Amazon Audio Books

Heralds of Springtime

Arriving back from riding and swimming and lunch and a recce, yesterday afternoon I sat in a pleasantly tired stupor in the warmth of the car’s driving seat:  In early morning shadows, I had been scraping hard ice of the windscreen while the temperature clung on at 1 degree.  By the afternoon, it was positively tropical at ten degrees and the interior of the car was toasty in the slanting, bright sunshine.

In the line of flowers that crowd against the brick wall of our block, I espied a first daffodil bulb opening its petals.  Opportunists soaking up sun and warmth, these bulbs are always the first in the locale to flower.  And I love daffies.

Strangely, the sight of nodding daffodils, which should have triggered happy feelings, brought out a sort of exhausted grief.  Wondering why that should be, I remembered that short sharp season during which I narrated the audio book of Trapped. 

It had been a cold, blowing, Spring afternoon, during which I flung myself out of doors to sit balefully under a glowering sky in search of some relief from the pain of recalling, in minute detail, all the things I have written about in my book, all the whys and wherefores.  My search was for release, hope and a sense that life could go on before.  And I had gone in search of those heralds of springtime, daffodils, symbolising for me warmth, joy and renewal as few other flowers do.  I found them in profusion, and was consoled.

Narrating the audio book was not fun – I wore several woollen jumpers to stop my teeth chattering from a chill brought on by adrenaline – as all the peace and solace that can be found in the quiet dignity of the written word was stripped away and laid bare.  I recall how, at first, the engineer, a lovely chap who was only doing his job, would ask me to read that passage again, please, because some word was not strictly in line with the text.  After the second day, appreciating how challenging the repeats were – how hard it is to give voice to indignities not once, or twice but four times, maybe – he relented on small details, thus probably rescuing me from a bout of insanity.  As it was, I did have a short spate of PTSD which I was thankfully able to manage quite well – by dint of knowing to expect it.

I’m grateful that, by signing up to narrate my own book, I got the chance to do something so challenging.  And I’m pleased that I did a creditable job.  But I do so wish that I still loved daffodils as I used to.

Happy St David’s day.

Please share:

Motivations of a memoir author

Despite my earlier habit of obsessing a bit over ratings and reviews of my first book I no longer scan the virtual horizon looking for criticism, thank God.  I am grateful that reviewers and critics do their jobs, and I must remember where my motivations lie, and not be too much distracted.

It’s not that I don’t care.  Part of me always will.  But there is a much more significant part which knows that if even one person has been helped by what I write, then it was well to write it.  The silent minority of readers whose experiences echo mine, will not leave reviews but they may read and be relieved.

Isolation is killing.  Loneliness and depression cause unnecessary suffering and premature death.  It is far better to speak out, and say the occasional thing one might regret, than say nothing, risk nothing, and wait for life to empty itself out, while we wonder about what might have been, if only we’d had the courage to act.

To quote from an earlier blog I posted while narrating the audio book:-

‘I have a wonderful life. I have freedom to move and the space to express my preferences.  I know that, most days, I do not do enough with that freedom, but at least I can move away from here.  I have always known that, in life, it is having options that matters most.

There are millions of people in the world who suffer in silence, who endure cruelty, exclusion and neglect, and who have no-one to speak for them: millions of children who are misdiagnosed, misunderstood, pigeonholed, forgotten and overlooked: millions of adults who can do nothing about the places they find themselves in.  As I write in my book,

“How many others with issues like mine are languishing in the shadows of institutional ignorance because their families listen politely to advice which owes more to prejudice and speculation than to hard facts or compassion?  If it wasn’t for my mother’s decision so often to disagree, to go it alone, I would be in a “home,” possibly dead, having led only a teeny little bit of a life.  No one would have known anything about me, or uncovered the thoughts lurking behind my eyes.  The smallness of my life would have remained a hidden loss, overlooked, as the lives of so many disabled adults are overlooked.”

If my book can strike a blow for freedom of conscience, self-expression, human dignity and compassion, then the small terrors I have had to endure to get here today are well worth the price.  God will give me the strength to do as I must.  And, with that faith, together we can all join and create miracles.  I do so hope you agree.’

Please share: