Path To Publication

March 19, 2014

I Must Not Be Selfish

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Just when I reach one of my lowest ebbs, there come two pictures of daffodils posted on Facebook by a lovely friend. I gaze at these and determine that what I most need is not courage or resignation, but discipline. And so decided, I don my scarf and coat and go outside for all of ten minutes in search of elusive daffodils nearby. It is windy and cold, a blast of spring air. As I gaze up into the sullen, darkening sky which mirrors my mood so neatly, I realise, This is not about me. I must not be selfish.

In writing my book, “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” and now in narrating it for the audio book, I have at last accepted fully that, regardless of how humiliated I may feel, there is more at stake here, than my privacy or my sense of personal dignity. Other people are working hard for me, it is true, and many of them do so for little tangible reward. But the picture is bigger than this. I can read, and write, and 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 to endure 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.

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March 18, 2014

Reading with Ariel

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Reading with Ariel

I hope readers of my blog will forgive me: I have not posted anything this week, because I am narrating the audiobook of “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy”. Doing so is heart-wrenchingly difficult.

The audio producer kindly asked me if I would like to read. The word “like” suggests enjoyment, fulfilment. So when I said ‘yes please’, that was fine, and doubtless they see no reason for me to be unhappy about it. Of course, I would do it, even if they asked me again, I would give the same answer, but that does not mean it has been easy.

Writing about the painful episodes of my life – that would be from the age of five to about forty-two, then – is one thing. There is something reassuring in writing that conveys meaning which, while it may have to be spelt out, nevertheless maintains a dignified silence. Articulating the same passages with sound, brings a whole level of new pain to the experience which can hardly be appreciated by those who do not have to endure it. Actually, I am familiar with being told what to do, and my obedient persona complies easily with requests to repeat difficult passages. These are the worst, of course, because they are the hardest to get right, to do calmly, and so have to be done again. I pray continuously, not to break down and weep. I ask for help from my guardian angels. I clench my fists hard and beg, and swallow and wait and hope for the next storm to pass, because there are timetables to meet. Because there are only so many times I would like to cry about this, again.

Brosen Bielsk - Podlaski Aniol
Brosen Bielsk – Podlaski Aniol

It has something to do with feeling humiliated, and having to expose truths and lies that I have held beneath a dignified silence for so long.

Whatever way I might have chosen to play this, there were always going to be disadvantages and benefits. I learn, the storm passes, and a smile is always waiting to lift me up. Thank God.

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March 11, 2014

Believing in Best

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Believing in best

I have been browsing the website of the Society of Authors, which offers reasonable and very practical advice. Thank you, SoA. Membership is a possibility, and I shall reflect on that in the next little while. However, reading through their eye-opening material I cannot help detect a certain amount of realism creeping in. Of course. Realism is what everyone needs, isn’t it?

An advocacy group or a trade union rather specialises in offering realistic advice. Artists often need practical help, perhaps more than other professionals might. Before you rush to condemn my blatantly prejudicial pronouncement, I mean merely to suggest, tentatively, that those accountants, lawyers and architects who enjoy their jobs are probably better equipped, on the whole, to tackle the world of business, money and hard fact. Artists are perceived as nurturing dreams, rather lost in the realms of colour, music or written whimsy. To be creative, artists allow themselves to be carried away on the wings of fancy; and history is littered with examples of artistic geniuses who could not manage the transition to hard-headed marketing guru; which is why I suspect that artists, on the whole, benefit greatly from practical advice.

However, we have to tread a careful line between heeding practical advice and believing it. We may listen and learn, but to take into ourselves the wisdom that, for example, “(Writers) are appreciative and supportive of any efforts a publisher makes to promote their book, and entirely understand that in the vast majority of cases, given the number of books being published every year and how busy PR departments are, all an author can expect is a couple of weeks of effort around first publication” is to feel a toe-curling anxiety that is hardly beneficial to our prospects.

To succeed, whatever our private weaknesses and reservations, we need to believe that what we have already achieved, and what we are about to achieve, amounts to success. ‘For what we are about to achieve, may the Lord make us truly thankful.’ Without that belief, which often flies in the face of all the practical advice that others offer, we will surely sow the seeds of our failure. Writers achieve miracles every day, in blogs, letters, in emails carefully crafted, and witty replies on FB or a perfect Tweet. We need to believe in miracles, and keep seeing them everywhere in what we do. Success is not what other people tell us. It is what we believe about ourselves.

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March 10, 2014

Fear

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Optimism, faith and relaxing with Life were yesterday’s theories. God bless Sundays.

Today, I am wondering about the wisdom of having shipped out copies of my first book, “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” to my long-time friends. I worry that they will read my story, and, filled with a new and worrisome incomprehension, they will flee from me, and possibly never speak to me again.

The older, wiser me steps in and attempts to arbitrate this fear, “Ah, but is fear of the reactions of others – even our friends – ever a reason to not do something which we feel impelled towards?”  And I know, of course not, no. If we let our fears of disapproval dictate our actions all the time, we would have very small lives. Ruled by fear, what do we become? Mere shadows. Intellectually, logically and spiritually, I know this. I know too, that my friends like and love me for who I am. In most cases, a mere book will probably not come between us. But emotionally, I am less robust, frightened of my steps into the unknown, this uncharted territory. My resolution wavers wildly, and I am prone to unexpectedly fierce bouts of weeping. How will my kith and kin react to this latest bout of independent action? When my neighbours see me again, will their minds rove constantly to the sorrowful and shameful revelations of my story? Will their eyes flicker in disbelief or widen in disgust? I doubt it, yet part of me is sorrowful in fear.

The answer is in what I have written earlier, that the Universe is constantly conspiring to work things out in our favour. So then, everything I do is part of that process, in which there is nothing much to think about, far less actually worry about and a great deal to enjoy. Okay, that sounds gentle and reassuring, so it works  meantime. Now, who else would like a copy of my book?

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February 28, 2014

Waiting

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She sat and waited, trying to draw interest from the usual chic lit plot, in a fat book that drooped into her lap as she slept, and woke with a start, desperately hoping for something to happen. These situations always brought out the worst in her, she reflected: her books that were going to be delivered, but had not yet arrived. Should she stay in for them, forfeiting whole days of sunshine for the slim chance that a burly chap with a large box would arrive to signal the end of this latest, small obsession? Or the email that would signal a trip to a studio – which could be anywhere – and some recording time that she felt, would have filled last month in nicely.

These situations brought out the worst, the very worst of her fears, her impatience. Others, seeming to hold her life in abeyance, appeared heedless of her silent endurance. They were so busy, while she waited for them, and suffered, as she felt she had suffered in many previous lifetimes, crucified, just waiting for something to happen.

The answer to powerlessness, she recalled, was not to react like a scared rabbit frozen in the headlights. It was to ask, “What would a powerful person do, now?” What indeed. Go out, and not wait for others to come. Finish the countless stories waiting for an ending. Prepare, rest, write and pray: she knew that the Universe was constantly conspiring to work things out in her favour. Now all she had to do was believe it.

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February 14, 2014

Career for a collapsing woman 2

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Career for a collapsing woman 2

It is simply thrilling, having a writing career which seems set to unfold in gentle ripples around me. It seems quite astonishing that I, of all people, should be able to say, with truth as well as conviction, “I am a writer” and be able to point to some evidence of success in that line.

Ahead of publication in less than three weeks, I feel so happy, very excited, more than a little scared and plagued with self-doubt: The changeable moods that flood through me are disorientating, yet I rediscover every day the power of relaxing and letting go. I may as well relax, wait and see what happens after “Trapped” is published. In some ways, the hard bits have already been done, since writing my magnum opus has been rather like having an operation on my heart without the benefit of anaesthetic. I have to trust that it will all work out well.

The audio script for ‘Trapped’ is also more or less sorted, ready for reading, ready for whenever I am told the studio is ready for me. If I had a retentive kind of mind, I would have the text word-perfect by now, and could recite it without the script at all. The words and the sentiments, the voices, are as familiar to me as vanilla ice-cream; so of course I want to read it. But it is so very intimate, in parts, so very private, that I occasionally feel as if the whole world will witness my humiliation and my pain. Reading a paper book is usually a private affair, but if I am also speaking aloud, I feel as if I am handing myself and all my intimate secrets over on very public plate. Does that feel humiliating? Yes, occasionally, and I don’t know why.

I am aware that ‘exposure’ and ‘humiliation’ narratives are only one side of the coin, the other side perhaps etched with ‘candour’, ‘bravery’ or ‘sharing’.  Nevertheless, from a place of relative calm, I observe a bewildering array of emotions, spilled like pins from a sewing box, which threaten to pierce my peace of mind at every hand and turn. Sometimes, caught unaware, it feels as if an unknown person is standing outside the room flicking the light switch on and off, on and off, just for fun. Should I get bereavement counselling for my poor old life?

What most readers may notice goes beyond the shame. Perhaps, reading aloud now will help me to have another period of coming to terms. I intend to give a reading to be proud of.

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January 28, 2014

Life With Arial

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Life with Arial

I see life clearly in Arial twelve point, when I am typing. My mother says it is too basic a font, unrefined and rather ambiguous. But I see it as straightforward, smooth and undemanding, generously allowing me get on with what I want to write, rather than having to work through the sweep of clever lines and blocking corners. Times New Roman, for example, feels quite alien to me and rather overblown. Since everyone chooses to use it, it seems to have become rather full of itself.

Perhaps my preference for the Arial typeface merely reflects the differences between my mother and me. While I enjoy a challenge, at times I can find myself too easily unbalanced and overthrown; I need to be able to see where I am plotting my path, well in advance and with no nasty surprises. Keeping going can be a rather tedious, short sighted sort of preoccupation, so that the last thing I need is life with extra knobs on. My mother, on the other hand, seems to be able to dismiss complexity easily. “Darling, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” It makes me smile, broadly, but I keep my loyalty to Arial. Besides, Arial sounds like its brother, the Archangel Ariel, whereas Times New Roman sounds like an oppressive, imperialist stride.

Before long, I’m going to start narrating for the audio copy of my first book, which is being published on 4th March. I’ve never done anything like that before, but it will get me out of the house, make me work, and focus my mind on producing a good sound. When I write, I like to talk through my work anyway, which I hope has been good practice for what happens next. In a sound-proof booth I shall be speaking into a mike, a sound engineer working with me just beyond the glass. Hopefully, just me and her. (I was going to say “him” but I threw that in there just as a little surprise.)

I’ve been busy preparing an audio script, double spaced, lots of room to remind me to slow down, and in twelve point Arial, which will feel familiar and soothing. I like the thought of an angel with me, when I am speaking aloud the most intimate details I have ever shared – an unusually emotional challenge. It is easy to write confessional material late at night in the privacy of home. But speaking it aloud, how will that feel?

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January 20, 2014

Success came so slowly

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Success came so slowly that by the time they were asking her questions, she had almost forgotten this was her, they were asking about. She had not yet grown accustomed to the wonderful – spectacular – tidings, interspersed with long, blank periods of silence and occasional emails bearing good news. “Your cheque is on the way, has been paid in, your release date is early next year…Welcome to our publicist.”

Because the silences in between were so deep, she began to doubt that her biggest dream had come true, that she had actually done the literary equivalent of winning the lottery. It took occasional reminders and statistics gleaned from dogged, faithful on-line friends and worthy “How To” articles, to reassure her that well now, writing was what she did, by all accounts, and that she had best find ways to carry on doing that. During the long gestation before her book would be born, whenever anyone needing anything did get in touch, asking for this or that, she had been used to doing everything, like, yesterday. Working for people who genuinely loved something she had made was a pleasure, and she waited eagerly for further instructions.

The hardest part was remembering her poverty. She had one good suit that she had bought for her wedding, now with one moth-hole (carefully darned) and there was a brace of shirts that she kept for special occasions and had never worn, hanging about waiting for the day she would have to be smartly turned out, carefree in cufflinks. Cufflinks for women were something new, though she had always envied those who could demonstrate so subtly their unsuitedness to domestic tasks. She had bought herself one pair, just to experiment with the ambition that said she, too, might one day leave aside the wet dishes and the soaking tubs, the water that would not now be allowed to catch her cuffs and creep annoyingly up to her elbows. It seemed that her wishes were coming true.

The excitement that others read into the print, she had expelled uneasily over many years. The writing was not the worst part, so that by the time they were enthusiastic, she had moved on to other things, and was able to smile convincingly, and give great answers. She was ahead of them in that, but when they were off zooming down the highway, she waited patiently.

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