point of view. (I double-checked the meaning and it’s when you look down on your characters as if you’re a cloud floating above them.) This is what I will be trying to do with my second group of stories. Before I became a writer I was often unaware of the point of view used in a novel. Are you aware of which point of view your favourite novels are written in and does it make a difference to your enjoyment of them? Which do you prefer, first person, third person or omniscient?

My third is the Main Character:

I have an admission to make. I quite often don’t like my main characters. I rather suspect they’re based on my view of me and that this is linked with my preference for writing in the first person. I much prefer and give the best lines to their friends. I am going to work on creating strong main characters who aren’t totally lovely because that would be ‘gooey-yuk’ but I want to create main characters who the reader cares about. What sort of Main characters are heart-stoppers for you?

And now all I'll have to do is to write the stories.