Memoir

May 5, 2019

Unexpected reading

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Unexpected reading

Dusting a crammed shelf next to my desk, my working copy of Trapped falls to the floor and I pick it up and open it.

It is unexpected reading; and I am scared, not because, as used to be the case, I am anxious about finding grammar glitches and typos, but because I wonder now, how I will feel about the writing, and the experiences after so long. Have they finally left me and gone away to a dignified retirement? Am I encouraged by what I read?

I’m baffled and bemused to discover that it still makes my eyes water; and I notice in the midst of what was always an appeal for help, the acres of time I wasted. Even as an adolescent, I was aware of that wasted time and regretted it; but now, I think, Why did I accept it? How the Hell did I tolerate it?

The answer, like these questions that have sat up and beg me to pay attention, lies I suspect in the discipline and open-ness to truth that is forced on me by getting older. There is something about being young, that feeling of having all the time in the world, that gives us permission to sit and wait. That sense of timelessness which we can squander is often characterised as the joyous, endless horizon of youth, the notion that anything is possible. And so it is, providing we take the chance to do something. Or else, it can become a field of endless, formless regrets.

Inevitably, the field narrows as we get older, until our demise ceases to be a remote probability and becomes an urgent motivator: It’s got to be now or never! While young, I accepted my situation because I could see no way to get out of it, and I tolerated it, because there was no choice. I had neither the type of Georgette Heyer character nor the energy to defy expectations by leaping up and eloping. Nor, in fact, did I have any idea what I would rather do. Oh, yes, of course I knew I wanted to get away, and dreaming of escape has always been a favourite fantasy, but after the escape, what then? That was always the stumbling block.

Thanks for reading.

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April 29, 2019

Telling the truth about life

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Telling the truth about life

People think I’m very funny because I’ve got used to telling the truth about life. “Oh, how drole, how very amusing!” they chortle, trying not to choke on their tea, their coffee or their biscuit crumbs.

It’s easy, really. More often than not, I say what other people are thinking. I blurt out the “one stupid question” that no-one wants to ask for fear of looking idiotic. All things considered, I have little to lose, so I think of truth-telling as my partypiece: my secret weapon.

It was my father who first started me thinking about the value of this. During a visit abroad, as he was happily relating tales of his adventures, he confessed that it could be very tricky using humour to brighten the mood at a dinner party. Humour, it turns out, is a remarkably local affair – I may understand irony, family humour, but the neighbours will probably consider the same joke unduly forward and rather rude: what might be amusing to the French ambassador sitting on dad’s right, might deeply embarrass the Lithuanian consul seated on his left… Difficulties with language and the communication of small subtleties can proliferate alarmingly.

“So, what do you do?” I asked wonderingly. (Sometimes my naivete astounds me.)

“Well,” he turned to me with a twinkle in his eye, “I just tell a story against myself. It could be anything. I might have told the cook I wanted salad for supper, not salami, or I might have dropped my glass of wine. Whatever it is, I just make it amusing and everyone laughs. We are all very entertained and the joke is on me, so my problem is solved. No more international misunderstandings. Very important, you see….”

While I marvelled at my father’s dedication to his job, even to the extent of putting himself forward so that everyone might laugh at his antics, gentle humour is indeed a wonderful way to disarm unkindness. If we make ourselves look a bit daft, our friends will probably feel more comfortable telling us about their mistakes too.

It was my father whom I thought of, when I had the wonderful idea to take twenty years of hard knocks and turn them into stories that might entertain. For the most part, I can and often do gleam something worthwhile from what I used to think of as my wasted years, by telling the truth and laughing about it.

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March 21, 2019

To throw in the towel

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Lately I’ve wanted – despite the joy of being at the Book Fair – to throw in the towel on my writing. To say, “I gave it my best shot, and I’ve had enough.” But what stops me is the realisation that this is one field of endeavour that I can honestly call my own.

True, it owes its genesis to the generosity and encouragement of others, in particular, my husband. But having cultivated this particular creative garden, it has taken root and is well established. So I don’t feel justified in pulling it all out and leaving behind bare earth. And if I did, how would I spend the time that not writing would free up? Would I have the courage to do what I want, or would I expend even more of my efforts in helping others?

I realise my cogitations make me sound very selfish. I’ve just had four days away from home, exploring to my heart’s content. But doing that, I have been able to notice how lopsided my ‘ordinary’ life has become, how joyless; and just how much of my effort has been invested for others. I say, automatically, “I don’t mind,” but actually, I mind very much. And however often I may assume it doesn’t matter, clearly my body has other ideas: I am forced to recon with my giving tendencies when I am sore, exhausted and depressed.

I suppose I have to be more honest about what I would like to do. But I’m not used to it, not really. Hubby says, “Go out and have fun…!” which for him might be easy to decide and do. Whereas I sit quietly wondering what that might entail, pondering what fun might be. Going to the cinema? Not very active. Going shopping? Yes, but that’s a consumerist effort. Reading a book? I recon I’ve done enough of that for a while. Watching television? No, I want to get outside. Go for a walk? Yes, somewhere nice, maybe… I would love to go for a walk, at my pace, in a wooded place, where I don’t have to fret that I’m late, or in the way, but can enjoy great lungfuls of cool, fresh air.

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March 1, 2019

Dilemmas of a memoir writer

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Dilemmas of a memoir writer

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…

Thanks for listening.



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February 25, 2019

Featured today on Kathy Pooler’s blog

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Featured today on Kathy Pooler’s blog.

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.

Please do pop in and support Kathy if you can.

Thanks for reading and sharing.

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November 23, 2018

“The Choice” by Edith Eger

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Book Review, “The Choice” by Edith Eger.

“The Choice” by Edith Eger was recommended to me by Elouise Reinich Fraser on her blog, Telling the Truth which I have followed for some years.

So I knew it would be worth reading and immediately ordered a copy. As soon as it arrived, I was delving into it, unwilling to get on my usual daily round: always a good sign.

“The Choice” recounts in careful detail the story of Edith’s life, from her youth until the time when, as a precocious and talented seventeen year old gymnast, she was transported to Auschwitz extermination camp along with the rest of her family – her mother, father and elder sister, her other sister having escaped to Budapest where she managed to survive until the end of the war – and faced extreme privation, forced labour and death marches before she and her sister were liberated by a soldier from a unit of the 71st Infantry of the US army. Unable to move or call attention to their survival in the midst of a scene of carnage and devastation, her elder sister held up a sardine can, the steel of which reflected the sun, calling attention to where they lay, covered in bodies on the ground.

This is not only the story of two women’s survival against enormous odds. Time and again, Edith demonstrates the importance of small acts of kindness, of social bonds, and the value of small coincidences in ensuring our survival and to give meaning to our lives. For example, if she and her sister had been able to open the sardine can – offered as emergency rations but without the tin opener that would have made it possible – they probably would not have been able to use it to signal for help. While reading this account of a life I am constantly reminded, in ways that restore my faith in the value of small things, that sometimes life hinges on the smallest unexpected details.

Edith and her elder sister survive, and, by one of many twists and turns that so surprise, are reunited with their sister at the home they shared before the war disrupted their lives. The struggles that the girls later endure to get back to some kind of normal, make a fascinating study, from which we can all learn a great deal, about fortitude, faith and the value of forgiveness.

This book is certainly worth reading and re-reading. I have read many books written by survivors of the extermination camps and have always felt myself indebted to the examples of peace, reconciliation and fortitude that these offer. There is something poignant, too, in the example of a nonagenarian mother and great grandmother who has had so many lessons to learn from, and who so willingly shares these with her readers. The ultimate lesson – and where the book gets its name – is well worth learning from too.

Very highly recommended.

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August 9, 2018

Making Miracles

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My third book, Making Miracles is now complete and published under my imprimatur, Heartwell Publishing. Thanks so much to everyone who has helped make my latest dream come true.

My third book, Making Miracles, brings to a conclusion my various attempts, over the course of fifteen years, to encapsulate in three books – which follow in a loose series – what I have learned in the course of my varied life: how I have moved from profound unhappiness into contentment and have, hopefully, become a more deliberate creator of my own happiness.

Many people can and have managed to find meaning, purpose and happiness throughout their lives  without needing to write about it; but I guess that writing has been my means to obtain peace, to learn to live with my frailties and come to terms with them. Writing is one way I have found answers and become a happier, kinder person, more at peace with myself. And perhaps, through what I have written, I can encourage others to think the best of themselves.

Making Miracles is the outcome of a dream diary that I kept over the course of fifteen years. Throughout that time, and as an ongoing process, I have been sent many reassurances and messages which make it increasingly clear to me that guidance – call it what you like; as long as it works, I have no particular attachment to names or concepts – is available all the time, and that we can each make use of our own guidance. Keeping notes or a diary has no particular significance, but makes it easier to remember things and learn from repeating experiences.

Thanks for reading.

 

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February 27, 2018

Smart as a Whip – Jacky Donovan

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Smart as a Whip – by Jacky Donovan

‘Smart as a Whip‘ by Jacky Donovan – aka ‘Instant Whips and Dream Toppings’ – is an account – a rather extraordinary account – of one woman’s discovery of … what? Her joy of sex? Her initiation into dom rom? It is so many things, and such an interesting read, for so many reasons. Not the least of which is, I seem to have led a very sheltered life.

Jacky started out on what turned out to be a life adventure, by her own admission a fairly ordinary and unexceptionable character, a talented employee, but rather dowdy perhaps, not a woman I would give a second look to. (Though, being me, I probably would.) Then she met the character Max, who very gradually altered Jacky’s expectations and behaviour, until she was running one of the premier Dom/Sub sex businesses in London. I’m pleased that Jacky found her forte, but have very conflicted feelings about Max.

This may not be the place to say this – this is a book review, after all, not a character assessment – but Max, charming urbane and very good in bed, increasingly strikes me as a psychopathic character. Not because he is obviously abusive or cold, but because he expects Jacky, in the name of experimentation, titillation, perhaps, to do things that he never has to, such as, while driving on the motorway at eighty, to remove her knickers and make herself climax behind the wheel. Undoubtedly exciting, but, from where I’m sitting, also life threatening and – let’s face it – a no-risk free kick for Max, who only has to whisper soft endearments down the phone to turn on our long-suffering narrator. High octane sex is, in many ways, unbeatable for thrills. But there is also the “agreement” between them that Max will never, and should never expect to have to, leave his wife; behaviour indicative of an insecurity that feels pathological to me.

I’m very interested in the study that Jacky’s book offers, of the men in her life: her friends and clients, and Max. I find myself wondering, long after I’ve finished reading, about the thrills of vicarious sex, and why so many of her clients get a kick out of unusual turn-ons. Perhaps they are not so unusual.

A very interesting read, eye-opening, funny and compassionate.

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February 20, 2018

‘How to Breed Sheep, Geese and English Eccentrics’ – Valerie Poore

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‘How to Breed Sheep, Geese and English Eccentrics’ – Valerie Poore

Valerie has been a follower and commentator on my blogs for a few years, and I’ve always admired her honest, cheerful style, and been so thankful for all her support here. So when one of my other friends recommended ‘How to Breed Sheep, Geese and English Eccentrics’ I quickly got a kindle copy.

I wonder why it took me so long.

‘How to Breed Sheep, Geese and English Eccentrics‘ is an enjoyable, confidently written and entertaining account of one woman’s attempts to get to grips with small-scale farming. In this account, ignorance makes for some delightfully funny stories, which had me giggling late into the night, desperate not to wake my husband by laughing too loudly.

It was lovely to relax and read of other people’s misadventures, flirtations with disaster and a whole host of characters straight out of a modern-day Thomas Hardy. A boyfriend needing love, a dangerous(?) flirtation with a dodgy other, a mother with a carefree dress sense, and enough plot twists to leave me wondering, right up to the end.

Is this a true account, or a simple story? It could be either, and it hardly matters. ‘How to Breed Sheep, Geese and English Eccentrics’ is a delightful insight into so many of the things I should have liked to try – country living, self sufficiency, flirtation with disaster… At a time, in the 1970’s when internet, mobile phones and on-line living was a distant mirage, this account reads like an affectionate tribute to simpler times, and is instantly engaging.

Thank you, Valerie.

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February 2, 2018

Lessons learned from writing

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Lessons learned from writing

My first book, ‘Trapped’

is my first baby, with which I am well pleased, and which shares more hopeful lessons learned from decades of misery. It was a very challenging work to produce – and it very nearly didn’t get written; it would have been so easy to simply turn my head away from the challenge and say, ‘Can’t be bothered’ – but I did pick up the gauntlet that was left lying there, and learned a great deal in the process. I’ve often said, if one other person has also been helped, that has made the whole ordeal worthwhile.

But in some ways, ‘Trapped’ is only a first step. It represents a coming to terms with things, a decision to put away yearning, and start living; a resolution to put an end to simply existing and start moving forward, creating things more consciously. Its narrative ends at the point where coming to terms – what do they call it, a coming of age? – has been reached. But having come to terms, we then need to move forward – and fast, if we have spent so many years simply dawdling on the side-lines. There is living to catch up on.

Which is where my second book comes in. In ‘Happiness Matters’

I had ten years to refine the lessons which remind me, over and over again, that I can only hope to be helpful to others if I can find it in myself to be happy first.

I can’t hope to find any of the answers, or any emotional or spiritual sustenance, unless I learn first, to do, and say, and be, what I would like. Which is not an invitation to a life of hedonistic indulgence; I would soon get bored with that. But it does recognise that the only things worth doing are those that come from sincerity, joy and contentment. So happiness within ourselves is not the outcome, as much as the spring-board that gives life to our most relevant, worthwhile actions. I’m glad to remember that, again, today.

Thanks for reading, and for all your support.

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