Pieces of Paper

Some of my current notebooks
I have many more packed
away for posterity!

In 2007 I attended a writing course. Yesterday I had a chat with the leader of that course and happened to mention that I still refer to her course notes.

“How exciting!” she said. “I’ve been through several computers since then and no longer have those notes.” 

My copy had survived because I had written them in one of my many notebooks - see photograph left. (And yes, I did type them up and email them over to her.)

Have we forgotten about paper as we tap away at our computers? I hope not. There’s no saying how permanent this digital form of writing is. We only have to look at the ancient books on museum shelves to see how comparatively permanent they are proving to be. What’s more, paper feels good, smells wonderful and can be tucked into a pocket, thereby preserving anything from a shopping list to a secret formula to a declaration of love.

Five snippets about pieces of paper:

1. The earliest mention of paper is from about 2,200 BC when the Egyptians discovered that overlapping layers of papyrus created a surface for writing on.

2.  Paper made in the last 50 years is more prone to deterioration than paper from about 500 years ago. One of the reasons for this is that modern paper is less likely to contain cotton or linen. It could also be due to the increased use of recycled fibres and colourings.

3.  A student from the University of Leicester has calculated that you would need 136 billion sheets of paper if you wanted to print out the entire visible content of the Internet. You wouldn’t, though… would you?

4.  The maximum number of times a piece of paper can be folded (regardless of its size) is apparently seven. I remember trying this with a class of 10 year olds and it seemed to be pretty accurate. (I now expect someone to post up a comment saying that they’ve managed more folds. I will require photographic evidence, you realise!)

5.  “Peace in our time” conjures up the picture of Neville Chamberlain in 1938 stepping off a plane after meeting with Hitler and waving a piece of paper at the waiting cameras. Some say that it was a convenient prop, possibly a bill for his laundry, but it was, in fact, a private accord signed by Chamberlain and Hitler expressing the “desire that our two peoples never to go to war with one another again.”  So much for pieces of paper!

To end on a more positive note, I still have recipes written on small pieces of paper, now going brown around the edges, in my Mum's handwriting. Precious treausure, indeed.

How to create an inspiring writing den

All writers know how difficult it is to face a blank page. That first sentence is the hardest to form even though [or maybe because] you know it will probably get deleted once you’re underway. I have the same kind of problem with beautiful notebooks. I want to save them for that ‘special idea’ that I know will never appear because special ideas only ever materialise when I’m writing and not when I’m gazing lovingly at beautiful new notebooks.

I’m guessing it’s different for artists which is why the phrase ‘a blank canvas’ means something exciting, full of promise, an as-yet-undrawn idea. But I’m a writer not an artist and I have a blank canvas that’s scaring my creativity to pieces. Mr A is in one of his DIY moods. Normally this would make me groan in desperation, sawdust trodden in everywhere, bare floorboards where there should really be carpet, heaps of brick dust beneath drilled holes.

Mr A at work

His current DIY project is Daughter’s bedroom. She used to have a divided-off section with a hand basin. It was meant to be a dressing room. It was used as a dumping corner. She left home years ago and Mr A has finally removed the partition and basin and he’s fitted a brand new window overlooking the garden. As soon as I saw it I knew what I wanted to do with it. It’s going to be my  writing den. Perfect!

The carpet has been disposed of, there are no curtains at the windows and the walls are almost ready for painting. My job is to choose the colour scheme. Aaagh! It used to be lavender but that will be painted over with my new, inspirational colour... when I choose it! 

• Do I go for a pale colour on the walls or something rich and warm? 
• Do I select a plain carpet with a rug, a patterned carpet or one of those mottled ones? 
• Do I go for plain curtains or ones with a hint of pattern? 
• And should the colour scheme be beige and green or yellow and cream or... 

I can't decide and Mr A is waiting to buy the paint. *sigh*

Have you got a writing den with that perfect colour scheme for creative inspiration?

Trees

We drove up to Manchester to see the family last weekend and, even though the doctors have said that Mr A is well enough to drive, I’m still doing half of all our journeys so I don’t lose my nerve again. [What a wuss I am!]

Mr A’s half of the journey took in a bleak stretch of the M6, so I grabbed my pencil and notebook and wrote this:

The trees beside the motorway
Cling to man-made banks,
Drop carbon-coated leaves
That crumple beneath wheels
Revealing fields
of apathetic animals,
Stubbled crops
And barns that at a glance
Could be our local B&Q warehouse.

On Sunday morning we walked on Manchester’s lovely Heaton Park and saw these amazing Beech trees... a world away from those weedy M6 trees.

How to Make History Come to Life

Visit your Local Records Office

I once referred to myself as a Nosy Adam and I’m at it again, nosying into other people’s lives, except this time the people are long gone. I’ve been to the local Records Office and I’d forgotten just how much fun that can be. Old newspapers are fascinating. They printed reports on items that ranged from the banal to the unbelievable. If you’ve never been to your local Records Office then you really should give it a try. It’s free. You only need to get a reader’s card, which is no harder than getting a library ticket.

Using the equipment at the Records Office is an experience in itself. All the old newspapers are stored on reel-to-reel film. The machines are large, noisy and have masses of attitude. With a click and a clack, and sometimes a clunk, you thread the film through the viewer and fix the end to the empty reel. There’s a button to move the film forwards, another for reverse and, dangerously close to each, a fast forward and fast reverse. The room is generally quiet except for the occasional clatter of fast reverse, a mild curse from the user and then the click, clack, clunk of the film being threaded into the machine once more.

Last year I went to the Records Office to research my Jewish Voices book. It was a good job that my co-researcher, Judy, was with me. She kept me on track, nudging me each time I became absorbed in one of the more bazaar articles in the old copies of the Leicester Mercury. One 1940s report told how a woman had to wait many minutes to cross the road ‘as a result of continuous traffic’. Another told how a dog had knocked a man over but neither were hurt. A third report talked of the problems experienced by a certain surgeon who spent long hours operating and had trouble standing still. It would appear that they glued his shoes to the floor so that he could safely finish an operation.

This week I was looking for information about Leicester’s railways for an article I’m writing and I thought the research would nicely support my first short story for Merrilee’s Creativity Workshop. In both cases I found plenty of material plus lots of extra stuff for my writer’s notebook. From a local Victorian Journal I discovered that George Stephenson himself drove the first steam engine to depart from Leicester, a real news-worthy piece. Another report tells about a child playing around the railway trucks that night. He fell, was taken to the Infirmary and ‘there may be need for an amputation’ we are told. Further down the page we discover that a man on horseback chased the train into the Glenfield Tunnel and, taken by surprise by the sudden darkness, grazed himself on the tunnel wall. Banal in news terms but what a fascinating character for a story.

Visitors are only allowed to take a pencil and a notebook into the research room and I needed no more. My article is almost completed and my story for the Creativity Workshop just needs a few tweaks. I have ideas gleaned from 19th century people-watching in the newspapers and from 21st century people-watching in the room. I came away a happy writer.

Seven trains for seven story-starters

I had an adventure this week. I made an impulse journey to Manchester to cuddle my newborn grandson, my proud son and my exhausted daughter-in-law. I’ve never been on seven trains in one day before. It should have been six. One was a mistake but they provided lots of material for my writer’s notebook.

Train No. 1 – Leicester to Sheffield

Opposite me a suited business man tapped out a report on his laptop while his headphones fed a gentle suss suss into his ears. He was unaware of the drama unfolding in the seat behind me, of an anxious voice on his mobile,

‘We have to close the deal today.’ ...pause... ‘Because I’m leaving the country tomorrow.’ ...pause... ‘You’ll have the money by 5 pm, right!’ I didn’t see his face but he was fast becoming a character in my mind.

Train No. 2 – Sheffield to Manchester

I was on the Trans-Pennine express, not as romantic as it sounds. There were no seats, hardly a spare piece of floor. A man took pity, stood up for me and I fought my pride and accepted. We travelled side by side, him hanging from the overhead rail, me squashed between people and suitcases. He looked as if he’d missed a night’s sleep, eyelids drooping, hangdog jowls. Shame he hadn’t got a seat! As we approached the station he tapped out a text, one-handedly. The reply was swift. His face was no longer hangdog. He pushed his way to the doors and was the first to leave the train.

Train No. 3 – Metrolink Tram to Eccles

I hadn’t seen the centre of Manchester since 1968. It’s changed. The tram provides an excellent vantage point for sight-seeing/nosying. We passed Salford Quays, a square of water surrounded by newly developed flats. The place was deserted except for a man sitting on a bench, his legs outstretched, his head hanging down. The tram veered to the right and he was gone but for a moment longer his despair travelled on in my mind.

[At this point the above photograph should be inserted but Blogger won’t let me move it down.]

Train No. 4 – Metrolink Tram to Altrincham

Yes, I know that I shouldn’t have been on this tram but it didn’t take me too far out of my way and it provided a colourful character for my notebook. He was with his mates. He spoke with a gentle rap rhythm, shoulders undulating, hands gesticulating. The closer we got to the City the more animated he became.

‘We is gonna have, right, one hell of a night, right!’ At Market Street I left them to it. I only hope it was a good night he had rather than a hell of a one.

Train No. 5 – Metrolink Tram to Piccadilly Station

A short trip. I stared through the window until we entered a tunnel beneath the station and a row of faces reflected back at me. My own was tired. I glanced away to the face behind, a young girl, long black curls, red lipstick and a tear rolling down her cheek.

Train No. 6 – Manchester to Sheffield

The train had come from Manchester airport and once again was packed before I even got onto it. I squeezed in beside a young boy and his dad.

‘We’ve had a great adventure, haven’t we?’ said dad. The boy nodded, a plastic aeroplane in each hand. I didn’t mind as aeroplanes dived-bombed across my bags. I’d had a great adventure too.

Train No. 7 – Sheffield to Leicester

At Chesterfield an elderly mother waved as her son got onto the train. She walked back along the platform alone, trying to hide her tears. It’s hard to say ‘goodbye’ to your son and then go back to your own life while he gets on with his, even though that’s why you brought them into the world in the first place. I took another tissue from my handbag.

Do you remember when...

1950s holidays,

camps,

caravans

and communal eating

What I remember about our summer holiday in 1956:

A children’s theatre with puppets

A swimming pool with a tumbling waterfall

Music playing loudly all the time... especially first thing in the morning

A clown telling jokes while we ate three meals a day... all together in a very big canteen... with the same clown telling the same jokes... every mealtime

And Red Coats!

We were, as you’ve no doubt guessed, at Butlins in Skegness. It was the first ever holiday camp in the UK. It had been built in 1936 but because of the 2nd World War, it didn’t really get going as a holiday camp until the 1950s. The ethos was one of organised holiday fun... at least it was meant to be fun but the expression on my face in that picture makes you wonder.

Mum and Dad bought a caravan before the 1950s were out. It was a static one on a site in Ingoldmells. This was only minutes away from Skegness Butlins so very little changed. Our caravan had few amenities. We had to go on a short walk to a standpipe to get water and a longer walk to a toilet block for ‘comfort breaks’. I used to take myself to the toilet block in the middle of the night armed with only a torch and dressing gown. You wouldn’t let kids do that these days. Has it become more dangerous or are we more aware... or more paranoid?

I went back to Skegness Butlins in the 1970s when I had children of my own. The clown had gone and so had the massive communal canteen but there was still music playing. It wasn’t the loud rallying kind. I think it was Chi Mai also known as the theme tune from The Life and Times of David Lloyd George which you can listen to hear. [If I’ve remembered wrongly about the tune and you can remember what it was then please let me know!]

There are a lot of things that I can’t remember about the 1970s. It’s strange how memories work. The 1950s and 60s are clearer in my head than the 70s, except that the details are from a very small person’s perspective. If only I’d kept a writer’s notebook during the 1970s I’d have lots of rich material for article writing now. There’s a definite market in the UK for nostalgia articles. The Best of British are always interested in anything that might appeal to the older reader as are Yours Magazine. You can check out their submission guidelines here for The Best of British and here for Yours.

I just love those ‘Do you remember when...’ moments so if you have a favourite ‘Do you remember when...’ holiday moment I’d love to hear about it.

Being a Nosy Adam...

...why should Parker have the monopoly on nosiness?

I was taking Josh the dog to the park the other morning when I noticed a red ribbon on a neighbour’s hedge. It made me think about Joanne Harris and her red ribbons in Blackberry Wine. I wondered if it could be some sort of a sign, a talisman. This gave me an idea for a story so I scribbled it into my notebook.

Further down our road there was a small group of people pointing at something out of my line of vision. No self-respecting Nosy Adam could have walked on by, so we made a detour to watch a large digger turn a perfectly good house into a pile of bricks. This was to make way for a road and houses in the backlands but what fascinated me were gardens that I had never seen before. There were bushes, trees, an old fashioned garden shed... or was it a Wendy House where generations of children had played or maybe it was a bolthole for Dad with a radio and cans of beer or better still for Mum with a mug of coffee and her mobile phone. Another idea and I was scribbling in my notebook again.

Josh was pulling at his lead. ‘Aren’t we supposed to be going to the park?’ he said. (OK, so he didn’t actually say it.) We resumed our walk. A cat who was watching Josh from the top of a fence, didn’t know that dogs can’t climb. She panicked. She lost her balance. A pair of claws grappled and disappeared down the back of the fence, followed by a clatter, a hiss, a meow. The Nosy Adam in me wanted to go and investigate but I knew that it would only make things worse so I jotted it down in my notebook.

The red ribbon was still caught on the hedge when we returned from the park. I knew that red ribbons have something to do with charity. The Internet said that it is the symbol of the World Aids Campaign. They are calling for nominations for the 2010 Red Ribbon Award and the closing date is 28th February. Well there’s a coincidence, I thought, bearing in mind last week’s blog post and I began to type this post...

But when I looked up the link for the Red Ribbon Award I was surprised to see that there is a Burgundy Ribbon for Amyloidosis Awareness... come to think of it that ribbon on the hedge was kind of a burgundy red and I have a husband who suffers from Amyloidosis. So it’s not a coincidence. It’s synchronicity. I started out writing about how being nosy gives you ideas for creative writing and now I’m reading a website about raising awareness of Amyloidosis as early diagnosis can save lives, I’m planning how I can get involved and I’m right back with my last week’s blog post about coincidence versus synchronicity. Isn’t life strange?

Writing is fun

and groups are good for us

Imagine an exercise class consisting of one person. How would you fancy doing aquarobics on your own? Rambling groups are reportedly growing in popularity and as for singing, I have been told by a reliable source that nothing beats singing in a choir... except maybe writing in a writing group and there’s a good reason for that. Writing is fun and groups are good for us.

Last night I was invited to talk to a local community group about creative writing. As soon as I walked into the hall I knew that I didn’t need to convince the members of the South Knighton Community Events about the enjoyment of being part of a group. For more than two years they have been hiring a local hall and organising a monthly activity. Events range from live music to photography to wine tasting to a quiz night. There's something for everyone. The atmosphere last night was full of friendship and warmth. They have created a community. They are proof that it’s better to share a Saturday night with friends and neighbours than watch the telly on your own.

We listened to local writers Krys Wysocki, Maria Smith and Keith Large reading their work. I talked about my Heritage Lottery funded Memories Project and about writing blogs. Everyone was bubbling with enthusiasm and after a lively book swap and wine session they launched themselves into a writing exercise. This activity produced much laughter which came as no surprise to me. It wasn’t just the wine laughing. It was because writing is fun and groups are good for us.

Waiting

Waiting rooms and people watching... or just waiting my life away

This has been a week of waiting around. The other day I had to sit next to Father Christmas in the hospital waiting room. It was the only seat left. He wasn’t real. I could tell that by the way his foot fell off when I shifted his knee away from mine, but it made everyone smile, even though we knew we’d be waiting there for the best part of the morning. My husband, Rod, is on chemotherapy again for his Amyloidosis and so we have to go each month for them to check him over and write out the next month’s prescription. There’s always a buzzing atmosphere in the clinic’s waiting room: friendships forged on the oncology day ward, people chatting, comparing side effects, number of courses this time, what to get the Grandkids for Christmas.

Waiting rooms are excellent places for gathering ideas for new characters. This week it was the grown-up daughter who was trying a little too hard to keep up the spirits of her anxious mother, buying her packets of crisps, taking photographs of her with her mobile phone, giggling a little too much. I slipped my writer’s notebook out of my bag and jotted it all down. You never know when she might want to appear in one of my stories.

From the clinic we went straight to Pharmacy. The sign said ‘one hour’s wait’ and we knew that meant ‘at least one hour’ so we resigned ourselves to more waiting in the WRVS cafe. The cafe is good for a different kind of people watching: nurses, doctors and assorted members of staff rushing in, grabbing a sugar fix and rushing out again. The care assistant with the glitter on her cheeks, reindeer antlers on her head and a miserable look on her face was a great character to capture in the pages of my notebook, so too was the volunteer working behind the counter. He had a Santa hat on his head and was singing Christmas Carols and joking with us all as he provided us with mugs of coffee and mince pies.

The next day I took my mother to the dentist. Another chance to people watch, or so I thought, and I went fully prepared as usual with my writer’s notebook and pen, but what a difference from the atmosphere in the hospital clinic. Everybody was sitting in silence, looking down at their feet, glancing up each time the nurse came in with an expression of gloom and the end of the world on their faces. I think we need to get things into perspective here.

Even the dog’s waiting

(a shameless excuse for sharing with you a picture of Josh the dog)

This week saw more waiting with the promised delivery of two flat-pack wardrobes. Why is my address always the last call of the day and why couldn’t they tell me first thing in the morning instead of making me wait? It’s the same when we need a plumber or electrician. Who are these people who have the first call of the day? I could now start complaining about waiting for buses and the way that they always sail past our turning just as I get to the corner but that would make me sound like a grumpy old woman and that would never do.

Waiting does seem to take up a large part of my life. I am forever waiting to hear from a publisher, and it’s a lovely phone call that I mean, not a rejection letter. For some people waiting is how they pass their entire lives: waiting to grow up, waiting for the right partner, waiting until they can afford to have children, waiting for their summer holiday, waiting for Christmas, waiting for retirement. Let’s stop all the waiting and do a bit of living instead otherwise before we know it we’ll be waiting to die – the end.

The Powerful Pen

Dumping baggage, chemotherapy and notebooks

There have been many times when I’ve started to write about one thing and found myself writing about something that I didn’t even know was in my head. It sounds as if the pen is magic but I suspect it’s more to do with my sub-conscious. Be it magic or sub-conscious activity, it’s a particularly useful way of dealing with a troubled mind, with worries and problems that won’t let you think clearly. It’s a way of dumping your baggage. Just sit down and write about everything that is worrying you. It's best to use a notebook, then you can close the book and your worries are safely held inside. You don’t have to be a writer to do it. It doesn’t matter about spelling or grammar. You’re the only person who need look at it and so you can write what you like, when you like. There are no rules – except maybe that the notebook should be a cheap one. I once made the mistake of buying a beautifully bound notebook which is still on my shelf, unused, pristine. It was just too beautiful to sully with my problems.

I’ve been filling up a lot of notebooks recently. On Monday my husband, Rod, starts his third course of chemotherapy. It looks as if this will now be a regular feature in his life to try and control his body’s production of Amyloids (sticky platelets). His first course was in June 2008. He was given a bag full of pills which he had to take in varying amounts on different days of the week in 28 day cycles for three months. The treatment was referred to as CDT which stands for cyclophosphamide, dexamethasone and thalidomide. I was shocked to hear the word thalidomide again after all these years. The specialist warned us that it could cause peripheral nerve damage. That made sense. I clearly remember being horrified by the headline news stories in the early 1960s of all those babies who had been born with malformed arms and legs and shuddered at the thought of Rod having to take that same drug. Before he started the course the specialist read out a form which Rod (aged 65) had to sign in his presence. It was all very serious and solemn. He had to declare that he would not have any relationships with any women of child bearing age while he was taking the pills.
‘You mean, it’s ok for him to do so after he’s finished the pills?’ I wanted to say but I didn’t. Now was not for time for flippancy. When I got home I told my notebook all about it, using angry, vitriolic words in the safe knowledge that this writing was for my eyes only. Logic says that it should have made no difference to how I felt but it did make a difference. It really did.

My notebook doubles as a writer’s notebook and so in-between my rants are funny snippets of conversations overheard when I’m out and about, descriptions of fascinating people I see on the streets, special events that I want to remember. I sometimes browse through old notebooks for ideas (yet another way of avoiding doing any real writing!) and I’m often amazed at how many little snippets of good or funny events are slotted into the times that I thought were filled with only bad.

I’ve included a few extracts from my notebooks below – but not the really private vitriolic rantings. Like I said, they’re for my eyes only.


My notebook extracts:

20.04.07 Pegging washing on the line when a small squirrel saw me and froze. He stared at me. I stared at him. I could see a free, wild look in his eyes. I wonder what he saw in mine.

15.04.08 Kangeroos don’t really like boxing. They hate contact sports. [No, I don’t know what it means either!]

14.07.09 It’s weird how we say How are you? when we meet. We don’t really want to know. Can you imagine if we all started going on about our troubles? [I developed this idea into a poem which turned into quite a therapeutic activity for me. Not sure if it will make sense to anyone else but I’ve included it below anyway.]

How am I?
I glance at a reflection of a face.
There's a family likeness, my mother perhaps.
My face is not so pale, or
tired, or lined.
I'm right… aren't I?

Ask me about the back of my
hands.
I know them.
They're wrinkled, liver spotted.
They work hard.

Ask me about my feet,
The corn on my little toe,
The aching
arches,
The thickened nails.

But don't ask me about me.
You see,
if I dwell on who I truly am
I will be reminded of my fragility,
My transience.

So let me busy myself with daily tasks,
Fill my mind
with the banal,
The cat, the dog,
Cooking, cleaning,
anything
To avoid a space in my head
For being aware of me.

Plot lines, gasmen and stem cell harvesting

My new children’s novel is starting to come alive. I've written a crisp one sentence strap line and a lively promotional paragraph about my female protagonist with attitude and the ghostly sightings that defy logical explanation. I’ve plotted each strand and divided the story into manageable quarters. Last Friday I completed the first quarter. All was going well... until life’s great hefty foot kicked away my flow of creativity once again.

Yesterday my husband, Rod, had his stem cells harvested. Over the weekend he had to inject himself with a hormone solution to stimulate stem cell growth. It stung. It made his bones ache and, to add to his discomfort, the central heating gasped a final warm breath and we were plunged in 1950s style chill, icy mugs and plates, shivering clothes in the wardrobe, even the carpets are too cold to walk on. I’m typing this while I wait for a gasman to arrive with a new control board. If only it were that simple for humans.

Rod has Amyloidosis. It’s rare, sticky platelets in the blood that build up on the organs. It’s treated in pretty much the same way as myeloma. He had two course of chemotherapy in 2008 but the platelet levels are rising again, hence the stem cell harvest. He will be starting his third course of chemotherapy shortly and the stem cells have been frozen in liquid nitrogen in case he needs a stem cell transplant in 2010.

The process of harvesting stem cells could have been lifted straight from a sci-fi novel. The machine is a bulk of metal with knobs and buttons, wheels and tubes, flashing lights and buzzing bells. Black, bakerlite style knobs spun, clicked and whirred as the machine sucked blood from a needle which had been inserted into Rod’s left arm. It travelled through a spaghetti of tubes into the machine before returning to his body via a needle into his right arm. In the machine the blood was spun and separated and over the next four hours we watched as plastic pouches filled with different coloured liquids. The most important pouch was the one containing a brown/beige sludge, his precious stem cells.

I have learnt a lot about medicine in the last year and a half. I used to think that a transplant meant putting a new part into the body because the existing one was faulty. It does in some instances but not in this one. The stem cells will be reintroduced to Rod’s body to help him recover should he need to have high dose chemotherapy treatment. We hope they’ll never be used but it’s reassuring to know that they’re there if needed, rather like my writer’s notebook where all my treasured ideas and creative thoughts are collected and stored just in case one day I need them.

Future blogs:
How I use my writer’s notebook
There’s more to a name than signing a book