This year will be my third visit to the London Book Fair.
I bought my train ticket early, booked the same room as in previous years, and have printed my entrance ticket. Apart from checking dates and times obsessively, I only now have to pack my gear, and catch the train to London for the Book Fair, which is running this year between the eleventh and fourteen of March.
Was it brought forward from its usual slot in April because of fears of Brexit? Perhaps. But whatever way I look at it, I intend to have fun, to rest a bit, take a stroll through the green parts of Kensington and take refreshment in the warmer climate, the trees doubtless already in bloom.
I’m taking my three books of fiction, two copies of Trapped and a copy of my radio play. For whom? Who knows? But I know that if I don’t go, I’ll never know what might happen, who I might meet at the Fair. I may perhaps meet some of my on-line friends there, as I sometimes do.
There is no way to progress one’s life by sitting quietly alone at home… And husband is happy to support me, which helps so much. Not once has he suggested I surrender this writing lark in exchange for a more reasonable prospect of remuneration – in other words, an ordinary job. Instead, he has been totally supportive with my plans. I am blessed in this, as in so many other ways.
Time marches on. March already, with billowing daffodils, crocuses in the parks and byways, and fresh breezes filled with soft scents of spring.
I am reminded by the circuit of the seasons that my mother has now been living in Edinburgh for almost a year. In that time I have been so fortunate to have her company and her help with many things: thoughtful advice, reminders of what matters in life, the gift of her lifetime’s knowledge of me – how often she understands without my having to explain.
My sisters, too, have been incredibly helpful and supportive with the daily ups and downs; popping in for the weekend, or turning up to lend a hand on the occasional day. It’s like sunshine, having the true love and support of my family around me.
Though I am busy – goodness knows, I’ve never been busier – I say this every year, and every year it is true – I do more easily understand that I should find ways to enjoy everything I do in life, or else, why on earth am I doing it? If I’m finding laundry the bane of my life, what am I not doing with it that could make life more fun? Farming out the heavy stuff? Taking the chance of laundry day to throw out or pass on what I don’t need or like? Enjoying folding clothes and storing them with love?
I’m evolving a theory – which is still only a theory – that people move into bigger houses so that they can find room for their stuff. Interesting idea, that we take on bigger mortgages and more locks and keys, for things that we so often don’t even use.
I’m happy to be writing again. Yes, I know I’ve said this many times before, but this time – and I know I’ve said that many times before too – I know that I’m back on track. I have life organised, so before it throws me any more curve balls, I’m writing as fast as I can. Fast and furious. Because I’ve realised that when we are getting a work done, any writing will do. Any writing on a longer piece of work is worth doing, and we had best simply write it and censor later, edit later, later… First, write. In so deciding, the path clears a way forward.
So that is what I am doing. And feeling happy about it too. I am so reassured that the lessons I have previously taken on board about the way I write, appear to be holding true for each successive piece that I set myself.
But there is another agenda going on, which is that the third book in my fiction series will not be my last piece of substantial writing. I also want to get on with a stage play for Trapped which I was prompted to start some years ago by a series of dreams. So, as I sometimes do, I put down the introductory scenes which I have left until now. I was re-reading them lately, thinking – as we sometimes do after a long break – “This is surprisingly good…!” which means, I have to get on with that soon.
I work best when I have an end in view. Which, perhaps rather unusually in this case, is to make space for a stage play.
I didn’t realise it at the time, but when I wrote my memoir I was tacitly agreeing that my life would be open to public view. In retrospect, of course, that much is obvious; yet even after publication, the idea of being available in that way took time to get used to: not only my writing but my life became, in some ways, a matter of public interest. An outcome that scarcely occurs to writers of fantasy fiction, say, or historical whodunnits.
Because of the quasi-public nature of my first three books, I try to conduct my life with probity and discretion, and to treat everyone who reads my books with consideration. But the fact remains, readers will get to know a lot about me, while I, absent-minded at best, will probably learn very little about my reader friends. I have difficulty sometimes remembering people’s names – my own, too, so it’s not personal – and in even the most kindly exchanges with readers, I have no idea whether they have one sister or two, unless they choose to share personal details like these with me, or write blog posts about family.
Writers like Elouise, whose blogs I have followed for a few years I admire particularly, I suspect, because she also chooses to share the story of her life and her birth family. And I notice that I tend to gravitate towards other memoir writers whose books I have read. But then, I have always enjoyed reading life stories.
Happily, it rarely occurs to me to notice that the information exchange with my readers is a bit lopsided. In any case, the end point of any memoir already puts that story into a kind of historical context, marking a full stop beyond which life moves ahead steadily. I’m already a different person from that woman who looked out at the world a month ago.
But I do forget, sometimes, that people know more about me than I know about them. And have to remind myself that I don’t need to explain…
How much energy have I squandered in the course of my life, being cross, offended, disappointed or depressed? I suspect it has been a great deal, and I reflect with wry amusement – since that is better than mourning, again – that all these negative states also absorb extra energy since, in order to keep them alive, we must insist on them and rehearse our grievances, constantly reminding ourselves why we have excellent reasons for being unhappy. If we simply released them, the worries that underpin our negativity would simply float away.
Energy misapplied can be re-applied in better ways, of course. By refusing to allow ourselves to be derailed into grumpiness, by the realisation that it is fine, it is perfectly allowed to remain content even in the midst of great upheaval. Without noise, the quieter virtues are emboldened to emerge: peace, rest, calm and patience, which can show us a different way to relate to the world’s paroxysms. Like love, peace does not require to be constantly bolstered with declarations of loyalty. Peace, when it is allowed to be, simply is; and reveals itself as the inevitable underpinning, once all the noise has been silenced: We may make a lot of noise, but in the end, it is quietness that prevails.
Perhaps that is why I so like reading, and have gravitated to writing as I’ve got older. These are peaceful occupations that not only allow us to escape from everyday noise, but give us the means to focus on an activity that demands a bit of quiet in order to be effective.
Today I’m delighted to feature on Kathy Pooler’s blog, writing about my books, in particular how and why I wrote my memoir, Trapped: My Life with Cerebral Palsy.
I’m so grateful to Kathy for publishing my article on her website today.
Writing Trapped must rank as one of the hardest things I’ve done. Yet, it was the endurance test that ultimately saved my life and gave me a new sense of purpose, as well as countless opportunities to do things differently and see the world through fresh eyes. Having achieved that, no other test has seemed impossible, or anything like as daunting.
I do sincerely hope that my experiences with managing life challenges through contemplation, reading and writing will inspire others to take courage with their own personal mountains. We all have challenges to overcome, some expected, others that arrive like a cold whirlwind out of a clear blue sky. Whether we realise it or not, and whether or not we want to believe it, we can find ways to be happy, whatever life brings us.
That I have been enabled to find a path to peace through my writing makes me grateful beyond words.
When I was a kid, my idea of heaven was to go with my father to his work, and into the store-room where they kept the stationery. The blocks of A4 pads of lined paper, the fancy water-marked paper for posh letters, which we would hold up to windows so that we could trace the lion rampant and colour it in, where my idea of infinite possibility, with so much room for all my ideas to go anywhere I wanted – heaven!
It’s a pity that, instead of preserving that sense of the infinite and using it to my advantage, writing now feels a bit daunting, as if there are simply too many words to choose from, so many ways I could take a line of thought. So, habitually, I think that writing is hard because it contains too much possibility. How easy it is, by comparison, to write to a brief, to follow instructions, to know where you are heading.
But perhaps that is to look at the way I write, the wrong way. Perhaps the better idea is for me to wait patiently in writing mode, wrists and fingers at the ready, to see what comes through. I’ve heard of other writers who listen and write, and who record stuff that they later read and think, “Did I write that?” and who, reading it, decide, “This isn’t half bad, actually…!”
Perhaps that is the best way to go forward. It’s certainly one of the more restful ways, and who knows what it might produce?
My sister says, if I can’t get peace at home, I can go to hers for a few days. A writer’s retreat, she might call it, with time to think during the day and lots of space in which to allow my thoughts to wander without interruptions, and without having to think about school timetables or the soup boiling over in the kitchen… Nice idea. Problem is, life keeps getting in the way, so a more useful way to proceed, is to get up earlier, get organised and get on. Which I am doing.
Meantime, I am very heartened that Martha is reading Susan Scott and, she says, thoroughly enjoying it. She has found one typo – corrected – and pointed out a few small changes that I have taken on board. Very useful. But what is really truly heartening is that she says she stayed up late one night to read it…! A sudden gift to me that makes me realise, “Yes, I must do this, keep going and finish it.”
Book review sites, in particular, pour scorn on reviews by family members, suggesting that they are bound to be partial. It may be a fair assumption to make, but it is not my experience. Be that as it may, I am delighted to accept my sister’s encouragement as a signal that to continue and finish my latest project is worthwhile, and that the time to write is now. How lovely to have that vindication from a woman who is already immensely busy, and who has a rather less saccharine view of the world than I do.
I read women’s fiction because, just occasionally, I need that species of escapism. Martha would not usually delve into women’s fiction, assuming she would find the time to read at all. Further vindication, if I ever needed it, that my writing is worth persisting with. Thank you, Martha.
After Mum had spent three weeks in a medical ward at the Western General with a great deal of assiduous help to get her medically fit, she was advised that she was no longer a medical case – there was no more medical help they could offer – so they needed her bed back.
Fair enough. Doctors need to
treat sick people. And the wards at the Western on which this is done, are
relatively benign. The spaces are open and well set out, visitors are welcome
and encouraged, there are things to do and people to see, variety of a sort in
the scenery, and things to see out of the windows. Brave souls are allowed –
nay, encouraged – to venture to the café’s on the ground floor, or even outside
if the weather is clement, they have their zimmer and are warmly wrapped in the
company of their sons and daughters, siblings… The care is thoughtful and optimistic,
and the results are outstanding.
Then one morning a doctor visits and advises that yes, you are well enough to go home. But, since in a moment of caution, it has been suggested that a care plan is needed – though, in the event, my mother was deemed capable of managing most things independently, so her care plan was minimal – they would move her to another bed in another building until the care plan was in place. The caller who phoned from the medical ward to advise me of this situation indicated that this was “a step in the right direction” but was unwilling to say how long the stay on the new ward would be, though a murmur of two weeks escaped her reluctant lips.
Mother phoned immediately afterwards, in tears. She had a very different picture of her eventual destination. There I was, supposing a ward on the ground floor – nearer the exits – nearer the shops, nearer eventual normalisation. My mother’s advices abruptly put a stop to my delusions, and she asked me to visit her as soon as possible, and get her out of there, please…?
I visited the new ward the next day, armed with books, a few items of clothing. And found my eventual route to a building out of the way, at the back. Dark, approached through a narrow entrance with an air of abandonment, up two flights of winding stairs. I begged admittance to a locked ward, pleading my case past ‘protected mealtimes’ to a nurse on duty. The ward was a shock: tucked up in the eaves and back out of sight, away from any prospect of easy access to the outside world; no flowers, radios, tv noises, no internet access, no banter of relatives or friendly visitors. No views past the thick stone battlements; a single long, long corridor with business rooms off, and no-where to go.
My resolution hardened very quickly, and when Mum approached the orderly on duty to say, “I’d like to go home” I backed her to the hilt.
What is the point of an NHS treatment plan that gets people well, then shunts them sideways onto wards with nothing to do, no motivation, no reasonable prospect of access to the outside world? While it might not be intentional, the impression is inescapable that getting out of the ward at any time is discouraged, as are visitors, noise, or anything approaching intrusion. The message is clear: get well, stay well, and stay independent as long as you can.
I’m currently obsessed with watching de-clutter programmes. But then, I love to de-clutter, and am always looking for new ideas and inspiration. Why, you might ask, when I have never had a problem with accumulations?
I’ve watched Maria Kondo, and another Canadian offering, ‘Consumed’, both of which offer insights that are salutary. For example, that our things can weigh us down; that we should either love, or use, what we own, and if we don’t, then why are we keeping it? Why not have a house-full of things we love? Or an empty house that we can fill with things we love… Why not, indeed? Sometimes I think that we go away on holidays to simply get away from the weight of our possessions.
And coming to the end of series two of ‘Consumed’ I felt a flush of regret, of shame, almost, that I’ve never had much opportunity to accumulate things. I have perhaps turned a necessity into a virtue, because to do anything else was too painful. First in a diplomatic lifestyle in which the family was constantly moving, packing and moving again, then at boarding school with its term times, holidays and limited trunk space, and even, dare I say it, in hospital during the long summer holidays, with its long wards and neat bedside lockers so clearly demarking small expectations.
It’s all very well for me to decide I’m a minimalist, but it is truly unfair of me to expect others to agree. It is sometimes very necessary to feel the security of generosity, of knowing that we can keep many things we choose, because we love them. If that means we have four pillows instead of two, then that’s fine.
I know that less is more. And I agree. But there is a place for knowing we can collect things, and expect our collections to be respected. So I’m not going to be badgering my husband and daughter any more, and I’m happy to leave my sister to accumulate what she wishes. Having gone through the same minimalist tests, she has swung rather to the other end of the scale, which is just fine and dandy with me.
March 10, 2019
Visiting the London Book Fair
Fran Macilvey Path To Publication, The Rights & Wrongs of Writing, Women's fiction and chic lit 4 Comments
Visiting the London Book Fair
This year will be my third visit to the London Book Fair.
I bought my train ticket early, booked the same room as in previous years, and have printed my entrance ticket. Apart from checking dates and times obsessively, I only now have to pack my gear, and catch the train to London for the Book Fair, which is running this year between the eleventh and fourteen of March.
Was it brought forward from its usual slot in April because of fears of Brexit? Perhaps. But whatever way I look at it, I intend to have fun, to rest a bit, take a stroll through the green parts of Kensington and take refreshment in the warmer climate, the trees doubtless already in bloom.
I’m taking my three books of fiction, two copies of Trapped and a copy of my radio play. For whom? Who knows? But I know that if I don’t go, I’ll never know what might happen, who I might meet at the Fair. I may perhaps meet some of my on-line friends there, as I sometimes do.
There is no way to progress one’s life by sitting quietly alone at home… And husband is happy to support me, which helps so much. Not once has he suggested I surrender this writing lark in exchange for a more reasonable prospect of remuneration – in other words, an ordinary job. Instead, he has been totally supportive with my plans. I am blessed in this, as in so many other ways.
Thanks for reading.
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