May 2019

May 30, 2019

Testing my resolve

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There appears to be a belief among authors that of course we enjoy our writing, or else, why would we bother writing anything? And for most writers, that assumption is probably broadly true, though I suspect many of us also have procrastination down to a fine art. But when I began writing, it soon became obvious that doing so was testing my resolve almost to breaking point.

Though memoir reads like fiction, and enjoys elements of fiction, we may not get much enjoyment from writing our life stories.

Interestingly, while writing my memoir, I felt as if I was inhabiting a parallel universe. Writing about something that happened when I was, say, fourteen years old, other forgotten parts of that time would come vividly to mind, prompted, I am sure, by my sojourn with a particular set of recollections. These felt so sharp, as if they happened yesterday, which realisation has given me many occasions to wonder about the nature of time and memory.

Is everything we have ever thought, felt and believed stored in our minds, just awaiting recall; and, like a song learned fifty years ago, never forgotten? Why do our minds work that way, recalling sounds, conversations and scents decades after the event? What a massive repository of experiences our minds turn out to be.

Writing for me started as a compulsion, not at all enjoyable. But it had to be done, both to push against the boundaries of what I thought I knew, and testing my resolve to see how far I could push. Perhaps that was a bit reckless, but it was my version of the physical and emotional risks that we all have to take – the cat climbing the wall may fall to her death, but that doesn’t stop her trying to reach the window above – if we are going to take our personal leaps to the next stage and live life to the fullest.

Thanks for listening.

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May 28, 2019

Taking things for granted

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Is taking things for granted a privilege? Sometimes I think so, yes, of course it is. And in the spirit of taking things for granted, I yearn for the quiet life, untrammelled by pangs of conscience or worry, reading my books, sat warm and comfortable in a peaceful space…with a clear mind and gentle ambitions carrying me through the years.  

Yet, such a vision of privilege and calm makes me restless: to live! Despite all the small obstacles that seem to gather round like spectres on a stormy day – there are always things I have to do, needling me away from what I prefer to be doing – something keeps my head up, and my desire to move, moving: I know I will get where I want to be, if only I keep faith. I will go for walks in the fresh air. I will enjoy swimming and laughing. I will write blog posts, I will finish my books and submit short stories. I will have fun and live a big life. I do.

Reading an account by a Buddhist friend of mine, who first became aware that recounting his life’s misfortunes made him the envy of his Buddhist friends – for to have misfortune thrown at one’s feet is to be given opportunities for that most sought-after gift, spiritual growth – made me realise that in some way, all misfortune can be strengthening: it puts one’s own circumstances into different contexts – I lost my house in a fire, but I and my kids escaped unharmed – or it forces one to choose fully – I’m alive, by some miracle, and I don’t intend to waste another second.

It’s taken many years for me to come to an accommodation with who I am and the challenges I’ve been given: small ones, like being constantly uncomfortable, and bigger ones, like making something meaningful out of life, not just existing. And I still rock between being sharply aware of the many ways in which I am fortunate – is that sharpness forcing me to notice ways in which life can be unfortunate? – and relaxing, trusting that I am allowed to enjoy life fully. As they say, Life is a work in progress, and I think I’m making progress.

Thanks for listening.

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May 25, 2019

When electronic books rule

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When electronic books rule, will physical books and bookshelves one day be consigned to museums? Written out of our furnishing requirements as interesting curios from past times, and gazed at wonderingly by precocious five-year olds, the same way that children and adolescents now peer at old telephones and record players? I laughed when I watched a video of two sixteen-year-old boys trying to work out how to use a dial phone, but actually, I just felt old.

Kindles are great. But will we all be using them, all the time, in ten years? Will there be any need for shelving for books, when my kindle offers several free dictionaries and probably a thesaurus and an encyclopaedia as part of the start-up incentive built in with every new purchase of an e-reader? Think of all that shelf space saved!

Audio books, too, are growing in popularity, partly, I believe, because our kids have grown up with i-pads and mobile phones so a vocal interface is second nature to the way they relate. Which is no bad thing: for millennia, humans have used story telling and songs to pass down knowledge. The last twist merely reinvents what comes most naturally to human-kind. So is the writing on the wall for writing?

Will house-builders have an even better excuse for building homes in miniature? (“Ye don’t need book cases no more, love, so we can just put yer king-size up against the wall here, like that”)

In the not-too-distant future, physical books may only be available in community co-operatives, run like libraries, with a café, a shop and a second-hand clothes shop alongside. Or we may order our own POD copies at vast expense in what will have become a niche market. Whatever the prophesies of the technophiles, and whatever the demands of eco living, almost everyone needs books in one form or another. And there may come a time when we are immensely grateful to unearth old back numbers that we now overlook, with their modest orange, green and blue covers, and their restrained delvings into human suffering. As has been suggested in many post-apocalyptic narratives, we may even need to tear out the pages to use for personal grooming or for fire-lighting; or, when the power runs out, we may actually start reading them again.

Thanks for listening.

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May 22, 2019

Reactions to my books

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Reactions to my books have been and continue to be overwhelmingly supportive. I am very touched that my story has reached so many readers, some of whom have contacted me with messages of love and support and to share their own stories.

I’m glad if my experiences can help to inform and console: in navigating our way through life, I find there are few more toxic experiences than being lonely.

Many whom I would count as good friends express surprise, saying, I had no idea. They are astonished that so much can have happened of which they have been unaware, though of course, since I have been introverted, depressed and solitary for so many years, it is unsurprising to me that, until now, the best way I knew to maintain my dignity was with silence: I’m less ashamed of how things were then, and can talk about them. And my shame has a different quality – less, how embarrassing; more how could I tolerate that? which makes me want to advocate, not hide.

Which must be one reason why I started writing. I feared being swallowed up completely by my tendency to silence. So I gave up the unequal struggle to hold it all in, knowing, even as I wrote, that eventually, when I had smoothed it out a bit and found a way to come to terms, I would go public, despite an intense desire to chuck it all in and run away: my reactions to my books are still mixed.

I still think it matters to maintain peaceful dignity. But often that is a way of staying away from the helping arms that others willingly extend towards us. We do need to show our weaknesses, our frailty, and allow others to understand. I’m sorry that, for so long, I have been unable to share intimacies, or to trust that the reactions of friends and family would be supportive. I regret the missed opportunities to share more fully, because, at the very least, sharing would have helped me to notice that we all have stuff to deal with, we all struggle and suffer together in this melting pot called “Life”. Seeing that more clearly would have given me the courage to make more mistakes, be more outspoken, to take more risks so that I might move more freely and enjoy life more.

Thanks for listening.

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May 20, 2019

Time well spent?

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Time well spent?

Recently, I have been asking myself again, has my time – my life – been well invested? Why have I put myself through another difficult, emotionally draining and – let’s face it – financially unrewarding decade?

If I was an outsider considering the pros and cons of writing, on the surface, I would conclude that Fran Macilvey is peculiarly driven: to work early or late; at any rate, while her family sleeps; driven to continue with the next project, the next hope, despite setbacks, illness and puzzlement from those more sober and grounded citizens of her acquaintance who really would prefer that she apply her energies to a proper, reasonable, sensible and obvious job. Why, for goodness’ sake, must she always be different?

Because I am, is all. I make that sound nonchalant, easy to say. But if my life has taught me anything, it is the total futility of trying to keep up with other ‘ordinary’ people who have ‘ordinary’ jobs. I’ve tried that – really, I have – and it has only led to heartbreak and losses of a different kind.

In the old days, the pain was about not belonging, never fitting in, and never really understanding what was going on; I had that sinking feeling which made it plain that I never would understand, no matter how hard I tried. Nowadays, though there have been a few disappointments and false starts, I am increasingly certain that I understand the basics of life, its purpose and meaning, and that I will continue to make progress. On my present path, every difficulty lends itself to a purpose, for a reason and I notice the ways in which unexpected outcomes serve a longer-term goal.

I write to share my experiences. I can write, and so I do. I can explain, and so that is my attempt, in the hope that those who may read my pieces know that I understand something of their loneliness, their anger, even their desolation. It is not unusual to have these feelings, it is not peculiar or suspicious. They are just part of life.

Gradually, writing has revealed that our ‘bad’ experiences can complement the ‘good’, making our lives a contrasting tapestry which, when we look back at it, hopefully fills us with gratitude and optimism. That is how I see myself making the best of life’s knots, at any rate.

Thanks for listening.

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May 17, 2019

Outside

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Another outing for a favourite short story.

Outside

Little Amanda, in special white stockings, lived lightly with her grandmother, an old curmudgeon, overbearing and humourless.

Grandma had her own daughter once, a beauty with bright green eyes and hazel, switchback hair running in careless shiny ropes down her back. Beauty went off with a beast, who took her downhill into the town, underground into the dungeon city at the base of the hill, the hideout of the poor, desperate and cold citizens with nothing to do, except gaze with gauzy eyes into the middle distance, the dark walls enclosing them, the weight of a whole city above.

From there, a baby was pleadingly brought to the old woman, wrapped in newspaper to keep it warm. Baby child Amanda was quiet. Occasionally she would sing, self-consciously curling her lips, as if to mute the sound. She wasn’t supposed to be happy. Grandma, with her bent back and stern gaze, was unhappy.

But the sun shone, so Amanda found escape from their flat into the back green, below the gaunt height of the tenement. Lying on the grass at the base of the hill, she would gaze dreamily up at the trees, admire their swishing branches and hope flowers would sail down, land on her face and arms. Fragrances blew around her. Beneath the branches, she breathed deeply and her heart lifted.

Not so far away, Simon held a yellow duster. Motes swam in the air, then settled again a little way off: on the mantelpiece, on the round-headed clock, the dust and grime kept the corners of his living-room warm. It annoyed him, a little, when the sun shone. Then he could see specs and marks in the light.

Habit tugged him over to the window. The sash and case rattled faintly. Without really seeing, since he looked so often at the same shorn hills, he watched…adjusted and looked again.

Her dark brown eyes, almost black, found the flicker. She looked too, smiling easily. No-one else noticed that light brown face, saw those window eyes catch the sun. No-one else was there to watch the shape of her cheeks, the way her hair swept back. That blue dress, hidden under the bright, waxy green of trees fully awake.

Amanda grinned. Simon smiled.

The old man turned away, shaking with regret. Where was Ellen, to share this? He had long ago looked at beauty like that, in that way. In the business of passing his days, he had lost the urge to look outside. Outside!

The duster lay on the floorboards where it was dropped.

He saw her again when he left, the front door slamming shut behind him. Deeply busy, dreaming.  Such a beautiful child. Such wondrous sunlight. See those flowers…red flowers.

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May 16, 2019

Writing is a funny business

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Writing is a funny business

Writing is a funny business: compulsive, open-ended and exhilarating. It is also isolating, solitary and sometimes downright weird. Here we sit with our characters and our ideas, and who else is that bothered about them?

There have been times when I think back and suspect that, if I had known what I know now, about the long hours, the pay rates, the promotion and the nerve-racking waiting to see, I would never have started. As I say, it can be a strangely solitary pre-occupation…

But if I hadn’t bothered to tell my story, and if I hadn’t won the writers’ equivalent of the Lottery and persisted until I found a publisher, I would never have met hundreds of truly wonderful and supportive friends, in Authonomy, but also on Facebook, Twitter, all my on-line networks, within my faith community and simply in the world at large. I would never have known what I was capable of.

Writing is often a way in which we grow through our lessons to something more powerful. We learn that we can do many things, and that we owe it to ourselves to try.

Many writers worry about writer’s block, editing, publicity, promotion and all that goes with it. They worry about revealing their ‘babies’ to the public. They fret about the cost, the long hours and how they can fit in their writing around ordinary life. But many writers are reluctant to trade their obsession for something more ‘ordinary’, and few regret having learned valuable lessons. There are not many authors who find the same buzz in a day job. Because, when the chips are down, there is nothing more exciting, there is no thrill that compares to finding a story, writing it out and finally deciding to call it finished.

Thanks for reading.

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May 13, 2019

Reading cheerful books

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Here is a listening version of this blog post.

Reading cheerful books

Increasingly I find I make a virtue of reading cheerful books. I have read a lot of chic lit – that brand of rather uniquely sexist literature that fashionistas decry because they say it appeals to the lazy instincts of womankind. Woman meets man, loses man, finds him again; or woman loses man, finds herself, finds a better man. We are prone to scoffing at such easy, soft options for reading, as if by not reading Proust, or the latest discoveries unearthed within the pages of ‘Archaeology Now’, we are letting down the side, betraying the freedoms for which our older sisters and mothers fought so hard.

But what if the lot of women is already hard? What if the first thing woman does when she rises at seven, is to put away the laundry, open the curtains and make the beds? What if, when she reaches the kitchen and is within hailing distance of her breakfast, the first thing she sees is the pile of unwashed dishes at the sink? There is not much room there, for escapism, and precious little to look forward to, unless, of course, she is that delightful fiction of mankind, the woman who enjoys cleaning and clearing, and finds daily menus a delightful challenge.

As it is, I manage several loads of laundry a week, half a dozen cooked meals and an assortment of domestic duties, usually with considerable aplomb. On the occasional occasion when I mention my dislike, my husband, who rarely does laundry, says I make too much of my dislike. A few years back, his incomprehension would have been my cue for an argument and a bout of despair. Now, at least, I can think of a calm reply with a hint of humour, “Spoken like a true officionado” or some such… It’s just a pity that it takes me a week to formulate it, by which time the moment has passed.

There are times when the sheer loneliness of domestic isolation can become a bit overpowering. Held down by such feelings, happy stories and humour are a vital escape, allowing the mind to lift, and then find solutions, strength and new resolve. If Alice in her cupcake shop can tell the CEO of a large multi-national corporation that she is not interested in promotion, then I can find the steely resolve I need, to withstand long periods of fatigue, failures in communication and the demands that everyone makes on my time.

Thanks so much for reading.

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May 9, 2019

Difficulty moving forward

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Difficulty moving forward

Here is a listening version of this blog post.

It is natural, when we have difficulty moving forward, to assume that we have no wish to move. And there are those who will capitalise on our difficulty with moving forward and taking the initiative by assuming, for example that, “Since you’re sitting there, you can do this for me / wait for me / come with me…”

But since I have worked out – so recently that it is almost embarrassing – that deciding, doing and moving are all that bit extra challenging for me and that taking that extra time and effort out of an average day counts as a peculiarly painful loss, I am now surprisingly indignant when I spot this habit gliding silently towards me, ready to take up position in service of someone else’s life, ambitions or expectations.

Paul D’AguilarPerfecto Resting

Hubby says to me, “Well, please go and do what you would like to do…” and is baffled that I find it difficult; while he would find it relatively simple to decide. He is a man who knows his own mind and is quite happy to populate his spare time with things he enjoys: more power to him.

But what if I have never really known what I would prefer to do? So that by the time my speedy friends have worked out their idea of a good time – “Want to go to the cinema? Great, let’s go!” – it’s too late for me to add my considered response, “Actually, I would really, really love to go and walk in a park with tall trees…” without sounding like a kill-joy. The assumption evolves effortlessly that I am countering an earlier suggestion with a no; whereas I am merely slower to unearth my preferences. (If I were able to leap into a blank canvas with my idea first, others could and probably would counter it, but at least my speed would shield my reputation.)

Perhaps I come to this now merely because I have reached an age in which it is expected that I want to go slower. I receive mailings about funeral plans, insurance for the over fifties, home equity release schemes, sedate holidays for those on the brink of retirement… Which are, again, lots of other people’s ideas begging a hearing.

Whereas I feel that I need to start moving. I have so much living still to do.

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May 7, 2019

Ownership of our writing

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Ownership of our writing

Here is a listening version of this blog post.

How proprietorial are we about what we have written?

For me, the most fun part of writing is the first bit, when ideas are running away from me, down the page, sometimes so fast that my fingers slip off the keyboard while my thoughts are pushing ahead. The excitement of chasing down an idea and framing it to the page is really the best part of the writer’s day. Having these ideas, and the words to work them into something, is what art and craft are all about. That first draft, the energetic outline, may be fleshed out very quickly. But we cannot leave it like that, can we?

A good first working draft is one thing. But surely, the most difficult part of creativity – and one part of writing which I actually enjoy very much – is the discipline of re-reading, discarding and re-writing, even if that means that sometimes we agonise for hours or days over one sentence or turn of phrase.

Every artist has pieces of their creativity littering their lives, the piles of which would very quickly become unmanageable without some sweeps of culling and clearing. I find that it is the processes of tidying, reinvention and re-writing that most tax a writer’s courage: how often should we re-write, and what should we throw away? Anything that we know in our heart of hearts will not appeal as much to our readers as it does to us, will probably be heading to the recycle bin.

Madrazo, Portrait of a Lady, MM.2014.03

Writing is not only about retrieving beautiful passages of prose and poetry from our souls. It also encompasses the benign destruction of our favourite passages, to allow the light of understanding to penetrate so that others can more easily share our enjoyment. Like a rosebush that is pruned hard to the ground and blossoms easily and wildly the following year, if we have faith in what we are writing and some patience to brew the final result carefully, that first taste of a good finished piece is surely worth the wait.

Thanks for reading.

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