The Rights & Wrongs of Writing

June 4, 2014

To buy or not to buy

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To buy or not to buy

I am a reader, so I’m always asking, to buy or not to buy books? Unfortunately, the supply of lovely books is limitless, unlike my current bank balance, (though I live in hope!) I read books all the time, everywhere. It is part of what I do for work, and in my precious leisure time. I find as I get older, that my eyes – or rather, my left eye – gets tired more easily; and I crave the comfort of a good soft seat, so reading a PDF file at the home computer screen is not ideal. In any case, I associate that posture with being ‘at work’ so that reading begins to lose its comfortable aspect, and occasionally feels like a chore. The last thing I need is another job to do.

It was a dream last week that finally persuaded me to buy a kindle. Despite my reservations – and the fact that e-books have no second hand value….I had a snapshot dream of waiting to turn right, in my car, but having to wait for a gap in the traffic, as other cars drove seamlessly past, getting on with their lives.

Cars are my body-life metaphor. So there I was, waiting to turn right and head for home, while other cars sped past. ….Okay, so, maybe it is time to join the e-crowd and get connected. No longer excluded from books only available electronically, now able to join in with e-book promotions and discussions on-line about the latest group read, I can fetch down all these books  I have been meaning to peruse from the internet and join the discussion. That in itself is good enough cause to celebrate. 

Girl Reading - Jean Baptiste Camille Corot
Girl Reading – Jean Baptiste Camille Corot

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May 21, 2014

Making the Most of it

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Seeing a poster advertising a local writing group, I emailed and I suggested myself as a guest speaker. Last night, I had been wondering if I should pop over to an earlier meeting to suss out the territory, hoping to make sure I know where I’m going and what I might expect. Solely with a view to making sure I don’t end up flat on my face or in the wrong place, you see.

This morning, I suspected that my motives might be misconstrued by the regulars. Might they conclude that I am looking for kudos or searching for compliments? It is possible. The last thing I want to do is to get in their way or cause any embarrassment.

I’m no more of an exhibitionist than the next writer is. But somewhere along the way I have had to take on a bit of reinvention, adapt. Shy wallflower with artistic dreams transmogrifies into marketing, networking and sales novice with a few tips up her sleeve. It may help that I am old – well, oldish – and I’ve had a life. I have reached the age where these silly adverts “are you fifty plus and looking for a way to reassure your loved ones when you die?” will very soon apply to me, and I reflect, “Well, I may be approaching that particular doorway, and I may well have already passed through most of the usual doors one expects to, but, really, I haven’t lived much, yet. Can we put off the appointment with the funeral directors for a couple of decades, please? Making the most of it, I hope to keep going.

I hope I’m one of these souls who are euphemistically referred to as “late starters” and that, when Life does finally start, I have a body which is still fit enough to enjoy finishing what I’ve started. Getting all the ducks in the row at the same time is a bit touch and go. But I am determined to do my best and the omens are very good. So here we go.

Claire Montreuil, 1945
Claire Montreuil, 1945

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May 15, 2014

What to Write Next

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‘We want you to write’ suggested Spirit, ‘because we think that will give you some true satisfaction.’

Feeling immediately overwhelmed, I thought, ‘Yes, but I don’t know what to write next. I don’t know anything.’

‘Oh, really? I could just feel the arch smile, the lift of the eyebrows… Here you are, almost fifty, with a husband, a daughter, one career behind you and another one well underway, and you don’t know anything? We beg to differ.’

‘You mean, about architecture, the nature of the cosmos, the probabilities of market trends, babies, healthy eating, women’s issues, that sort of thing?’

‘Perhaps you can write about these subjects. But just for the moment, consider the hundreds – thousands – of books that have passed through your hands. Do you honestly think you need to do yet more “research” before you can write about something that reflects your secret passions? Which books do you keep on your shelf? “A Course in Miracles”, the “Conversations with God” series, books about angels, the afterlife, forgiveness, time, the meaning of life…’

‘Yes, but shouldn’t I be a guru, or have a piece of paper from the University of Metaphysical Studies in order to write about these subjects?’

‘No. We all have to start somewhere. Look, instead of making excuses to put things off, just experiment. We understand that existential angst is one of your specialist subjects, but right now, perhaps it’s about time you had some fun. So instead of boring your husband with the “breakfast lecture series” would it not be an idea to share your thoughts with those who might be happy to read about them? Write about what you love, and if you need a bit of help, we will be here. After all, we are very pleased that God is one of your favourite preoccupations.’

I happily confess that I have always been intrigued by angels, the meaning of life, the importance of forgiveness, the purpose of time, the nature of progress, what it means to be successful, how to be happy and many more such topics which come under the heading “spiritual”. I enjoy fitting pieces of the jigsaw together that help answer the bigger questions, “Why am I here?” and “What is the point of existence.”

Angel stain glass window

 

I could have a stab at writing about these, I suppose – hopefully in a way that is entertaining and practical, as well as useful. Reminding myself of the spiritual buttresses of life does help me immensely to deal with daily practicalities. I could tackle potential subjects alphabetically, thematically, or haphazardly. Knowing me, it will be entirely haphazard….

 

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May 1, 2014

Telling Stories

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Telling Stories

Are memoirists selfish? Occasionally, after reading “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” a reader may comment with a wistful sigh, that they don’t get to discover much about the other members of my family. Do they gaze quizzically into the middle distance and suppose they are dealing with a narcissist? Self-obsessed at least….the reflection may leave them wondering…

Memoirists don’t even have to claim to be accurate, for goodness’ sake! They can just bring a whole pile of memories to the table, and, so long as they are “what I experienced” they are allowed their own creative licence. No poring over volumes in the dusty halls of academe, no flights to far-flung Istanbul to track down long-lost relatives whom you recognise vaguely, but can scarcely speak to, as they stand before you patting your hand and remembering the way it used to be, before your grandmother left home….

There are indeed many other telling stories wrapped in with a memoir, waiting to be told. But the subject of a memoir has to wade into the past gently, finding a way through which leaves the bulk of other people’s recollections untouched, while benefiting from them enough to provide context, depth and explanations. I have no right to tell the story of anyone else’s life, and so I must leave other people’s life strands almost entire and alone, respecting the privacy of their memories, trials and tribulations and not using or abusing them to gain extra attention.

Deciding what to write about, and what to omit, has become, for me at least, an exercise in honest self-control; and if I aim for that, I will probably not go too far wrong. That is what I have always tried to do, at any rate, so that if anyone has an objection, I can at least be clear that I was doing my best to recount my story in my own way, with no other objective than to finally tell my truth. Not a bad aspiration, actually, for a day’s work.

Jules Breton - La Glaneuse Lasse
Jules Breton – La Glaneuse Lasse

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April 11, 2014

I Had No Idea

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Reactions to my book, “Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy” have been overwhelmingly supportive and loving, with thoughtful and generous crits and reviews being posted on Amazon UK, Amazon.com (USA), Goodreads, Facebook and other websites. I am very touched and pleased that my story has already reached so many readers.

Interestingly, a great many people whom I would count as good friends, react surprised, saying, I had no idea. They are really astonished that so much can have happened of which they have been unaware, though of course, being introverted, depressed and solitary for so many years, it is unsurprising that, until now, only little fragments of my life and times, my thoughts, have surfaced to reach the light of day.

I counted it an important necessity 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 before now, would have given me the courage to make more mistakes, be more outspoken, to take more (small) risks so that I might move more freely and help others more often.

Today is a new day. And these resolutions build up slowly, gently forcing my hand. Thank God for the kindness of friends and strangers, and for the love that you have shown me. Thank you.

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March 28, 2014

What Stephen King Did For Me

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If you had said, “Stephen King” in my hearing last week, I would probably have turned away with a hint of distaste, perhaps thinking, “I have enough contemporary horror in my life already, thanks very much”. Which just shows how wrong you can be. Facebook is great too, a wonderful social network of friends and buddies who offer moral support and good ideas. It allows sharing, too, like this wonderful link, for instance:-

http://www.openculture.com/2014/03/stephen-kings-top-20-rules-for-writers.html

One of my writer friends happened to mention that King has also written a book about writing. After reading that article, and the chapters posted on Amazon, I bought “On Writing” and am reading it with pleasure. Which is what Stephen King did for me.

King’s top 20 rules answer my current state perfectly: reminding me that writing a first draft is primarily for our own benefit, primarily for fun, and deserves some good quiet time away from distractions. It is when doing cuts, revisals and edits that the opinions of other people may enter the process, not when we are in the midst of our first creative enthusiasm. Hurray! Thank you, Stephen. Now I can let my enthusiasm run away with me, and just see where we can go with it. That kind of fun energy is such fun to have around.

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March 26, 2014

Writing

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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 to catch up. The excitement of chasing down an idea and capturing 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? Having a good first working draft is one thing. But surely, the most difficult part of creativity – and a part of writing which I actually enjoy very much – is the discipline of re-reading, discarding and re-writing, sometimes agonising 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 process of tidying, of reinvention and re-writing that most taxes 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. 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 to penetrate. But 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.

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March 21, 2014

Big Red Writing Hoodie

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My big red writing hoodie is actually a fleece. I had a fleece I used to wear when I started writing Trapped, because I used to get emotional, and cold, and shivery. Perhaps it had something to do with beginning work on the first draft in the depths of January, when the light was improving, but the ground was still icy and hard. I got accustomed to wearing this garment like a security blanket, every time I was writing at my computer.

Over time, I must have written out so much sorrow, grief pouring onto the page like thick treacle: coming to terms with all the rubbish that I have tolerated, the negative emotions, expectations and ideas that have clouded my lens over the years, and have spoiled my life correspondingly. I was probably in mourning, too, for all the time I wasted being unhappy. Unhappy about being unhappy….what a waste of time.

Last week, I zipped up this jacket crossly, thinking to burrow down for safety and feel insulated from my latest bout of existential uncertainty. Perhaps all writers have them, and they are a pain. But, feeling strangely dislocated, I found myself simply getting crosser, more angry over nothing. “Unusual” I was reflecting, “How odd, I don’t understand this…why am I behaving like a total idiot?” It was like being both Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.

An answer landed in my lap. My jacket, which had held me securely through a great many traumas, was suffering from ptsd for clothes. Perhaps it had absorbed all that anger, sorrow and incredulity, which I was then dishing out. Either it was full of bad memories and emotions, clogged up with negative feelings; or else the association of that jacket with unhappiness was very strong. Either way, my fleece had to go. I had to throw it out, which I did immediately. I felt much better afterwards!

Arthur Rackham - Little Red Riding Hood
Arthur Rackham – Little Red Riding Hood

In my wardrobe there may be other clothes I should release, because wearing them makes me unhappy. It is not simply that they are old fashioned, tired or frumpy, but also that they may carry vibes that I would rather not hang on to. Which may be the best reason to spring-clean my wardrobe that I have ever come across.

Now the outer waterproof, for which the fleece was the lining, is my only coat. Perhaps I should think of purchasing another: Blue, maybe, with a zip and useful pockets for house keys and hankies. And lots of cheerful memories to store in its fibres.

 

 

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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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