Beyond nurturing a few wild – and frankly, totally unrealistic – hopes and dreams, why did I go to the Frankfurt Book Fair this year? I promised, last year, that I would not go again, and have renewed that promise following my visit in 2018. But my mother knows me better… Now, perhaps I should just say, We shall see…
But beyond witnessing the sheer scale of the event, what conceivable reason would I have for bothering? Why not just stay at home, put my feet up and have a well-earned rest?
Firstly, planning to go to Frankfurt, making the effort and paying for it all, I have been forced to take my work seriously, and work hard to present it, effectively and in such a way that someone else might actually enjoy reading it. The focus of having a fair to work towards has been essential, to force me to write, get organised and plan efficiently. Without that discipline, I would probably still be dreaming about finishing Book 1 in my fiction series. As it is, I have finished Book 2 and am now well on the way with Book 3 which I hope to have completed as a full working draft by the time the London Book Fair 2019 rolls around in March. Going to book fairs is, I realise, my work equivalent of a business deadline or a demanding boss, which I need to give my work focus and clarity.
Secondly, I am forced to deal with people in what is in other circumstances a fairly isolated and lonely occupation. I am forced to make myself understood, to ask for what I want and to explain my reasons to doing what I do, to a bunch of otherwise fairly hard-headed individuals. All of which helps to thrash out my real motivations, and to hone my self-belief. Belief is the mother of reality.
Thirdly, there are times when I really need a rest, and if going to Frankfurt will allow me time off to get away from the hamster-wheel of my life – which, I fully admit, it is up to me to make more exciting – then it’s worth doing. I come home and immediately my appreciation for the comforts and companionship of the joys of home also gets a welcome boost. Sometimes a thing is too close to see properly. Perhaps, three days of almost total silence in the midst of a veritable hive of activity – as strange and at times unsettling contradiction – is useful to remind me what matters.
The first thing I did when I arrived at my hotel in Frankfurt – there was no need to stay longer than three nights, and two nights would have been enough – was find out where to eat. The hotel staff told me there was a restaurant ten minutes’ walk away, and they could order from its menu for me – copies of which they produced – and of course, they would be delighted to have it delivered to my room. So I made the most of a bit of down time, surfing the satellite channels on the TV, quietly amused that I can watch UK channels that I can’t get at home. (Too late, I realised that the satellite dish that used to sit against a nearby external wall of our flat was not merely decorative.)
Up early the next morning, I dressed very casually for breakfast – I won’t tell you what I was wearing beneath my cover-all fleece – and found plenty to choose from, even for a near-vegan-who-has-issues-with-sugar like me. Grateful that the odours of a full cooked option of bacon, sausage, eggs etc etc would not cling to my newly washed hair, I ate a modest breakfast, which the following morning I would bulk up a bit more – walking certainly takes energy – and got a taxi to the fair, which I shared by chance with two ‘proper’ businessmen from Saudi. (And no, I did not initiate a discussion with them about the alleged assassination of a Saudi journalist in the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, though, actually, given the nature of book fairs, and the realisation that these forums are bound to raise questions about journalistic freedom and the dangers of the Trump effect, perhaps I should have…)
Arriving soon at the main entrance to the fair, I was very courteously kitted out with a badge (and my baggage was not once checked, for which I am grateful) and immediately swallowed up in the excited realisation that I was wandering in among thousands of people, all intent on their business, while I simply marvelled: at the scale of the organisation – and please, let us here resist any allusions to ‘Germanic efficiency’ – the pleasant venue, and the amazing weather: balmy, warm temperatures, blue skies and lots of room to roam… which I did, for the best part of two-and-a-half days, marvelling at my freedom, beyond impressed by being there.
Here are my top five tips for travel to Frankfurt Buchmesse
1 ~ Check out the cost of accommodation, which is considerably more than you might expect to pay, even taking into account the fall of Sterling against the Euro. Research the market and the expense carefully. Prices are considerably in excess of comparable accommodation in London, for example, considering location, star rating and available restaurants. Really quite startling differentials exist.
2 ~ Book accommodation early. That is, as soon as you know you will be visiting the FBM. There are hotels nearby, but don’t expect any accommodation to be available there: an enquiry for a single room at a well-known budget chain right beside the Halls complex will raise only an incredulous eyebrow or hysterical laughter.
3 ~ Travel light. Take only what you must, and weigh carefully the extra baggage you will carry around. Walking is probably mandatory, and walking distances previously undreamed of is to be anticipated. Especially if you have extra needs or find the moving escalators scary, as I do, and therefore have to rely on customer lifts, which are surprisingly few and far between. The Messe Halle are not particularly accessible for those with additional needs: there are few public lifts, the doors out to the disabled conveniences are so heavy that you require a strong-arm to lever them ajar, and the disabled loos are kept locked…
4 ~ Find a hotel that offers breakfast included in the accommodation price, and eat well. Then splash out on a proper lunch at the Venue – the catering is excellent, and if a tad expensive, so what? It’s a long way to travel to subsist only on a diet of wilted sandwiches, which I do not recommend. Having had a decent lunch, in the evenings I could relax and rest. My vital survival strategy: at every possible opportunity, do nothing, or invite others to help you with bottles of water, delivery of meals from takeaways… It is easy to be thankful, and hotel staff appreciate it, even if we have to communicate with them in scarcely discernible patois which we think is German, and they probably assume is Norwegian.
5 ~ Cash is useful, but simply being in possession of a wodge of Euros – which we have to spend, because the exchange rate is so bad, innit? (not true, actually) – need not blind us to ways to save on costs: share a cab with other delegates, book seats on the hotel’s morning shuttle bus at a fraction of the cost, use the locally available bus transport to take you direct to the airport instead of travelling by taxi to the main railway station and thence by train to the airport… Ask for advice and it will be given, and people are incredibly helpful.
I must be crazy. In the midst of illness, aches and pains and escalating domestic duties which are as unpredictable as they are demanding, I volunteered myself to fly off to Frankfurt – incidentally, when did flying as a means of getting from A to B morph from a guilty pleasure into a mind-numbing trudge? It can’t simply be that I have acclimatised to my husband’s view of the time and exertion that air travel demands, surely? – and immerse myself in the atmosphere of commercial Frankfurt at its busiest.
The Messehalle, a complex of twelve halls and outdoor areas in the centre of Frankfurt that hosts conferences all year round – 226 upcoming, according to its website – is so vast we can probably see it from the moon. Covering four hundred thousand square metres and with ninety conference halls, the ‘ten thousand hotel spaces within walking distance’ are a mere drop in the ocean of what is required to meet the annual demands of the Frankfurt Book Fair. As one of the biggest annual exhibitions – and certainly the biggest bookfair – on the planet, hotel rooms anywhere near the vicinity are fully booked years in advance. Almost the first thing a delegate organiser will do on the way home from the Fair is look for next year’s availability.
So why did I go? In this short series of articles, I’ll be considering why I went to Frankfurt Book Fair 2018; what it is about public spaces thronging with people that so appeals to me, and what I have learned from my experiences of travelling there.
In 2017 the Frankfurt Book Fair attracted 286,500 visitors, and in 2018 visitor numbers were only slightly down, at 285,000: more than I was expecting, given the surprisingly quiet restaurants and absence of crushing queues in the main entrances. Or perhaps I’m merely becoming accustomed to the hubbub, which can have a dizzying effect. With my rucksack on my back, wearing my most comfortable shoes, why on earth would I submit to such a strange and alien form of entertainment?
Gradually, the story of Arthur’s time in hospital came out, in bits and pieces, as we were making cups of tea or gathering up armfuls of laundry.
Arthur moved back home, after a fashion, to collect his mail and have his own space from time to time. But most days, we were together. I knew that Arthur might have forgotten a great deal about his life before his heart attack, and that he might feel confused or emotional. I was prepared for that.
So I was a bit taken aback by his calm silence and sheer agreeableness. I expected that cardiac convalescents were supposed to be tetchy, variable as the shade by aspens made but no, Arthur was the soul of peaceful gratitude.
“I went to heaven, you know, when I was asleep in the hospital. I just floated away – I could see them all around the bed, working so hard on my body, and I wasn’t there.” Sipping tea, Arthur shook his head, mildly incredulous. “I was watching the whole performance, somewhere up near the light fittings, probably. I could see the nurses’ pins in their hair… Lilian met me when I arrived in this place filled with white light. She looked radiant, so bright, filled with joy. She showed me where she was living, and how she was still around to help, often, and that there was nothing to feel sorry about. She says she visits, and helps to make sure things work out. She likes to remind me to water the plants, because she can hear them screaming when they get thirsty, she says.”
I was surprised, but his explanation answered a few of my own questions. “Yes, I can see that meeting Lilian again would make everything brighter.”
“Yes…” Lost in his memories, he abruptly resumed, “But you see, she also showed me that we visit Heaven all the time, in our dreams. She showed me how light moves, so powerfully. When we are happy, we light up with the same kind of light. Such colours! Everything is very intense, so bright. She knows how hard it was for us both, all those years. She also said,” he paused, almost embarrassed, “She said we can make heaven here, too, and that she wants us to be happy.”
“That feels about right,” I answered, though my words came out muffled. Impulsively, before I could stop myself, I blurted out, “Arthur, I was wondering… I was hoping that maybe we might…get married some time. Would you like that?”
The silence stretched for so long that I was unsure whether he had heard. When he finally looked up, his eyes were brimming with tears. “I thought you might not want to. I thought that perhaps… you would feel…” In answer, I just gripped his fingers tight.
We have our family now. We see Jamie often. He comes up to visit when he can. Jamie’s habit of ignoring playground jibes seems to have rubbed off on Elaine. Though she remains hesitant, she can hold her own in a playground spat. She is also helping the school to set up a playground buddying scheme so that bullying gets spotted early and is reported to the school.
We have been down to visit Vivienne. I wish you could have seen her face when Arthur said, “I’d like you to meet my wife.” She is very ill now, though. The years of alcohol abuse and not eating properly have caught up with her. Though we help her when we can, we don’t feel guilty about leaving her. We just do what we can, and frankly, Vivienne has had to grow up a bit. It is an enormous weight off Arthur’s shoulders and I can see him looking younger every day, without that to worry about.
We are keeping both of our houses, just for now. There’s no hurry to sell up.
Elaine was home when we got back, and thoughtfully met us at the door. Seeing her wide smile, I wanted to sweep her into a hug and ask her how the day had gone, but before I could, she was taking bags from me and diligently placing them out of the way.
“Come in, Mum!” She smiled shyly at Arthur as he nodded, suddenly self-conscious at our impromptu welcoming committee.
Though Arthur stood quiet, his eyes gradually warmed to the scene. Clearly, he was pleased to be away from the pale walls and sluggish warmth of the hospital. He shrugged his shoulders tiredly as I carefully took his coat and slung it over the bannister. “Let’s have a nice cup of tea, shall we?” Arthur nodded slightly, gratefully, and followed me through to the back of the house as if suddenly afraid he might get lost, detached.
We were all feeling emotional, I think, when James suddenly appeared in the doorway.
“Dad!” He tried not to sound too excitable. “How are you, Dad? What are you doing home?” His face registered open astonishment, delight and worry all at once.
“They’ve let me out, at last,” Arthur replied, clearly equally amazed to see his son. It was just as well he was standing near the kitchen units, or the shock might have tipped him off his feet, but he managed to shake his son’s hand, pull him into an embrace and kiss his cheeks fondly.
“It’s lovely to see you, James, Lovely.”
“You too, Dad.”
“How – I mean, why are you here?”
“Well, Marian asked me to come down for a few days, just to help out.” James winked at Elaine who smiled broadly at him and was laughing quietly into her hands.
“So!” Arthur nodded, “We’re all together, are we?” He looked speculatively at Elaine grinning, at James hovering, ever so slightly furtive, and at me, pouring boiling water into a teapot.
“Yes, my darling. We didn’t plan it quite that way, though. Elaine, do you want to tell me what happened today?” I smoothly took the focus away from Arthur so that he could relax a bit, and Elaine launched happily into her story.
“Well, you see, Mum, when we got to school, Jamie was playing the fool, running about and yelling a bit, drawing attention to himself, I think. We were mucking about, when Susan walked past.” Elaine burst out laughing, and could hardly speak for giggles. “When she saw us, she slowed right down, and I could see she was just dying to -”
“She was being totally nosy,” said James, “desperate to know who I was, and what I was doing there, all the usual stuff. But of course I just smiled. Elaine called out, “Hello, Susan!” and carried on walking past. You should have seen her face!”
“And all through class today, they kept away from me, and then, after lunch, Susan comes right out and asks, ‘Who was that boy?’ and I just said, really casual, you know, ‘Oh, just a friend.’ I could tell she was desperate for details, and annoyed that I would not tell her, but why should I? She is just a nosy cow. Oh, and you should have seen her face when Jamie was waiting for me after school! He just gave me a great big hug, like he had so been missing me, and he took my bag and we walked home together really slowly.”
“Thank you, Jamie,” I said, knowing he would have enjoyed his part. “As tomorrow is Friday, I was wondering… When are you thinking of heading back to Uni?”
“Well, I should really get back, so maybe I could go to the station after Elaine’s at school on Monday. Would that be okay?”
“That would be just – just perfect, James, thank you so much.” I turned to face the counter so that he would not see how relieved I was. Knocking open cupboards and banging drawers – noisy displacement activity – I hoped no-one noticed my eyes misting over with tears, again.
After almost three weeks, and despite occasional setbacks, I knew that Arthur would soon be leaving hospital and I was excited at the prospect. Set against the receding danger of any relapse, the benefits of being in his personal space, where he could rest, eat good food and take gentle exercise, looked increasingly attractive. I had visited almost every day, and despite the familiarity of our routines, it was tiring to sit with polite, stilted formality, careful of every word. I wanted to kick back and relax, sing, smile and see Arthur laughing again.
That afternoon, I arrived at the ward earlier than usual, to find Arthur fully dressed and waiting expectantly by his bed, his hair combed neatly and his jacket flung over the neatly folded sheets.
“Hoping to leave today, then?” I asked, smiling broadly.
“Yes, I think so,” he mumbled.
“Has the doctor been in to see you?”
“Not yet. Been waiting a while.”
“I’ll just go and check.” I scurried back along the corridor. “Excuse me, is Mr. Thompson leaving today?”
“Yes, That’s right. But Dr Semple is running a little late.”
“How long has he been waiting?”
“A couple of hours, maybe?”
I glanced at my watch, which showed 2.15. “I have to be away by four. Is there any chance of that?”
“I should think so,” she considered, “It shouldn’t be long.” .
I fetched us tea which Arthur sipped placidly but without enjoyment. We went for a short walk, he glanced at an old crossword, gazed out of the window. He was jumpy, perhaps dreading to hear, “I’m sorry, it’s too late to go home today, it’ll have to be tomorrow.” Eventually, a thin, tired-looking young man hove in view, almost running along the corridor. He introduced himself with the minimum of formalities.
“Mr. Thompson? Sorry to keep you waiting. There are just a few papers for you to sign…” Dry Semple pulled sheets out of a manila folder and laid them out over the bed. Arthur penned his signatures with a brave flourish, though his hands wobbled and his fingers slipped around the unfamiliar, slick barrel of the pen. Released at last, he offered a formal handshake, murmuring a few words of thanks.
I was waiting with his coat slung over my arm. We walked slowly down the ward, past the desk and to the lifts, then along the gloomy main corridor and out into bright sunlight. He wobbled a couple of times, dizzy after spending so long lying in bed, but we took our time. I knew he was happy to be outside at last. I hugged him gently as two single tears rolled over his cheeks. Carefully, we drove home.
Later that evening I called James on his mobile, making sure the living-room door was closed so there was no chance of Elaine overhearing our conversation.
“James?” I queried quietly, “Hello? It’s not too late to call, is it? Can I ask a favour?”
“Of course, Marian, what’s up?”
“It’s just Elaine. That is –” I felt my throat closing over the confession that Elaine was being bullied at school. I forced the words out, “I just discovered that Elaine is having problems, being teased at school. Could you…help, maybe?”
“Like, come up, and hang around the school gates for a few days, you mean? I’m sure I could. I’ll bring some work with me.”
I felt such relief and gratitude at not having to spell it out. “Yes, that is what I sort of had in mind, actually. Do you think…?”
“I’ve only got one more lecture this week, tomorrow afternoon at two, so now would be a good time. I’ll get the bus up afterwards, okay?”
“Oh, that would be so –” lovely, marvellous, kind I started to say, when James interrupted, “The least I can do. See you soon,” and hung up. I held the receiver for a long time, listening to the silence and wiping away tears.
James called again the next day to say he was a bit delayed and would be catching the five-fifteen bus, so I went to meet him when it got in at around seven. He looked tired, but when he saw me his face lit up. He hugged me without a trace of self-consciousness.
“So, what time does Elaine get out of school?”
“Well, most days about four. She used to take her time, but now she rushes home.” I tried not to think about what that meant, and to focus on what we could do to help her.
“I could walk to school with her, why not?”
“I’m sure she’d love that.”
Elaine was just setting the table for supper when we arrived home. Seeing James, her smile shone, and she immediately added another place for him. “What are you doing here?” she grinned.
“I just fancied a change, that’s all”
“Yeah, sure, and I’m Zoella…” Elaine was cheerfully dismissive and relaxed, more like her old self.
“Okay, well, I came to see you. Came to act the part of the boyfriend for a few days, show those kids at school a thing or two.”
“Muuumm!” she wailed, meaning, how could you tell him… but James winked conspiratorially and chatted amiably to lighten the mood, then went up to his room: which had become ‘His room’ and already, it felt as if he belonged.
Bright and early the next morning, I waved goodbye to Elaine and Jamie as they set off for school, Jamie fitting easily into his role of handsome sidekick. With a casual wave, he loped after Elaine as she took the lead, then slowed to allow him to take her arm. I could see them joking together as they rounded the corner of the street.
Arthur’s condition improved. He slept less, his memories resurfaced and there was a gentle lightness in his movements that recalled his cheerful self, returning after a long hibernation. But he was not eating enough, and losing weight from his already lean frame. From being unsure, I began to hope and expect his release soon.
After two weeks of being around the house, James had reluctantly gone back to Uni. He had not told his dad anything about Vivienne’s illness, a decision that secretly delighted me. As James stood on the threshold, nervously fingering his satchel, even Elaine looked wistful, and when the door closed behind him and the sound of his footsteps receded on the pathway, she said, “It’s going to be awfully quiet without Jamie, isn’t it, Mum?”
As Elaine grew older, she moved slowly apart from me, occasionally returning for familiar cuddles and hugs, but gradually moving into her own orbit with increasing confidence. She would always confide in me, though. Whether it was boy trouble, what her teachers were like, or what was happening in the classrooms. So when she came abruptly into the hall after school a couple of days later, dropped her bag to the floor and looked sullen, I had to ask, “What’s the matter, love?” and she was suddenly at my side, hugging me and sniffing sadly into my jumper.
“Is it the teachers?” She shook her head. “The homework? Your friends?” The tiniest nod, and suddenly she was telling me, “Susan just walked past me today, and she and… Sam just laughed at me. It’s because they call me…”
“What? What do they call you?” I was smiling, in an attempt to show that names don’t matter so much, and bullies dislike being laughed at.
“They call me stupid… Silly Elaine, she’s a pain…” The sing-song in her voice was pitiful.
“How long have they been teasing you?” I asked, faintly incredulous that third-year pupils could be so infantile, and wondering what on earth had made quiet, obliging Elaine the object of anyone’s derision.
“I answered a question in class. The teacher asked us…” her voice quavered, and I could see her wishing she had stayed silent. “I really like maths. The other kids, in break time, they say I’m stupid… and tubby, and…”
Oddly, I was not surprised at Elaine’s confession. Despite being tall and thin, for many years Elaine has clutched at a fear that she might become overweight. She also seems to go out of her way to be accommodating at school, rarely taking the initiative in games or in class. Her school reports mention her being a bit reticent, and I could see how that might happen.
“They can hardly call you stupid if you answered a question.” Elaine just shook her head, believing that I simply did not understand, but I did. I knew that kids were sometimes cruel for no particular reason and enjoyed laughing at other people. Reasons rarely came into it.
“We’ll think of something, I promise, love. Maybe try to steer clear of them just now, eh? Take your bike to school so that you can come home quickly?” She looked rather dubious, but the next morning she carefully retrieved her bike from the back porch, fetched her bike chain and obediently put on her helmet, all of which made my heart ache with love. She was so willing to trust me, and yet I knew so little of the school dynamics. Would she just be giving the kids more ammunition?
She came hobbling home in the late afternoon, obviously upset. Her bike’s front tire had been sliced open. “They just cut it, Mum.” I bent to examine the tear, which was long, deep and deliberate. All business, I immediately took Elaine and her bike to the bike co-op for a new tire. Wondering what I could do, apart from phoning the head teacher and making a complaint, my only thought was maybe asking James if he could help.
Our slightly abrupt politeness – “Oh! Excuse me, sorry!”- gave way to more relaxed ease, while I reined in my habitual displays of affection. Though to me, in small gestures and standing in certain light, James was oddly recognizable, I had to remind myself constantly that he was still a stranger. He might glance quizzically in my direction, or stand over one hip while expounding on a topic, then ask, “How did you know what I was going to say?” and I would smile, “Well, because your dad….” until it became something of a joke between us.
Together we visited Arthur in the hospital, while Elaine preferred to keep her distance, burying herself in homework or staying out more often with friends. Whole days, she hardly came home and I missed the easy togetherness we had enjoyed. One afternoon, late into the second week of Arthur’s stay at the hospital, as James and I were sitting quietly at his bedside, Arthur sat up, snapped open his eyes, frowned and barked, “Where am I?” He looked sharply at us, before his gaze slackened and he fell back sluggishly on the pillows banked up high behind his head. I leaned in, clasped his thin hand and whispered, “It’s okay darling, we are here with you,” but he shook my hand away crossly.
James said, “Dad,” attempting to explain, “Hello, it’s Jamie.”
“Who are you?” The words stopped us dead, as a chill of anxiety curled around my chest, but James kept his voice neutral and calm.
“I’m James, your son, and this is Marian, your neighbour.”
“Oh. Thank you.” His last words faded to a mumble as Arthur drifted off to sleep again. James and I tiptoed silently to the nurses’ station.
“Ah, has Mr. Thompson been…medicated, at all?” I tried.
“No, nothing unusual, why?” queried the nurse, busy checking something on a clipboard and absent-mindedly tucking a curl behind her ear.
“He seems confused today, that’s all”
“Let’s check, shall we?” We trooped rather self-consciously back to his bedside where the nurse looked through his charts, took his pulse, peered over him and frowned.
“He does seem dozier than usual…” she said, “I’ll get the duty doctor to take a look at him.” Ten minutes after she paged, a hurrying woman was skirting round the bed, checking vital signs.
“Yes, um,” She muttered, flipping up the bed charts…
“Mr. Thompson is due to be released soon?” She raised a questioning gaze.
“Is he well enough to go home? He didn’t seem to recognize us, just now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he was frowning and asking us who we were. He seemed angry.”
“Cardiac patients often have trauma to deal with afterwards, but he seems all right just now. I’ll make a note to review his medication…” She looked thoughtful as she scribbled notes on the clipboard.
My mind was spinning, but Jamie seemed quite relaxed, and offered to fetch two cups of tea from the canteen. Yes, I agreed vaguely. As he wandered away, I sat thoughtful.
Would Arthur be better at home? I cast my gaze over him, noting that he had grown thinner, almost gaunt. He seemed to spend a lot of time sleeping. Given the chance, Arthur would probably recover more quickly in familiar surroundings. Doubt quivered around the edges of easy reassurances about that, and I was wary. Yet, while he waited here, his recovery seemed to slip.
When James and I went in the next day, the doctor on duty summoned us into the room at the top of the ward. “Mr. Thompson is scheduled to leave hospital in about, um, perhaps a week… Assuming his condition continues to improve. We have adjusted his medication. Unfortunately, there seems to have been a small setback. Mr. Thompson has had a small seizure, a TIA, which confuses the picture, somewhat. We hope that matters resolve today, but these things can be unpredictable.”
With a polite nod, we returned to Arthur’s bedside. A warm cup of tea with a straw in it was perched optimistically on the bedside cabinet. Arthur was sitting up in bed, gazing out the window. A jolt of pure delight coursed through me. “Hello, Arthur, how are you today?” I asked.
“I’m fine, thank you…ah, Mary.” He recognized James coming up behind me, and grinned.
“Hi, Dad?” James tried to keep his voice level, but he was excited. He leant in and gave his dad a kiss, brushing a pale, gaunt cheek with his lips. “It’s lovely to see you,” he whispered. Arthur nodded in reply, smiling and pleased to recognize his boy. “Ah, yes, come and sit here beside me,” he said confidingly, “Come and sit…”
So I slipped away to the canteen. From a seat in the window I could look out at clumps of flowers blowing frantically in spring breezes, the stems of daffodils and tulips carelessly left to bend and droop. Hospitals are supposed to enliven, repair and restore, but so often they become refuges for those with no-where to go. Arthur could be discharged soon, but would he want to be looked after?
October 29, 2018
Why did I go?
Fran Macilvey Fran's School of Hard Knocks, Path To Publication 4 Comments
Why did I go?
Beyond nurturing a few wild – and frankly, totally unrealistic – hopes and dreams, why did I go to the Frankfurt Book Fair this year? I promised, last year, that I would not go again, and have renewed that promise following my visit in 2018. But my mother knows me better… Now, perhaps I should just say, We shall see…
But beyond witnessing the sheer scale of the event, what conceivable reason would I have for bothering? Why not just stay at home, put my feet up and have a well-earned rest?
Firstly, planning to go to Frankfurt, making the effort and paying for it all, I have been forced to take my work seriously, and work hard to present it, effectively and in such a way that someone else might actually enjoy reading it. The focus of having a fair to work towards has been essential, to force me to write, get organised and plan efficiently. Without that discipline, I would probably still be dreaming about finishing Book 1 in my fiction series. As it is, I have finished Book 2 and am now well on the way with Book 3 which I hope to have completed as a full working draft by the time the London Book Fair 2019 rolls around in March. Going to book fairs is, I realise, my work equivalent of a business deadline or a demanding boss, which I need to give my work focus and clarity.
Secondly, I am forced to deal with people in what is in other circumstances a fairly isolated and lonely occupation. I am forced to make myself understood, to ask for what I want and to explain my reasons to doing what I do, to a bunch of otherwise fairly hard-headed individuals. All of which helps to thrash out my real motivations, and to hone my self-belief. Belief is the mother of reality.
Thirdly, there are times when I really need a rest, and if going to Frankfurt will allow me time off to get away from the hamster-wheel of my life – which, I fully admit, it is up to me to make more exciting – then it’s worth doing. I come home and immediately my appreciation for the comforts and companionship of the joys of home also gets a welcome boost. Sometimes a thing is too close to see properly. Perhaps, three days of almost total silence in the midst of a veritable hive of activity – as strange and at times unsettling contradiction – is useful to remind me what matters.
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