Yesterday morning I had a waking dream, there to remind me to take it slow and certain, to step with confidence and keep my head up. Not to think too much about what is going on around my feet, not to notice the litter on the stones. Instead, to stay on the path, and walk steadily.
This morning, I thought, ‘How lovely, finally, to be free, to be relaxed and happy and to take my time and do what I choose, lots of lovely stuff!’ I decided while showering for my swim that, for the next thirty-five years, or as long as I have left, I would dwell on pleasant preoccupations, rather than the worrying kind that are my usual companions. And straightaway, as if to contradict me -‘No, you won’t!’ – my mind set up a trip, so that I slipped off the top step of the pool and ended up sitting sideways on the second step, jammed at an angle, my foot caught and twisted awkwardly. It hurt. In lots of different, awkward and unexpected ways, the pain is unpredictable. I tried swimming a couple of lengths and then gave up the struggle and got out, hobbling to the changing room on the arm of the pool attendant.
I was trying to laugh it off, because I know that this was just resistance.
Have you ever made a decision, such as, ‘I’m going to just get on with this!” and then something happens that makes it impossible? The computer printer jams, the intercom interrupts you, the pan boils over, and there you are, back in the old mood, the old pattern…..
Nowadays I call that resistance, and I do my best to overlook it. I want to stay positive and re-focus on my dreams, on my delicious preferences, and on looking after myself enjoyably. But resistance, which wants just to get back to the old mind patterns it recognises, would rather I just got back to what is familiar, and will set up all kinds of ‘accidents’ to bring me down again.
I won’t let that happen, so I am smiling. And while three guys were helping me as I inched home, and though my foot does wince, I am determined to ignore it. When I was being attended to, I tried to laugh, even as I cried with the pain. It was funny, actually, and I can see why it happened, but goodness, it was sudden and unexpected, and I felt rather an eejit reassuring everyone it was nothing to worry about, as they stood about with clip-boards and concerned expressions while I cried and laughed simultaneously.
Can anyone reassure me that yes, they understand exactly where I’m coming from? Does anyone else see life this way?
So, why did I write Trapped? I have been astonished to notice, in the pavement, a flowering dandelion with roots so tenacious that the concrete is cracking around it. Similarly, when I was about forty-two, I knew I sat at a cross-roads, or, as a friend put it, on a roundabout, facing a number of choices and not sure which way to go. But I have always known that if I could simply summon the courage to begin writing, and writing in particular about my life, I could maybe find answers, and a new will to live which would crack open all my misconceptions and mistakes, and give me new room to move and breathe and begin again.
It is all very well and good, knowing the theories of happiness, but at times it is necessary to take the risk of experimenting with one’s own life and circumstances to see how they turn out. It is a bit like jumping off a cliff without a parachute and hoping that someone or something will catch you and lift you up: an eagle, a winged horse, a swan, the branch of a tree snagging on the back of your jacket, or a grassy ledge that we land on, breaking our free fall descent. Who knows how it will turn out?
The only way to know, is to have the courage to take risks, with friendships, with ideas and with every single opportunity that presents itself. And that, ultimately, is why I wrote Trapped. To test myself, and see how far I could go.
Rose, ‘Golden Celebration’
The journey is not over. In fact, in some ways, it is just beginning. There is still much to do. I have at least three more books to write and publish, and I welcome opportunities to promote all my books, wherever these chances originate. I am learning how valuable friendships are, that can originate in the most unlikely places. As my header says, every day is a fresh opportunity, and I intend to make the most of them. If that means I have to journey to Pittsburgh and subsist on peanut butter sandwiches for a week, or get a cleaner to take up some of the household jobs, or a PA man to help with admin and publicity, then bring it on! Life is for living, and that is why I write.
Rose ‘New Day’
If anyone would like to contact me to discuss publicity, promotion or other ideas, please write here, or contact me at franmacilvey@fastmail.fm Thanks to everyone for reading, sharing, commenting, supporting and cheering me on. I love you all.
Recently I was interviewed about Trapped at my husband’s church, and the experience was over so soon, I felt I hardly had time to draw breath. I had prepared some answers to questions, which were helpful to hold on to. When we went off script, it felt quite natural, easy and relaxed.
The minister was gentle. She asked thoughtful questions, asked, why did I write Trapped; and was so perceptive and kind that, almost, despite the laughter, it would have been easy to weep, though not for the obvious reasons.
Being disabled, one runs the constant risk of being misunderstood. I felt I was, and that process turned me initially guarded, then defensive, then prickly, then isolated. In retrospect, and having had the courage to spell everything out (as much as for myself as for the reader), I see that retreat is not inevitable, of course. I can’t help feeling that much misunderstanding and sorrow might have been avoided, or shed more easily and naturally, if there had been more people around who were unafraid to grasp me in their arms, speak to me as I needed to be spoken to, firmly and kindly, in order to break through the self-imposed isolation that has been one consequence of being misread.
I grieve for the obvious reason that life was awful, and for the less obvious reason that I have wasted so many years being unhappy. There is the other, more insidious pain of knowing that my perceptions – like those of others! – were often greatly mistaken, and that if I had been less fearful and stood my ground, no-one would have minded terribly.
Sure, the world is full of insensitive oafs, and cruel people who are casually unjust, and it is our focus on such people that turns us inward. But the world is also brimming with delightfully kind, forgiving and thoughtful people.
This also makes me grieve now, because I missed so many opportunities for joy, and for love, and for fun and humour and sheer delight. Meeting wonderful people, knowing they can see past my social awkwardness, my stumblingly stupid statements, to the smile that hopes it will be accepted, is so liberating. That makes me grieve now. Life is full of inexplicable contradictions, isn’t it?
Without having gone out of my way to excavate my experiences by writing them, none of this would be clear. Muddy confusion would all be sitting still, at the bottom of a dark glass, festering.
Occasionally, puzzled people have asked, abruptly, why did I write Trapped. Why did I pursue my dream of publication? Do I not object to the invasion of my privacy and the laying bare of my intimate life?
Yes, well. I always felt I could write, comfortably enough to attract an enthusiastic A+ in essay writing from a stiff and challenging teacher with a soft centre: ‘excellent story, Fran, but I can’t think WHAT has happened to your handwriting!’ I have always written, and eventually it became obvious (probably because I could not fritter away my time being a barmaid or a waitress) that I should stop chasing after what I would never be able to do, and focus on what I could do. It seemed silly to pretend that writing was frivolous and unimportant, especially as I’ve always had a sneaking suspicion that I enjoy it.
I got to forty, and thought, hey, I’ve arrived, and getting old seems to be the world’s best kept secret. I became even more sedate and withdrawn, dignified, as a forty-year-old thinks she has to be. But as I cranked up some steam into the following decade, I knew I was hiding, and that my personal silence was much less important than finally – finally – letting my family discover who I was, and that I really, really love them. My parents grow frailer, my siblings have their own issues and challenges, and my husband and daughter could do with a few more clues about me. I thought it might be helpful if I could maybe throw some love and understanding their way: come to terms, discard those grudges that go back years, empty out the pot of resentment and clear away the backlog of mistaken assumptions. Writing helps with all these aspects of growing up. The process of learning to write and having the courage to publish is in itself so rewarding, that even if I knew then, what I know now (how long it would take, how much pain there would be) I would still accept the challenge. A bit of discomfort is never a reason to shy away from home truths.
In case you missed it, here is an interview with Claire Wingfield which was first published on 29th September on her blog. Please visit her blog, comment and share. And thanks for reading this.
I started riding again last week. Today was my second lesson with the RDA at the Drum Estate out of town, where I used to ride when I was a youngster. Starting again after a break of over thirty years, I feel a curious mix of familiarity and strangeness: Strange to feel as I felt back then, a mix of yearning, excitement and trepidation; odd to feel nostalgic about the familiar scents and sights, and to realise how much time has passed. It is reassuring to know that I am now a grown-up and can meet and greet as I choose, with the freedom to be myself.
Posture is the big thing. I enjoy the discipline, and feel shaken to my core by the pain in my thighs, reminiscent of earlier, uglier agonies. All my nerves jump around as they try to discover a different and straighter equilibrium. I am assured that this will get easier and improve. Now, without the teenage angst and uncertainty pulling me back, I can listen more trustingly, and believe what I am told about how to sit, how to move, and about breathing deeply. If I breathe calmly, my mount will pick up on that, and we can be relaxed together.
I love to be back, and I welcome the new friendship, where I discover, yet again, that I have so much in common with others. They too have frailties and physical issues that they ignore, work with and endeavour to get past. I am not alone in that, or in anything else. The realisation that I am in such excellent company makes me at once tearfully grateful to be reminded, and sorry that I wasted so much time in isolated regret. Thank God, I am waking up. At last, I am getting over myself.
Now – sit up straight. I don’t want to waste this chance I have been given.
Today I am pleased to feature Bernadette Leslie. Bernie Leslie is a Scottish writer who was born with Cerebral Palsy. She’s an ex-Parasports athlete who represented Scotland and Great Britain, winning a bronze medal with GB in the 2006 Boccia World Championships. She’s writing her first novel. In her spare time, she loves going to see her favourite football team play and loves animals.
Welcome, Bernie, and thanks for featuring today. I know that we will be sharing more posts, but, first, I would be really interested to learn about your experiences with Equus. How did you became so interested and involved with horses and their language?
It all started with my mum actually! A year ago, she read an article in the September 2013 issue of Oprah and when she finished reading it, she came through and she said: “There is an incredible article about horses this month and I think you would love to read it.” Somehow it struck a chord with me. Martha Beck, a life coach, was describing the Equus experience of a client who worked with Koelle Simpson, equine trainer/life coach, to resolve the issues that were plaguing her.
Strangely enough, the very next day, Mum and I were visiting some relatives’ graves. Now there had always been a horse in the next field, and I’d always wanted to say hello, but never could because it’d mean my electric wheelchair would be trudging through grass and leaving a right mess everywhere, not to mention getting stuck if it’d been raining.
I need to give kudos to the local council for this one because I noticed they had made a path up to the fence and I decided to see if the horse would come over. Thankfully she did and it was really through her that I began to see for myself just how horses perceive not only ourselves, but how we feel too. That started a journey of discovering everything I could find out about horses!
What teaches you about spiritual truths?
Equus is a non-verbal language of horses in which these amazing animals — so sensitive that they feel the tiniest of things landing on them — let us human beings know how they’re feeling via their body language, which is interesting, because thousands of years ago, our ancestors were known to communicate through body language, until other forms of languages developed and took its place — the ones we know today as written and spoken languages.
Spiritually, Equus has been invaluable to me. I was starting to figure out, through being with horses, that negative influences were having far too much influence over what I was doing. I felt under increasing pressure, and forgot about how important it was to take care of myself and return myself to a blissful, peaceful place. Equus teaches me what leadership really means and how to remain centred when others try to drag you down.
Horses have helped me do this and now I feel more confident that I am taking the right path — horses and writing are a winning combination, for me at least!
Thanks so much, Bernie. It is so interesting to discover that horses have a language and that we can learn to communicate with them through it. All the best with your writing and your riding!
Rarely, if ever, do I visit my doctor’s surgery on my own account. I have found an accommodation with myself that works well, most of the time, and I know that as I get older I am finally learning to listen quietly, to suspend judgement and to live in the moment more fully. Problem is, I had a vivid dream, the meaning of which was clear, to me, at least. I have always had lots of car dreams: a car, in various states of repair, indicates my physical life and concerns. Small careering fast downhill with no steering wheel….that sort of thing.
So, a shiny, green car in good condition. Green = health, and there is lots of that. But open the passenger door, and under all green health, you can see that the hinge, the lynch pin, is rusted right away, and that the door is only just hanging on. I took this as a warning, that one of my joints needs attention, and made an appointment to ask for a referral to X ray. But my darling GP, whom I have not seen for six years, is unwilling to expose me to any more X rays than is absolutely essential – and I would agree with her, normally – so she gently declined my request, tested my joints and told me there was no sign of any damage that would either show up on an X ray, or affect my range of movement significantly.
She said she would request a referral to physiotherapy and OT, for an assessment, to see if they can make any recommendations. The problem is, as anyone who has read ‘Trapped: My Life With Cerebral Palsy’ will know, I have an insane and quite unreasonable detestation of ‘assessments’ by medical professionals. The very idea is upsetting and I fear that if I go I shall be defensive and upset and probably burst out crying. I need my privacy. Surprisingly, the fact that I have CP appears no-where on my GP notes, but has been documented elsewhere extensively, so while my GP is entirely oblivious of my emotional fragility on the matter, I cannot explain. In this particular instance, I would have preferred a referral. I could hardly sit there and say, “Well, my angels sent me a dream, which means….” So, I am no further forward, except, perhaps, that now I am certain that I should probably go swimming every single day for the rest of my life.
Conclusion 1: Wild Horses will not drag me to any assessment.
Conclusion 2 – I am more or less back to square 1.
Conclusion 3 – I shall need to start taking more care of myself.
Conclusion 4 – So, no change there, then.
I have been swimming this morning and yesterday, so we are making progress. Maybe that is what Spirit were trying to tell me – get moving, girl! Look after yourself. So I shall be cheerful and hope for a miracle. In the meantime, does anyone have any other suggestions?
Writing autobiographical material is a bit of a tricksy business. We are rather beholden to tell something of the truth, though heaven knows that can be rather difficult, both to discover and to articulate. Entertainment value also supposes that we have to write something interesting, kinda, avoiding narcissism and voyeurism on the way. And, I suppose, we run the risk of offending whomever we mention in passing, if our portrayals are unkind, thoughtless or incorrect.
Writing “Trapped” is, by far, the most difficult thing I have done: relentlessly exorcising demons, re-examining every facet of life as I have lived it and understood it, and taking responsibility for many parts where I could have done better, been more kind, generous and especially, more aware of what others had to tolerate. Writing has allowed me to offer an apology, of sorts, and to meet and make up with friends and family, before it was too late. I am so glad I took that chance. I am so glad.
With hindsight, I also suspect that one reason I started writing was to demonstrate that, clearly, the world is very much kinder to me than I have hitherto been to myself. In that sense, there has never been anything to worry about. If only because publication brings friends and readers who are constantly generous, loving, thoughtful and supportive, writing has already worked wonders. I have harboured many fears – and I am sure many writers do – some of which we commit to paper, read through and then launch on an unsuspecting public amidst a sea of doubt. We fear the clamour of disapproval. Waiting fearfully for the backlash….blessed approval or silence answers.
Constantly seeking reassurance, perhaps writers habitually focus on critiques which are muted or less than stellar. We receive fulsome and genuine praise from all quarters, yet the comment we focus on is the lone voice which ‘damns with faint praise’. Many of us do this, I am sure, and I have decided to stop. Focussing too much on the critical critic is perverse, ridiculous, and completely ignores the truth that all opinions are valuable, and some have benefits that I will never notice or understand. I let it be, and write when I can.
Will bookshelves one day be consigned to museums? Written out of our furnishing requirements as interesting curios from past times, and gazed at wonderingly by precocious five year olds, the way that children now peer at old telephones and record players? There is a section in the National Museum of Scotland devoted to lifestyle icons of recent history. I’m sure I have used some of these venerable machines. Perhaps, given my age, I should just climb in and join the exhibits….
Kindles are great. But will we all be using them, all the time, in ten years? Will there be any need for shelving for books, when my kindle offers several free dictionaries as part of the start-up incentive built in with every new purchase of an e-reader?
Will house-builders have an even better excuse for building homes in miniature? (“Ye don’t need shelf space no more, love, so we can just put the standard king-size up against the wall here, like that”)
My guess is that we will always need books, and there may come a time when we are immensely grateful for the old back numbers that we now overlook, with their modest orange and white covers, and their restrained delvings into human suffering. As has been suggested in many post-apocalyptic narratives, we may need to tear out the pages to use for personal grooming or for fire-lighting; or, when the power runs out, we may actually start reading them again.
Our current technical infrastructure relies on power, generated mostly from non-renewable resources. Plastic, metal, wood, paper and water….all finite. ‘Real’ books have the potential to last for hundreds of years, and can pass through countless pairs of hands. Electronic media, in contrast, are ephemeral, here one day and deleted the next.
Today I am delighted to introduce Frances Kay, a writer and children’s playwright. I first met up with Frances (‘Fan’) on a lively on-line writers’ forum. Apparently, she agreed to read my own book after noticing that I had included the word “sossidges” in a comment to a mutual friend. We swapped reads, and since then, have kept in touch. Fan’s writing is very strong, eerily atmospheric and convincing, threaded through with sardonic wit and humour. Fan’s first book, MICKA was published in 2010 by Picador and won 100% positive reviews from The Guardian, The Times and the Financial Times, as well as being featured on BBC radio 4’s programme ‘A Good Read’. Her second novel, DOLLYWAGGLERS, has recently been published by Tenebris Books.
Welcome, Frances. Can you tell me a little about what inspired you to write the ‘Dollywagglers’?
A long time love of dystopian literature, ever since I read ‘1984’ when I was fifteen. Orwell was my idol – a principled, disillusioned man with a love of England and the English language. I was especially taken with Orwell ‘s uncompromising vision of a nightmare future when I learned that he was fatally ill with TB as he wrote it, and died soon after it was published.
I wanted to express my disappointment, my anger and my love for England in this story, which I could only do from an exile’s perspective (I was living in Ireland when I wrote it), and when I was diagnosed in 2012 with an inoperable tumour, I felt reckless and emboldened to write my truth, even if it is hard to read. Parts of it were hard to write.
Any tips for developing a writing habit? Do you write every day or do you prefer to write when you are in the mood?
For a person who makes their living from writing, I’m a very bad example! I either need a commissioning theatre company breathing down my neck, or I have to wake up at seven and feel the desperate urge to get to my computer. I write in bursts, in a trance state. Of course, editing and improving can be done less breathlessly!
You call DOLLYWAGGLERS a dystopia, filled with refreshing anger and dark, bitter humour. What attracts you to writing dark fiction?
We all have a shadow side that needs to come out and play. I write plays for children and young people, and they deserve hope and optimism, but when I write for adults, I can let loose my darker self – and she has a field day. I also enjoy reading this kind of fiction, if it is well written. I’m thinking now of books like Helen Dunmore’s ‘A Spell in Winter’ – she’s a terrific writer.
What was the publishing process like for you?
Two publishers so far, and they could not have been more different. Picador is an imprint of Macmillan, and being accepted by this huge concern with its glamorous reputation was such an honour, I was ready to say yes to anything. They have a publicity and sales machine, so the process of getting my book ready for publication involved me saying yes to a cover I didn’t like, that I felt did not reflect the story within. After MICKA was published, I felt rather neglected. The next book by Picador followed mine a week later, and it was Emma Donohue’s ‘Room’. The excitement around that book and the Booker shortlisting, reinforced my feeling of being suddenly orphaned. No one from my publishers came to the launch event I set up, and I had to suggest to Picador they enter my book for the McKitterick Prize [it was the runner up].
Tenebris Books is another kettle of fish entirely. DOLLYWAGGLERS is the first one of this new imprint of Grimbold Books to be published, and they went to huge efforts to help me launch it with a splash. They asked for my input with the cover, and Ken Dawson, their designer, transformed a photo I gave them of two seedy puppets on Southwold beach into a sleazy, brooding cover that exactly captures the spirit of the book – I love it. They also provided champagne for the launch in London, and Zoe Harris, my editor, flew over with her husband from Norway, and made a fabulous speech at our launch. All the production team was there. I felt so loved! Even more importantly, Zoe and Sammy [of Grimbold Books] love the book with a passion, and our editing was done painlessly and collaboratively. They even paid an advance – and that is a rare thing, these days. I hope they will publish my next book.
And your future plans?
My life expectancy, though uncertain, is, I am assured, at least ten years. If I can publish another three novels, I will feel completely fulfilled. I want to leave something my children and grandchildren can read when they are older; I’ll still be a presence in their lives. I’m working on a sequel to DOLLYWAGGLERS; I felt there was a lot more story to explore. And I’m still writing plays for young people. Plenty more ideas in my head!
Thanks for inviting me on your blog, Fran. I’ll be happy to have you as a guest on mine, as I love your book ‘Trapped’, which has a wonderfully poignant, evocative cover.
Thank you too, Frances. It has been such a pleasure to host you today. I hope all your publishing dreams come true.
December 3, 2014
Resistance
Fran Macilvey change, choices, familiarity, letting go, pain management, patience, resistance 'Trapped: My Life with Cerebral Palsy', Fran's School of Hard Knocks 12 Comments
Yesterday morning I had a waking dream, there to remind me to take it slow and certain, to step with confidence and keep my head up. Not to think too much about what is going on around my feet, not to notice the litter on the stones. Instead, to stay on the path, and walk steadily.
This morning, I thought, ‘How lovely, finally, to be free, to be relaxed and happy and to take my time and do what I choose, lots of lovely stuff!’ I decided while showering for my swim that, for the next thirty-five years, or as long as I have left, I would dwell on pleasant preoccupations, rather than the worrying kind that are my usual companions. And straightaway, as if to contradict me -‘No, you won’t!’ – my mind set up a trip, so that I slipped off the top step of the pool and ended up sitting sideways on the second step, jammed at an angle, my foot caught and twisted awkwardly. It hurt. In lots of different, awkward and unexpected ways, the pain is unpredictable. I tried swimming a couple of lengths and then gave up the struggle and got out, hobbling to the changing room on the arm of the pool attendant.
I was trying to laugh it off, because I know that this was just resistance.
Have you ever made a decision, such as, ‘I’m going to just get on with this!” and then something happens that makes it impossible? The computer printer jams, the intercom interrupts you, the pan boils over, and there you are, back in the old mood, the old pattern…..
Nowadays I call that resistance, and I do my best to overlook it. I want to stay positive and re-focus on my dreams, on my delicious preferences, and on looking after myself enjoyably. But resistance, which wants just to get back to the old mind patterns it recognises, would rather I just got back to what is familiar, and will set up all kinds of ‘accidents’ to bring me down again.
I won’t let that happen, so I am smiling. And while three guys were helping me as I inched home, and though my foot does wince, I am determined to ignore it. When I was being attended to, I tried to laugh, even as I cried with the pain. It was funny, actually, and I can see why it happened, but goodness, it was sudden and unexpected, and I felt rather an eejit reassuring everyone it was nothing to worry about, as they stood about with clip-boards and concerned expressions while I cried and laughed simultaneously.
Can anyone reassure me that yes, they understand exactly where I’m coming from? Does anyone else see life this way?
Please share: