tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48048437770204919952024-03-13T23:24:38.587-07:00Creaky DoorCreaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.comBlogger104125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-41007345851093242492020-06-05T03:09:00.000-07:002020-06-05T03:12:46.554-07:00Recreating Work of Art: Our Hilarious Lockdown Project<br />
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What do writers do in lockdown? We write, right?<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I seem to have found myself another job in this strange
time: recreating works of art with my husband using things found around the
house. My Dad is an art lecturer and I have worked for years for an art and
craft publisher, but I never expected to become so deeply and joyfully
involved.<o:p></o:p></div>
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It started as a lark with Van Gogh’s Self Portrait With
Bandaged Ear. We found a broom head in the garden, taped it to Jon’s head,
added a bandage, approximated a few background details and posted on Facebook. People
seemed delighted, as if we’d injected some much-needed fun into the troubling
early days of the lockdown. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We started to do a recreation a day. I would emerge from the
intense focus and realise I hadn’t thought of the virus for an hour or more. It
was worth doing for that alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We began with the obvious paintings and even while sending
them up, we gained a surprising insight into what makes them work. It wasn’t
only poses, expressions, colours and shapes that we needed to recreate but also
texture, tone, lighting, contrast and mood. I became fascinated by the artists
and their original models. It was like the most enjoyable Art History course
ever.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4DepOTa98aKzpYl5NZX2AqvlcPwSEPT2rt56Ue6smv-SOOSeK1RnU2A4b_dpE_MH19cBlpGmAULvdY42_0TYOUMWlXiFQkfHngkFxCZBc2JGOhfbCcHM57KyVU796RUP6IpP7OXztX4/s1600/The+Older+Lady+with+the+Pearl+Earring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="345" data-original-width="595" height="369" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy4DepOTa98aKzpYl5NZX2AqvlcPwSEPT2rt56Ue6smv-SOOSeK1RnU2A4b_dpE_MH19cBlpGmAULvdY42_0TYOUMWlXiFQkfHngkFxCZBc2JGOhfbCcHM57KyVU796RUP6IpP7OXztX4/s640/The+Older+Lady+with+the+Pearl+Earring.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Our second effort was Vermeer’s Girl With a Pearl Earring. The
pose looks like an effortless glance, but I soon became aware that it’s painfully
unnatural as I stretched my neck and eye muscles. I can only imagine what the original
model went through. This was my first wake-up call: I am a tiny bit older than
most artists’ models! The Older Lady With a Pearl Earring.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The Card Players by Cezanne was the first one to involve our
24-year-old son as photographer. He did not want to faff obsessively about
details as I do and was far from amused that we had commandeered the entire
kitchen when he wanted to make breakfast.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For Munch’s The Scream, Jon perfected his Expressionist expression
while I created distant figures from cardboard and a sunset from an orange
towel. I always place our effort next to the original, cropping and placing it to
enhance the resemblance. Oh the frustration when a glaring omission comes to
light when it’s too late to take the photo again! I fussed over not getting the
perspective right here. ‘Oh, Munch exaggerated it,’ said Dad. Now you tell me! <o:p></o:p></div>
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You’ve got to do Frida Kahlo, because of her amazing
paintings and monobrow. I don’t really have eyebrows at all and have to paint
them on for most recreations. Maddeningly, my head angle is not right here, but
everyone’s patience was at an end, especially our cat, Misty’s. She got sick of
being held over my shoulder and scratched us all.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I came home from shopping to find Jon dressed as Whistler’s
Mother, with a fake painting and black bin bags pinned to the wall. I think you’ll
agree, Jon was born for the role.<o:p></o:p></div>
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For Millais’ Ophelia, we dragged an old car roof box from behind
our shed, but it was locked, so Jon hacked it open with a saw. It was early
April so we had to search for flowers to strew. Jon filled the roof box with
water and I lay down in it, which really made me feel for the original model.
Millais found Elizabeth Siddall in a hat shop. She posed lying in a bath in his
studio and the cold gave her pneumonia – her father made Millais pay the
medical bills.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Everyone kept daring us to do a Picasso, so here is his
Portrait of Dora Maar. I painted a mask with oil pastels and my face with
liquid eyeliner, and I had to twist my mouth to conceal it under the mask. It’s
not much of a likeness but those Cubists really messed with reality.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Sometimes you think a painting is going to take hours to
recreate and then it just falls into place. Renoir’s A Dance in the Country was
one of those and got a huge reaction. People just love to see marigolds in art.
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Social distancing restrictions explained the deserted scene
in our version of Manet’s Bar at the Folies Bergeres. I sinched in my waist,
corset-style, with a sports bra, and a cardigan, kitchen paper ruffles and some
clear plastic made up the barmaid’s outfit. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Contemporary critics assumed that Manet’s demure, smartly dressed
model, Suzon, was a prostitute, which perhaps says more about them than about her.
I’d never noticed before how unhappy she looks. She really worked at the bar,
but the scene was reproduced in Manet’s studio where she posed behind a table
laden with bottles. The angle of her reflection was hard to reproduce, and it
turns out that Renoir just put it where he wanted it. It has been fascinating
to learn how artists have faked things in the staging. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I had though Jon would be The Laughing Cavalier by Frans
Hals, but he didn’t have the hair for it and it turned out I did. We faked the
hat from a fancy-dress witch’s hat and the facial hair from gardener’s coconut
matting – very tickly when you’re trying hold a swaggering pose. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Vermeer’s Milkmaid had had a kitchen refit! Again, her pose
looks natural but almost did me an injury. Perhaps that’s why my expression
could turn milk sour! I am still consumed with regret that I found the perfect
bright blue cloth to hang from the table, then forgot to put it in. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Magritte’s Lovers 1 was recreated on Southborough Common.
You’ll all be wearing these hygienic facemasks soon!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Modigliani’s Woman With Red Hair was not a difficult pose,
but I had to paint my eyelids black to recreate her blank stare. I should get
some real white lace – it would save me a lot of kitchen paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Around this time the local news channel featured some of our
efforts, but it wasn’t the heady fame that kept us going, but friends and
neighbours saying that our ‘art’ was cheering them up every day and we mustn’t
stop. They are still saying that eleven weeks on!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Lu6dZuIYbLDYaPQNG-Eyit1gcQvrxmWA9gVNdriRiR9P70ZN2hLI7MV6RgDSHK5Jvag0YFXIETt9S19SR8plP7x32VRkUvKxh0vp1DUhrk7T5Xhtz3faMQ6-PxPKSMnvCrqWP2NsqD8/s1600/Our+Magritte%2527s+Son+of+Man.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="402" data-original-width="590" height="436" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Lu6dZuIYbLDYaPQNG-Eyit1gcQvrxmWA9gVNdriRiR9P70ZN2hLI7MV6RgDSHK5Jvag0YFXIETt9S19SR8plP7x32VRkUvKxh0vp1DUhrk7T5Xhtz3faMQ6-PxPKSMnvCrqWP2NsqD8/s640/Our+Magritte%2527s+Son+of+Man.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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For Magritte’s Son of Man, I confess we ordered a bowler hat
online and taped an apple to its brim. People particularly liked the clouds
stuck on the wall.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv3z7LZF8fqkh5umVWU37Rvm_hr8fsDPMFBNlwZjCn5Py9wx3TYYzXJ15uqy9IMx1we114YPVKH-Hhc7KSgm0wEr8UKDkpV9pwStaTf1lsHQ-B8ZkqPXIm6ouGWHrf7dKtLvSObkGh2vM/s1600/Sophie%2527s+Vanity.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="595" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiv3z7LZF8fqkh5umVWU37Rvm_hr8fsDPMFBNlwZjCn5Py9wx3TYYzXJ15uqy9IMx1we114YPVKH-Hhc7KSgm0wEr8UKDkpV9pwStaTf1lsHQ-B8ZkqPXIm6ouGWHrf7dKtLvSObkGh2vM/s640/Sophie%2527s+Vanity.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Pre-Raphaelite paintings are perfect for lampooning because
they are already quite silly. Sometimes, it’s a prop that inspires you, and I
couldn’t wait to wear the red travel neck pillow on my head for Frank Cowper’s
Vanity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrSWRksaEy_siS25VuS6fAIL1_c-Dv-kKZRolYxR5VK6Nz3gf9vQ3QkIAYlJrC3dTxHls2y7PwFTgTBB01_yPToFeNyZoZ0BSZCU2Lzquy5SsqGxByqRuwYcTQxzUA3ULmIV9Vkl3Rco/s1600/Our+Man+Ray+pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="177" data-original-width="595" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnrSWRksaEy_siS25VuS6fAIL1_c-Dv-kKZRolYxR5VK6Nz3gf9vQ3QkIAYlJrC3dTxHls2y7PwFTgTBB01_yPToFeNyZoZ0BSZCU2Lzquy5SsqGxByqRuwYcTQxzUA3ULmIV9Vkl3Rco/s640/Our+Man+Ray+pic.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Noir et Blanche by Man Ray. Our mask was a bit big, as was
my hamster-like cheek as gravity pulled it south. The model, Kiki, attracted Man
Ray with her ‘cute accent and air of mystery’ – and probably her firm young
cheeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvg53UlkBIEM5YUSQYetXPoRAjoNr8mQZzbC5VTzo9qW-LyObniatwYiatBND8aCgIr3NPPDoVrks1URjhpZZI3z74JlPL57oUlR61yjj50exrqFJwpCaUCU85qWzq7TPZYHV3NlWPF4A/s1600/Prosperine+Kersey.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="399" data-original-width="595" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvg53UlkBIEM5YUSQYetXPoRAjoNr8mQZzbC5VTzo9qW-LyObniatwYiatBND8aCgIr3NPPDoVrks1URjhpZZI3z74JlPL57oUlR61yjj50exrqFJwpCaUCU85qWzq7TPZYHV3NlWPF4A/s640/Prosperine+Kersey.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Next came Rosetti’s Prosperine, holding an onion in place of
a pomegranate. Do I have a short neck or did Rosetti exaggerate hers? The model
was Jane Morris, embroiderer, wife of William and lover of Rosetti, who married
Elizabeth Siddall from Millais’ Ophelia – keep up now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPDt9-pd_hXdWWLYoIGNV6dgqZOY4Ylh2FYl4MsNHg-KIDZrDp02gcUFRAw5TvUpa2BfbLsyY_QQjW7Nezo7ObzCjBELBsaEqeAW53NhMsCaj11LnEJZbOChRytk2Q2HKDop3VOa4_90/s1600/Seated+Woman+With+Legs+Drawn+UP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="441" data-original-width="595" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizPDt9-pd_hXdWWLYoIGNV6dgqZOY4Ylh2FYl4MsNHg-KIDZrDp02gcUFRAw5TvUpa2BfbLsyY_QQjW7Nezo7ObzCjBELBsaEqeAW53NhMsCaj11LnEJZbOChRytk2Q2HKDop3VOa4_90/s640/Seated+Woman+With+Legs+Drawn+UP.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I wonder why Egon Shiele’s Woman With Legs Drawn Up is wearing
rags for shorts, (reproduced of course with kitchen paper)? I learned here that
artists de-emphasise perspective to imitate the way our brains adjust for it,
but the camera records it faithfully, so limbs stretching towards the lens
looking huge and distorted. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibRUWWAfGx5x0g9AeRjSPFhr7rpvCy5c0rx5kn8E5fhUcf41dtYsxteoMLLmZ9c798E6cWRwEZ5xFgD3yjqLWtrcqNV3lEYjLIa6Z2IyIcrfCDy3GLbvxOFGrZp-2TjlXr6kTWzi5tqsU/s1600/Our+Lucien+Freud+Sofa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="266" data-original-width="595" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibRUWWAfGx5x0g9AeRjSPFhr7rpvCy5c0rx5kn8E5fhUcf41dtYsxteoMLLmZ9c798E6cWRwEZ5xFgD3yjqLWtrcqNV3lEYjLIa6Z2IyIcrfCDy3GLbvxOFGrZp-2TjlXr6kTWzi5tqsU/s640/Our+Lucien+Freud+Sofa.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Lucien Freud’s Girl on a Sofa does the same thing in reverse
– her feet look normal-sized but mine in the photo look stunted. I butchered my
fringe to imitate hers and have lived with the result for weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMtyhWGG9Pe3HJMP_Vt8xxaKU9eiRh-IPSH4vr54iBhEkDfKS3wOGcLNJAu4sz11TNM2nFWhsqoBJ9fEgab4NBqnIKWBrWw7IkpfO7yBH_iXNotBhZvaofBCKl5ms0AJlH5_qzOotwm0/s1600/Jon+as+Degas+Dancer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="595" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxMtyhWGG9Pe3HJMP_Vt8xxaKU9eiRh-IPSH4vr54iBhEkDfKS3wOGcLNJAu4sz11TNM2nFWhsqoBJ9fEgab4NBqnIKWBrWw7IkpfO7yBH_iXNotBhZvaofBCKl5ms0AJlH5_qzOotwm0/s640/Jon+as+Degas+Dancer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Jon got out his fairy costume, veteran of fancy dress Parkruns
and school pantos, for Degas’ Dancer with a Bouquet. I think he captured her
feminine grace to perfection.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEymWetMtqEvQtsk60qNbWBxZWlOlHiAJO3DKK0QKDdje-wr6hO00qPqfHhZtzO_AI9Pex-xRlZac_iW4J_-yanaXKTNaKeXR4oN_5RDGnccN8lbczbd7GPNCUS5GN_n6MzJQ7T733Og/s1600/Madame+Kersey+Drinking+a+Toast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="219" data-original-width="595" height="234" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEymWetMtqEvQtsk60qNbWBxZWlOlHiAJO3DKK0QKDdje-wr6hO00qPqfHhZtzO_AI9Pex-xRlZac_iW4J_-yanaXKTNaKeXR4oN_5RDGnccN8lbczbd7GPNCUS5GN_n6MzJQ7T733Og/s640/Madame+Kersey+Drinking+a+Toast.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The pose for John Singer Sargent’s Madame Gautreau Drinking
a Toast must be natural, as it worked best when I imagined I really was drinking
a giddy but heartfelt toast. A bit of transparent plastic recreated Madame’s
gauzy wrap. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBSn53vIpYGOZRGq3EZe7qTwy7wzMAlnCNqWw1SgLgd8AjHUQVgGC2lpZoaKIcwTiWqtJnnvddlBhbw55QDhCMCgsYFC3VqxZ67deVKuhGi45SqmhKSIGQZzpG0fWJNKoDEBhcJpdFuk/s1600/Our+Saturn+Devouring.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="427" data-original-width="595" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHBSn53vIpYGOZRGq3EZe7qTwy7wzMAlnCNqWw1SgLgd8AjHUQVgGC2lpZoaKIcwTiWqtJnnvddlBhbw55QDhCMCgsYFC3VqxZ67deVKuhGi45SqmhKSIGQZzpG0fWJNKoDEBhcJpdFuk/s640/Our+Saturn+Devouring.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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It all went a bit haywire as the global pandemic continued.
For Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son, I cast around for something for Jon to munch
and found the rubber chicken my son uses for teaching. Like Abraham’s ram, it
meant that the son himself was spared.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBQhJx-9s7N35y90MqPF7iQwPqnORJE5coBUkjPuC5Pm1IYHAwqB2T9S9OBwt1wuDsRIfqFmLKnh7wd7PzL5FTVc3YopoFJDoQGgrXlzIa5iH9s_WQHaYH1v27FzPTRCNgaoYPyM7qDc/s1600/Our+Medusa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="310" data-original-width="595" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRBQhJx-9s7N35y90MqPF7iQwPqnORJE5coBUkjPuC5Pm1IYHAwqB2T9S9OBwt1wuDsRIfqFmLKnh7wd7PzL5FTVc3YopoFJDoQGgrXlzIa5iH9s_WQHaYH1v27FzPTRCNgaoYPyM7qDc/s640/Our+Medusa.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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By now my lockdown hair was barely controllable – perfect
for Caravaggio’s Medusa. The original shows Medusa undone by the sight of her reflection,
with ‘a shocked gaze, a terrified scream’, which is how I felt looking in a
mirror. No snakes were required to reproduce the horror.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxp9evkjoYz8Qmqadyf6fy98nzXOof3Yn2BwEqM6OkGtsIR1tGWSS_8E9PpJ_qg7HPjHcUiktaGfCtr5T7r7_kN7MR_pxOTx3NMIpiqS-JUGJKRBjGZBDqgKEm1bhwB0C3tXjF0YsTZEk/s1600/Our+Manet%2527s+The+Balcony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="388" data-original-width="595" height="416" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxp9evkjoYz8Qmqadyf6fy98nzXOof3Yn2BwEqM6OkGtsIR1tGWSS_8E9PpJ_qg7HPjHcUiktaGfCtr5T7r7_kN7MR_pxOTx3NMIpiqS-JUGJKRBjGZBDqgKEm1bhwB0C3tXjF0YsTZEk/s640/Our+Manet%2527s+The+Balcony.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Hygienic gloves and a Pound Shop brolley were perfect for
Manet’s The Balcony.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdvEJ6gufWOmeNhMkmiDYL1vHwi73Ue_FBKqqpVuBwIc06M80t6ydqZOKv2-KSbNURpqoJIs-Yzjo3abHbePm4tP5-F9O_-I5IVN9e_us1-w6CVlf0QsBQaVU1BfKl3L2RigqACF0Ark/s1600/Our+The+Cradle+ptg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="322" data-original-width="595" height="346" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKdvEJ6gufWOmeNhMkmiDYL1vHwi73Ue_FBKqqpVuBwIc06M80t6ydqZOKv2-KSbNURpqoJIs-Yzjo3abHbePm4tP5-F9O_-I5IVN9e_us1-w6CVlf0QsBQaVU1BfKl3L2RigqACF0Ark/s640/Our+The+Cradle+ptg.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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We found yeast in the shops after weeks without homemade
pizza, so it was lovingly placed, with flour, in The Cradle by Berthe Morisot. She
was the first woman to exhibit with the Impressionists, and painted her sister,
Edma, with her baby. Edma’s expression is hard to read and some have suggested
she was yearning to paint, as she did before motherhood. I was yearning to do
some writing and for Lockdown to end – but mainly for pizza.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdp8maxg3nNk2GXpaxjiKjcN3t2-TSNj9ibtWCnalx-jgEKeTv1w22gVmzK4UY-4omJWu0yOHrFQ1N59VX2rnP6G48109pKZvcM1QF0JPNdG_vKQ-AFlpE8Wut5WvjSsktn9-dhDTJzAI/s1600/V+E+Day+Kerseys.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="421" data-original-width="595" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdp8maxg3nNk2GXpaxjiKjcN3t2-TSNj9ibtWCnalx-jgEKeTv1w22gVmzK4UY-4omJWu0yOHrFQ1N59VX2rnP6G48109pKZvcM1QF0JPNdG_vKQ-AFlpE8Wut5WvjSsktn9-dhDTJzAI/s640/V+E+Day+Kerseys.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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The photo we did before our VE Day street party created controversy.
Albert Eisenstaedt snapped a sailor kissing a nurse on VJ Day in Times Square. Some
Facebook comments said his photo showed a sexual assault. We were too busy
partying to engage, but the debate raged so fiercely on the Recreate Works of
Art page that admins took the post down! We could only get the pose right once we
realised it’s like a dance move. As my son took photo after photo of his
snogging parents, he said, ’This is the worst thing I’ve ever done.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizGVRJhqLWRt6TFgGsj3ThkKxaT6oX5mJzCupmfCn3Vev8L4GuJhc5cc6jGc1otT6AOvzfHyExPFM91p78PpwxXJH8SdzOoLOqCqbIx7JAy2q97wTv3Cs-YViqdHj1K9LuE3hunq8MzE/s1600/Woodcutter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="595" height="448" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiizGVRJhqLWRt6TFgGsj3ThkKxaT6oX5mJzCupmfCn3Vev8L4GuJhc5cc6jGc1otT6AOvzfHyExPFM91p78PpwxXJH8SdzOoLOqCqbIx7JAy2q97wTv3Cs-YViqdHj1K9LuE3hunq8MzE/s640/Woodcutter.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Jon insisted on wielding a real axe for <span style="background: white; color: #1c1e21;">Ferdinand Hodler's The Woodcutter, and regretted it as I kept
saying, ‘Lean over more… no, much more…’ <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVxv5gj5pbHZReHeSa2YTl2SL732drI3o6Vx_ASFQqKWO5y5CNPQ7Fo2jjuG8aqCuY8thGyuYTkdXRs4b1jUna-Nd5aZzw8OUZtKKn8icWexppLmBvjBK2gDmO_e3qapwASuc86PytNo/s1600/Lockdown+Hair+Disaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="525" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbVxv5gj5pbHZReHeSa2YTl2SL732drI3o6Vx_ASFQqKWO5y5CNPQ7Fo2jjuG8aqCuY8thGyuYTkdXRs4b1jUna-Nd5aZzw8OUZtKKn8icWexppLmBvjBK2gDmO_e3qapwASuc86PytNo/s1600/Lockdown+Hair+Disaster.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c1e21;">I thought it would take ages to recreate
Andrew Wyeth’s decrepit and downcast old woman, but I put my lockdown hair up
and there she was! This one proved popular, probably with other people missing
their hairdresser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhniwoowuZDaYRcrGbH48qN8UfLsT2tjHgkkIP7w750QogH5aU4VqYzBCBVQfY_m9zcrjG3Qrog78Yc82HpGUmutOanfPmquHTAZbRdNshOqaPVOypn8kVCU1FDvZUXIGLQOgaKXGoIxiA/s1600/Mr+and+Mrs+Kersey+and+%2527Percy%2527.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="842" data-original-width="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhniwoowuZDaYRcrGbH48qN8UfLsT2tjHgkkIP7w750QogH5aU4VqYzBCBVQfY_m9zcrjG3Qrog78Yc82HpGUmutOanfPmquHTAZbRdNshOqaPVOypn8kVCU1FDvZUXIGLQOgaKXGoIxiA/s1600/Mr+and+Mrs+Kersey+and+%2527Percy%2527.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c1e21;">I was delighted that we were able
to recreate the lighting and composition of Hockney’s Mr and Mrs Clark and
Percy, if not Mr Clark’s hair. The sombre expressions and the bright outdoors just
beyond reach seemed to sum up Week 9 of lockdown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8uI2HyvTaWpKHp1WL5LDl8CaNDXJ2-7_1Hmv79mqllNdV6_ohoMEiIJgTGWbsNplXbCGm5Oka4z34lWJ_simbGYjNtyU-MwkpbrBGKW2a8dX6GUEaGifIt2F6ZAw0yFrExBe6sjVOoY/s1600/Jonus+Augustus+Bustus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="595" height="414" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw8uI2HyvTaWpKHp1WL5LDl8CaNDXJ2-7_1Hmv79mqllNdV6_ohoMEiIJgTGWbsNplXbCGm5Oka4z34lWJ_simbGYjNtyU-MwkpbrBGKW2a8dX6GUEaGifIt2F6ZAw0yFrExBe6sjVOoY/s640/Jonus+Augustus+Bustus.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c1e21;">Jon took a while to wash off the
Emperor Augustus’s bronze-verdigris green. I used liquid eyeliner for his hair and
that washed off too, though many thought he should keep it. A teacher on Facebook
asked to use this for GCSE History. We were happy to consent.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjek2vl-0wdBgXJenEInZ9iGDl-eFVp_hBPiDrDrMiKFjB6fMWJ7DZtZORt7t6rrcH2LzZKllzfBsCf4hobcZZLq4u-4A2NQ-oB5rriqKoy5cRw8xmJ0M7AtPqS5lansR_79B6GXCgMAi0/s1600/Lockdown+Gothic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="595" height="378" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjek2vl-0wdBgXJenEInZ9iGDl-eFVp_hBPiDrDrMiKFjB6fMWJ7DZtZORt7t6rrcH2LzZKllzfBsCf4hobcZZLq4u-4A2NQ-oB5rriqKoy5cRw8xmJ0M7AtPqS5lansR_79B6GXCgMAi0/s640/Lockdown+Gothic.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c1e21;">It was fascinating to investigate American
Gothic, which many people suggested for us. The original scene was completely
contrived: Grant Wood used his dentist and his sister to pose in front of the
house and ordered her puritanical-looking apron from a mail-order firm. I felt
no less authentic standing in front of a neighbour’s garage in Jon’s black
sweatshirt, with a paper ‘brooch’ and a bit of cut-up fabric pinned to my
front. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c1e21;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; color: #1c1e21;">We no longer have the time to do a
recreation every day, but we will carry on as long as restrictions remain and people
enjoy our efforts. Thanks to the Recreate Artworks From Things You Find at Home Facebook page, which has been full of hilarity and inspiration. In strange times, we do strange things, and God knows, we
need a laugh!<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
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<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-48282177479014106152020-04-02T02:46:00.000-07:002020-04-02T02:48:35.772-07:003 Easy Steps to Calm Anxiety in the Coronavirus Lockdown<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jGrMo1_P_y7KkEqkN4ZUsUMalkFFXQ9GQdIq4D4aZdjjyJHOcpx1YDgGMbvHxnnHxgI79yAvFQKDNlHDVvAN8ip3rb5kCmfRSqd639KY4wUPL5cQxRVRYQJtk4IEchgr_n1Linn55lk/s1600/beautiful+woodland.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="512" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9jGrMo1_P_y7KkEqkN4ZUsUMalkFFXQ9GQdIq4D4aZdjjyJHOcpx1YDgGMbvHxnnHxgI79yAvFQKDNlHDVvAN8ip3rb5kCmfRSqd639KY4wUPL5cQxRVRYQJtk4IEchgr_n1Linn55lk/s400/beautiful+woodland.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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When I’m not being a writer and editor, I’m a mentor in a
local school. Many of the pupils I see struggle with anxiety, and in these
times, that’s all of us isn’t it?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I wanted to share a simple three-step process designed to ‘reset’
your system when anxiety takes over. It involves activity, relaxation, and thinking
of a happy memory – all things you can do under lockdown conditions!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
Holiday memories</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Vj5XWjC5ib5e98ehbdNIYvaiOow97JSN5Xja8JEj3UCoXCGiezrDPV6CCdW3LUnaeZP98Rh_rmsW-0aR6qu4WBAKGGRMUn2CIpTjnZDm1NfNDY0fJSd-7Gny6dSmaDkYDVJUVJBkjS4/s1600/beautiful+beach.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="660" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_Vj5XWjC5ib5e98ehbdNIYvaiOow97JSN5Xja8JEj3UCoXCGiezrDPV6CCdW3LUnaeZP98Rh_rmsW-0aR6qu4WBAKGGRMUn2CIpTjnZDm1NfNDY0fJSd-7Gny6dSmaDkYDVJUVJBkjS4/s400/beautiful+beach.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Nearly all my happy memories are of holidays. My upcoming
novel, <i>The Year of the Ghost</i> is about a treasured annual family holiday which
one year is the scene of a haunting. It’s a story of family: of brokenness,
secrets and love. The characters are not my family, but it is based
on our annual pilgrimage to my father’s Welsh homeland. My memories of this beautiful
place span most of my life and my happiest times. I have spent the last couple
of years immersed in them as I write.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The good news is that those memories which keep you going
through the winter can be accessed in this difficult time, and all the good
feelings they give you will bolster your spirits right now. There's a reason why people all over the world are sharing pictures of beaches!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
Anxious times</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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I have a constant background hum of alarm, apprehension and
sadness which I put aside as I try to live this crisis one day at a time. But the
effort of powering through it tires me out. Most of the time, I'm fine, but I have bouts of low mood and over-sensitivity
that are not like the usual me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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These three steps are designed to help when anxiety becomes
overwhelming, but at the moment I’d suggest that we need them all the time!<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<h4>
<span style="text-indent: -18pt;">1 Activity</span></h4>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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When you’re worried, your heart beats
faster and your stomach feels wrong. Just becoming aware of these symptoms can
make the anxiety worse. The first step to resetting your body is to do
something active and fun: take your daily outside exercise or do something
indoors. Make sure it’s actually fun, not something you have to force yourself
to do! Dance to your favourite song, do step aerobics to music on your bottom
stairs, play table tennis on the dining room table, bounce a ball against the
wall… Changing how your body feels is a quick and effective way to start
transforming your state of mind. Now move onto the next step.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<h4>
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">2 </span><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Relaxation</span></h4>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Tense all your muscles at once: make tight
fists, clench your buttocks and tighten your leg muscles, then scrunch up your
face. Count to 5 with everything clenched! Then let go, loosen, relax.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Now take a deep breath in through your nose.
Picture the air going in, down to your belly and out to every part of your body…
then breathe out slowly through your mouth. Again, let the good, cooling, balmy air in through your nose – and all the tension will flow out through your mouth.
Do this five times altogether, in and out, in and out...<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<h4>
<o:p> </o:p><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">3 </span><span style="text-indent: -18pt;">Your happy memory</span></h4>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Think of a time you were happy and relaxed, perhaps
in your favourite place. Remember all the details: the smells, the sights, the sounds.
How did it make you feel inside? Be there again in your mind. Relish it, revel
in it, enjoy that feeling now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I really hope that this combination of getting your body moving, relaxing and remembering a happy time will help you through your day. </div>
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<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-49965576033470348222020-01-06T06:06:00.000-08:002020-01-06T06:14:45.037-08:00Beat Procrastination – A Guide for Writers<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-Q_l9IoO2tkFK7V1gdxU2iIQ02mJOQAjDWnnfGCeoxLYB5IyfA8jZmEBgmTJFlfVuBrjfGNp_uj46fH7pRKPXpz2LzUQFA0NRrFuSDSCgfdQbOrgYcNPdSPQHnirn2Axw_6XFpRsNPc/s1600/mindfulness-procrastination.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1200" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgI-Q_l9IoO2tkFK7V1gdxU2iIQ02mJOQAjDWnnfGCeoxLYB5IyfA8jZmEBgmTJFlfVuBrjfGNp_uj46fH7pRKPXpz2LzUQFA0NRrFuSDSCgfdQbOrgYcNPdSPQHnirn2Axw_6XFpRsNPc/s320/mindfulness-procrastination.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Most writers live in the battle between motivation and
procrastination. This morning after listening to this BBC4 All in the
Mind podcast <a href="https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0005t4x">The Psychology of Motivation and Procrastination</a>,
I did something I had been putting off for years. It was to do with freelancing
rather than writing, but it had been a huge cause of dread and anxiety, and I just did it in a heartbeat.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So read on, writers, these insights from the podcast will really help!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h2>
MOTIVATION</h2>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Dr Ian Taylor from Loughborough University says: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"Motivators
are the fuel that lead to a desired behaviour." </blockquote>
<h3>
Fact 1: Willpower is not the best motivator </h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We think of willpower as crucial, but it is actually not the best motivator at all. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
Fact 2: Enjoyment is the best motivator</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We are more likely to do something if we do it for
the love of it. We writers need to remind ourselves that this is why we write.
We are inclined to think about the times when we're struggling, or when we
read back over our work and hate it. What about those times when we look up to
find hours have gone by and we’ve written something good?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
Fact 3: Identity is the next best motivator </h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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You are much more likely to do something if we do it because
of who you are. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you want to get into running, think of
yourself as a runner. Then you’re not just someone who should go running. It’s
not all about the task. It’s about your identity. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The album I got for Christmas, <i>Now 100 Hits: Forgotten 70</i>s taught me this: </div>
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<b>Pearl’s a Singer.</b> </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq85rLDNI0sKUvcLVm8FKQYTdKZ05h_FFxMT_BaHZ-CzyIqK9izHuuRA9EebsIDxlR8zYvzJNDZm6OLfYvEbYaOt697E9tAywyS1I88ze1Wl5jnfLOfsNO3ELL2QnzL2I41IkMYODka64/s1600/Pearl%2527s+a+Singer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgq85rLDNI0sKUvcLVm8FKQYTdKZ05h_FFxMT_BaHZ-CzyIqK9izHuuRA9EebsIDxlR8zYvzJNDZm6OLfYvEbYaOt697E9tAywyS1I88ze1Wl5jnfLOfsNO3ELL2QnzL2I41IkMYODka64/s400/Pearl%2527s+a+Singer.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Elkie Brooks drives the point home in the haunting
refrain of this forgotten classic. Pearl sings because she’s a
singer. That’s who she is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h4>
If you want to write, call yourself a writer! </h4>
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When my
children were little, if I had a tiny scrap of time to myself and was tempted
to use it to clear up the house instead of writing, I’d chide myself, <i>Are you
a writer or a housewife? </i>This always did the trick<i>.</i></div>
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<i><br /></i></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Years later I took my biggest step towards actually being a
writer after years of wanting to be one. I started this writer’s blog. It didn’t
matter that I hadn’t been published, or paid for writing. I called myself a writer,
and so I became one. Pearl’s a singer. What are you?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
Fact 4: It pays to plan ahead</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Willpower is fragile, so minimise the effort required for a task. If you want to go
running, don’t have your kit packed away, leave it out ready. <o:p></o:p></div>
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If you want to write, don’t plan to do it after a hard day’s
work, or when you’ve finished all your paid work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Plan to do it in the morning or whenever you’re
fresh.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Leave off writing at a good point, when you’re pleased with
what you’ve done and know where you’re going with it next. Don’t make yourself
pick it up again at a difficult point, or you’ll be filled with dread.<o:p></o:p></div>
<h2>
<br />PROCRASTINATION</h2>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dr Fuchsia Sirois from Sheffield University says:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Procrastination is the unnecessary delay of an intended, voluntary
and important task despite knowing you’ll be worse off for doing so.”</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh writer, behold your face in a mirror! That’s us, isn’t
it? We’re procrastinators! No, wait a minute, we’re writers! Procrastination is
just a bad old habit we’re about to kick. It is not who we are!<o:p></o:p></div>
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Most people procrastinate. It’s when it becomes chronic that
it can be really problematic. </div>
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<br /></div>
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However, as writers, we can really help ourselves
by understanding the beast that always confronts us. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
It’s all about negative emotions...</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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We think procrastination is about poor time management, but
actually it’s about poor mood management. We use procrastination as a way of
regulating negative feelings. We want to write, but we look at the task of
writing as boring, challenging and stressful. It brings up a sense of
incompetence and a fear of failure. It won’t be perfect, and that will be unbearable…
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Most people delay a challenging task a bit but then think of the benefits and get on with it. However, if you can’t manage the negative feelings
you have about a task, you put off doing it to make yourself feel better. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
...and an unrealistic view of our future
selves</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To rationalise the fact that we’ve put a task aside to feel
better, we tell ourselves we’ll be less tired, more positive and more capable in
future. We paint our future self as a superhero, and so this self begins to seem
unattainable, abstract and unreal. We don’t identify with it any more. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
Who is more likely to procrastinate?</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
People who are prone to negative moods such as worry,
anxiety or fear are more likely to procrastinate. They already have a high
level of negative mood so an unpleasant task makes them want to back away from
it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people are not very good at thinking about the future
or planning. They prioritise feeling good now, and so procrastinate. People who
can think about the future and plan can balance short-term negative feelings
with the thought of future rewards. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
It just adds to stress</h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although in the short term we feel better because we’ve put
something off, the task preoccupies our thoughts and makes us anxious. I can vouch
for this! The thing I had been putting off kept creeping up on me
in my most vulnerable moments – for instance when trying to get to sleep – and hitting me with terrible anxiety. </div>
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But today I did it, so there is
hope for us all!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<h3>
3 Top Tips to beat procrastination</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<h4>
1 Set achievable goals</h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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Break down big tasks so they’re not so overwhelming and don’t
activate those negative emotions. Louise Minchin, BBC presenter and Team GB triathlete,
says that taking small steps helps her. She undertakes small tasks to avoid a future task being really
painful: for instance she will go for a long run because she has a triathlon coming up and needs
to be fit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As writers, we can set ourselves daily or weekly wordcounts
rather than focusing on writing a whole article or book.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<h4>
2 Think positively about the task</h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The true secret to overcoming procrastination is managing
our negative emotions about a task. In a two-week trial, people were given
tasks. They were taught to either tolerate their negative emotions about a
task, or reappraise it more positively. Compared to group without these
instructions, their level of procrastination went down. This is an amazing achievement
in only two weeks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Find something positive in the process of the task (not just
the goal, which might seem too far away to motivate you). Think what you’ll
learn through the process.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>You're a writer because deep
down, you enjoy it.</b> Few activities
are more likely to get you in the ‘flow’, reducing external stress and making
time go by in a rush of creative fulfillment. Remember this when you’re
approaching it with trepidation!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h4>
3 Be kind to yourself</h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Procrastinators often think they need to be stricter with
themselves, but actually they need to be kinder. Have compassion and practise
forgiveness as you would towards a friend. Being hard on yourself just adds to
those negative emotions that will get in your way.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So now you know! I'm off to do some writing - how about you?</div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-44580702269361408952019-10-19T08:38:00.000-07:002019-10-19T08:51:26.415-07:00Why are we afraid of spiders?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKB8baDOGbThOjU6Ibc9tAmsrWPTYm7tED-TFR8_Uqhfuurvb_0vjOc5QfwBh1xOyNyBJY1JRVd7ERvNyCcBN1U6bJOFtXgk5jLlWb-8OVnHsrIKBrw4RBwzK9HqukUr-hIkWdnaHNxJo/s1600/spider.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="168" data-original-width="300" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKB8baDOGbThOjU6Ibc9tAmsrWPTYm7tED-TFR8_Uqhfuurvb_0vjOc5QfwBh1xOyNyBJY1JRVd7ERvNyCcBN1U6bJOFtXgk5jLlWb-8OVnHsrIKBrw4RBwzK9HqukUr-hIkWdnaHNxJo/s400/spider.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<h3>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-weight: normal;">I don’t like spiders and snakes –
but why? </span></span></h3>
<h3>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-weight: normal;">As a writer of scary books, I am fascinated by fear.</span></span></h3>
</div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-weight: normal;">On a course I did recently, the leader
said, ‘It seems to be a powerful belief in all cultures that spiders are a
deadly threat.’ This got me thinking about how fears have evolved into the strange, irrational feelings we have now.</span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><span style="color: #333333; font-weight: normal;">Neuroscientist <a href="https://www.sciencealert.com/deep-unshakeable-fear-spiders-no-random-quirk-fate-born-arachnophobia">Stefanie Hoehl</a> did
an experiment on babies to work out whether arachnophobia is learned from our
culture environment or embedded in us as a species. Researchers looked at the
pupil dilation response in babies when shown pictures of spiders as opposed to
flowers, and snakes as opposed to fish.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica neue, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">The report says: 'Spiders ad snakes provoked the most pupil dilation, even in children that are so young they couldn't possibly have learned that spiders are something dangerous that many older people tend to fear. "We conclude that fear of snakes and spiders is of evolutionary origin", Hoehl explains.'</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: helvetica neue, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: 400;">Clearly an old fear of a genuine threat has imprinted itself in the human brain as a survival stragegy, but over time this has evolved into a useless response that we barely understand even as we jump away, shrieking.</span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small; font-weight: normal;">The top five phobias are the fear of spiders, snakes, heights, agoraphobia (the fear of open or crowded spaces) and the fear of dogs. I have three out of these five, which
probably makes me an average scaredy-cat. I am not afraid of heights (Beachy
Head – call that a long way down?) I don’t suffer from agoraphobia, though
some of my favourite people courageously battle this debilitating fear.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtTTrWS8HlCc8k2Z8ahmVc4pMmMWWklRJoc5Wvp3GaC3sOOZyj1W-nR8sBhlu_nW2rR7h7i9JmlbzVeYAb2O_ZnXfJaHA45JIf7bdOX0fv8MCpKEIjvRBnoJ5U1C9yb4qnWL8T8H0auk/s1600/scary+dog.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="280" data-original-width="390" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLtTTrWS8HlCc8k2Z8ahmVc4pMmMWWklRJoc5Wvp3GaC3sOOZyj1W-nR8sBhlu_nW2rR7h7i9JmlbzVeYAb2O_ZnXfJaHA45JIf7bdOX0fv8MCpKEIjvRBnoJ5U1C9yb4qnWL8T8H0auk/s320/scary+dog.webp" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #333333; font-weight: normal;">I have a vestige of the fear of dogs that tormented me as a child, because a Pekinese bit me in the
face as a baby. I have made my peace with unthreatening dogs, but if I’m out on a walk and one behaves aggressively, I virtually
leap into my husband’s arms, whimpering. </span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">My worst fear is spiders, but I don’t consciously think they will
kill me. Instead, I am revolted by their hairiness, their hand-like leg arrangement
and the way they move. There's a reason we call them creepy-crawlies!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">In nightmares, spiders crawl on me and I’m paralysed and unable to
stop them. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">When confronted by one in waking life, I sometimes contemplate being
a proper grown-up and picking it up to get rid of it. The reason I don’t is an overwhelming
fear is that it will jump as I reach for it and GET me – perhaps, oh dear God,
in the <i>face</i> – or crawl about in my hand in a hideous and unbearable
way. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Am I really an enormous human adult, towering over a tiny harmless
creature, terrified that it will TICKLE me?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNjTsa_7ma7qSgrisNFwrLdSZCssTeduae3Ya4AhcvliJ7gjItYQLvwe9U5Eg4-SbsI68WyU_nZ0WD3bi7ige8JOYern6h2YmC0qfzd2C3NmI29s9OPWUTSMvUYxE0s4rcgLrIzuZnKM/s1600/snake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="392" data-original-width="696" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNjTsa_7ma7qSgrisNFwrLdSZCssTeduae3Ya4AhcvliJ7gjItYQLvwe9U5Eg4-SbsI68WyU_nZ0WD3bi7ige8JOYern6h2YmC0qfzd2C3NmI29s9OPWUTSMvUYxE0s4rcgLrIzuZnKM/s400/snake.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Snakes also terrify me, but I am less likely to need to evict one
from the bathroom. And the fear of snakes is not irrational, I tell myself, even in safe, temperate Britain, as who can remember the visual
difference between an adder and a grass snake (especially while running away, screaming)?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: 7.5pt; margin-left: 0cm; margin-right: 0cm; margin-top: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">There are 100 adder bites a year in Britain, so the threat is real. OK, there have been only 14
deaths since 1876, but I MIGHT be next.</span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
</h2>
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<span style="color: #333333; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12.0pt; font-weight: normal;"><o:p> </o:p></span></h2>
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<br /></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-18787181314232556672019-09-26T08:47:00.000-07:002019-09-26T08:47:47.211-07:00Can We Stop Using Words As Weapons?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikf4OqL-XEOJZuswvc2nrzHbkNrnu1FiMGDCQ4Nx5XBWrUsSUxjIArjOlAS96dgGUjasSpf2F4_9y9tLr_yrso6Mui6kvWDYH96mNmja6N1SAlwOJnDgQNcAxa6EfXZ479ip1Pd-uFcPM/s1600/5462392213_f7b118932d_b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="671" data-original-width="921" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikf4OqL-XEOJZuswvc2nrzHbkNrnu1FiMGDCQ4Nx5XBWrUsSUxjIArjOlAS96dgGUjasSpf2F4_9y9tLr_yrso6Mui6kvWDYH96mNmja6N1SAlwOJnDgQNcAxa6EfXZ479ip1Pd-uFcPM/s400/5462392213_f7b118932d_b.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Words are extraordinary tools. They can inspire us or touch
our hearts, mobilise us or give us pause. Lately they have been weaponized, and
now we pause to consider their power. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After yesterday’s bellowing horror in the House of Commons,
words have been called ‘inflammatory’ and ‘dangerous’ as debate in Britain becomes
a toxic playground slanging match with shades of <i>Lord of the Flies</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It should be laughable, but I’m not laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This morning there were calls for restraint, and conciliatory
words from Brendan Cox, whose late wife’s name was evoked in the heat of the
row. But then it all started up again and I recalled Nicky Campbell’s recent anguish
on Radio 5: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<h4>
<i>‘My head is on the desk. We have been having the same
phone-in for three years.’</i></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is tempting to throw opinions in anger whenever Brexit
comes up. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h4>
But more anger is the last thing this country needs. </h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We need
to hear from people who are prepared to make concessions – who are willing to consider
the other side’s point of view. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can we please stop thinking the worst of everyone? Look
where that has got us!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one is going to get 100% what they want. It isn’t
possible, because our politics require negotiation, and that means both sides compromising.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know what I wanted, but I need to let that go. I have my
own red line (racism) and my own worries (that the vulnerable will suffer).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I want a peaceful solution more than I want what I voted
for. I want reconciliation so that we can move forward together.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often think of a maxim used in the negotiations for the
Good Friday Agreement: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<h4>
<i>If it matters to them, it matters.</i></h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can we adopt that attitude? Can we address each other’s
concerns, calmly and respectfully, instead of criticizing them? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can we stop blaming others for going overboard and get back
in the boat ourselves?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is my cry from the heart of a wordsmith: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h4>
Can we dial down the hyperbole and find words of peace?</h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-22547299598506342672019-05-30T00:16:00.000-07:002019-05-30T00:16:54.697-07:00The Baku Beyond - Why are the Media Afraid of Abroad?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhquqXojpBoZg5944Rpdm7cnsodbTFyCjrxB-2-S7c6L0LQQWNxAxe3OgEAqQzGdxWiCIh4kcj5BT-LW1jkqTSSGumewnJLQcThw3M5eACanAIFUtbguADK1k1FokdZTLyBrdM-bFlR5ig/s1600/baku_tcm8-6178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="474" data-original-width="710" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhquqXojpBoZg5944Rpdm7cnsodbTFyCjrxB-2-S7c6L0LQQWNxAxe3OgEAqQzGdxWiCIh4kcj5BT-LW1jkqTSSGumewnJLQcThw3M5eACanAIFUtbguADK1k1FokdZTLyBrdM-bFlR5ig/s400/baku_tcm8-6178.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
As the Europa League final approached, the absurdity of
having a London derby in Azerbaijan was much in the news. The ex-Soviet nation became
the byword for a strange/foreign/far-flung place, like Timbuktu before it. How would
fans reach such a destination? And if any intrepid travellers did happen to
make it, what in God’s name would it be like?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t deny that it was a long way to go, and expensive,
and there was fury and despair, and thousands of tickets were returned.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the
press coverage was reminiscent of other panics about foreign hosts. Rumours of
catastrophe are rife before Olympic Games and World Cups: the stadium won’t be
finished, the local fans are vicious, racist and homophobic, the hotels and
cafes will rip off travellers, the police will weigh in with batons and tear-gas
and our fans will end up banged up abroad, where the judicial system is corrupt.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I know there are genuine concerns, for instance for gay or
black travellers. But it always gives me a warm feeling when fans who actually
make it to these alien places not only survive, but thrive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reporters
interviewing British fans in Baku invited gripes about gruelling
journeys and local difficulties – how lovely, then, to hear them reply,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘It’s
so beautiful here! And we’ve been treated like honoured guests.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This fear of ‘abroad’ so often turns out to be unfounded – but it’s not only the media who indulge in it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all get anxious before
travelling. As a trip approaches, anxiety rises. What if they don’t
have this or that in the shops? What if they feed us things we’re allergic to?
What if they steal from us or rip us off?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love travelling, but I confess to
packing my favourite teabags, and vitamins, and Diocalm (usually years out of
date, because it never gets used). But then I arrive, and I relax, and my
happiest memories are made.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwnmOh7ILe84VAQ-K6Zg5LlpjLa4He_cXVn5zNt1ZgI4gc0Em02aFGwKG73O8x-6Utru-9vZ7q6YNqTh9ST8N5lUM2mP3RtYY9kz5AYAwLvK378D-xd_18_D_lUGS9sxWKOlev2D2Ssg/s1600/holidaymedicine_gettyimages-648667178.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="660" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxwnmOh7ILe84VAQ-K6Zg5LlpjLa4He_cXVn5zNt1ZgI4gc0Em02aFGwKG73O8x-6Utru-9vZ7q6YNqTh9ST8N5lUM2mP3RtYY9kz5AYAwLvK378D-xd_18_D_lUGS9sxWKOlev2D2Ssg/s320/holidaymedicine_gettyimages-648667178.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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Perhaps this is the reason for the sure-fire holiday, the place
you return to year after year so you can bypass all that fear of the unknown
and hit the ground running, doing all your usual things.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my next novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Year of the Ghost</i>, a family go on their annual trip to a house in
Wales, cheerfully mocking themselves for doing the things they always do, and
have done for years. Only this time, something terrifying has invaded their
usual holiday. Who could be haunting them in the place they all love?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-32473024535280423412019-04-27T09:33:00.000-07:002019-04-27T09:33:28.350-07:00How to Look Terrible on Holiday (and not care!)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlqaB-EiMccVkhG_inFaMfWqOPyzfYe7coL-itoUo5upiVnf8e8hTXtf88z-xGQpBUw9o8D1eAGCibsGUPk3HoZsx16KlQBjV0S4s6of2ip5BgwaO-ZCRqVaUIrvLCsbsUNf4H20BB-Q/s1600/Looking+terrible+holiday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdlqaB-EiMccVkhG_inFaMfWqOPyzfYe7coL-itoUo5upiVnf8e8hTXtf88z-xGQpBUw9o8D1eAGCibsGUPk3HoZsx16KlQBjV0S4s6of2ip5BgwaO-ZCRqVaUIrvLCsbsUNf4H20BB-Q/s400/Looking+terrible+holiday.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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I always look crap on holiday. It's an old tradition, like fish 'n' chips or Sangria. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I don’t know how I looked on my travels before the age of 17
because at that time I was unaware of the Cosmopolitan Commandment: <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<h3>
<i>Thou shalt always look amazing on holiday.</i></h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This had never been an issue, since as a small child I mainly
went on day trips to Hastings. Then when I was ten, my Dad inherited his father’s
Ford Anglia and drove us to far-flung Wales, where you could still buy setting
lotion if your hair went wild.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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At 17 I went Interrailing with friends, some of them very
glamorous. While I had packed practical stuff, their rucksacks spilled out hair
products and sexy dresses. The pressure to look good infected me like a dose of
holiday tummy. I took my turn with the time-shared turquoise off-the-shoulder dress
in which we wowed the Paris fashion scene.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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As we ventured further South, though, my holiday curse took
hold. In the Italian sunshine, I burned every visible skin surface, including
my eyelids, while the rest of me remained white. I was feasted on by mosquitoes
which ignored everyone else. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
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I was already heavier than my friends, which wasn’t the end
of the world in school uniform, but when we arrived at the beach in Rimini, I saw
my bikini body beside theirs, and knew that I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fat</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I also had swollen eyelids, was covered in livid lumps and had
the skin tone of a raspberry ripple.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Adriatic sand got in my hair and in
all our towels, condemning me to another holiday tradition – rubbish hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Over the years since, I have read all the advice, bought all
the products and dared to believe that this year I’ll look my best in the
holiday snaps – legs Veet-smooth and Holiday Skin-brown, hair Frizz-eased and
straightened, toenails polished, outfits rigorously vetted for fit and style.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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But every year comes that moment of realisation, as my hair takes
on the texture of a brillo pad and my bites turn into scars that last weeks
longer than my tan – oh yes! Who was I kidding? I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> look terrible on holiday.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Things are not improving. I am fifty-four. I have hair that
goes insane in humidity. I swell up in hot weather, and on planes. My feet and
ankles are allergic to EVERYTHING, causing angry red rashes – really fetching
in sandals!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So this year when we went away over Easter, I had to ban Holiday
Skin and face the world with winter-white legs.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We were off to visit my son, who I hadn’t seen for 6 months
because he has moved to Vietnam – my favourite place in the world. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And after all these years of failing to have a beach body or
a sunkissed look or pretty hair –something dawned on me…<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<h3>
What if this holiday is <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i></b> <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">about</i></b> what I look like?<br /> <br />What if it <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually doesn’t matter?<o:p></o:p></i></b></h3>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></b></div>
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Before I went away I heard an overweight woman on the radio.
She said she’d read that women can spend up to 60% of their brainpower thinking
about weight and dieting. She thought, what could we achieve if we used that
brainpower for other things? And so she stopped caring about how much she
weighed – and she was healthy, and happy, and achieved great things.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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What if during our two weeks away, I could just decide not
to care?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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There’s always a beautiful woman on the beach, isn’t there?
She’s young, slim and tanned; her hair, nails and skin look perfect and her
bikini fits her beautifully. But does she look happy? She doesn’t, does she? She’s
often in a strop with a handsome youth who’s worshipping at the foot of her
beach towel. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I will never look like her, and yet holidays have been my happiest times. Imagine that! I remember exploring the
world with my boys, relishing our annual Welsh pilgrimage with the wider family,
and discovering foreign cities with my husband. I don’t remember how I looked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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So off we flew to Moscow and on to Hanoi, and my ankles swelled
and made my legs into treetrunks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In our Airbnb, I stood on a stool to hang something up, and
it tipped over. I crashed through it, enhancing my pasty granny legs with black
bruising which covered my whole calf and turned an interesting green. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I wasn’t even getting brown – the sun in Hanoi creates a
hazy sauna that doesn’t so much tan you as steam you. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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In soupy humidity, my hair went through a brassy brillo look
before reaching peak candy floss as the heat soared. My cheapskate Wilco bug
spray didn’t work, and my bites turned into attractive blood blisters. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And I didn’t care. I made reasonable efforts to look
presentable and stay cool, and I let the rest go. I looked as terrible as ever,
but I loved being with my son in his new home. I loved Hanoi and Danang and
national parks we visited. I loved the people, the food, the astonishing
scenery, the quirkiness, the craziness, the ancient and modern wonders that make
up Vietnam. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The beauty industry has made suckers of us all, but I don’t
buy it any more. It’s NOT what you look like that makes a holiday – it’s what you’re
looking at and who you’re with. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And the most beautiful thing you can wear in those holiday
photos is a great big carefree smile. <o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-35421805393710952792019-03-31T06:12:00.000-07:002019-03-31T06:12:18.065-07:00Mothering Is Not What It Used To Be<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuSmZSPG0XQM5pWm9irqHAXIhwvS7_55q8cBCiDPvGZtZES7MEJ91ihdK4Z4KEYEPdRyfS_Kn-7SyMXFjbnZrQAoeXAifOjgZmoQE5achiifkHV0-qmBs5RMQTrxcNSni8xnYJvlG5-I/s1600/working+class+mother+1940s.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="460" height="205" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpuSmZSPG0XQM5pWm9irqHAXIhwvS7_55q8cBCiDPvGZtZES7MEJ91ihdK4Z4KEYEPdRyfS_Kn-7SyMXFjbnZrQAoeXAifOjgZmoQE5achiifkHV0-qmBs5RMQTrxcNSni8xnYJvlG5-I/s400/working+class+mother+1940s.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Motherhood has changed. While doing some background reading
for my next novel, I came across Alan Garner’s memoir of a wartime childhood, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Where Shall We Run To?</i> and this charming
(!) recollection of his parents’ routine:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">My father finished
work at dinnertime on Saturday each week. And after dinner he nearly always
went to watch football in Manchester. Then he came back for his tea, washed and
shaved, put on his suit and went to the pub. Then he came home, went to bed and
slept until dinnertime on Sunday. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">On Sunday morning my
mother got up and cooked the Sunday dinner. She roasted a joint of beef with
potatoes in the oven, and she boiled more potatoes, and cabbage and carrots and
Brussels sprouts. And she made gravy and Yorkshire pudding, and a rice pudding
with a brown skin on top. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Twenty minutes before
dinner was ready, my mother knocked on the beam below the ceiling with the
handle of the carving knife and my father thumped back on the bedroom floor
with his foot. My mother served the plates to the table, which had a clean
white cloth on it, and my father came downstairs, sat in his chair and ate his
dinner. He mixed the rice pudding with the gravy and it looked horrible. I sat
with him and had bread and jam, and my mother sat on the arm of a chair by the
fire with her plate on her knee. No one talked. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After dinner, my
father read the News of the World in his easy chair by the fire and went to
sleep until teatime. My mother cleared the table, took off the white tablecloth
and put on the blue sateen one with tassels, and washed up the dirty pans and
dishes. Then she went to bed to lie down, and I read my comics because I wasn’t
allowed to play out on a Sunday.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After tea my father
went to the pub and my mother and I listened to the wireless and played cards.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
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Whatever we’re doing this Mother’s Day, I hope it is less
exhausting than this and that there will be absolutely no mixing of gravy and rice
pudding.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUuigwxE4y_RM-97dltSpzZLyZZHui-S0Gbi7zfCRN2EeXcetQN2UdWvX22DqcTQTUPElAHZKs7IUaFnaPz39yiZ6hl-3gRQ_wbcA1TjHOkWfFOLcVJN3gXyuv8q_qD8F7ZzV_g18K-ak/s1600/-rice-pudding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="232" data-original-width="412" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUuigwxE4y_RM-97dltSpzZLyZZHui-S0Gbi7zfCRN2EeXcetQN2UdWvX22DqcTQTUPElAHZKs7IUaFnaPz39yiZ6hl-3gRQ_wbcA1TjHOkWfFOLcVJN3gXyuv8q_qD8F7ZzV_g18K-ak/s320/-rice-pudding.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rice pudding, without gravy.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br /></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-92151855002093581022019-02-09T06:02:00.000-08:002019-02-09T06:06:23.035-08:00Why do men assume I'm writing bonkbusters?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6MQ3vBX-2vIOjo_aUMMANogVIa_-AYwhyphenhyphenKLLnYxuHJmK8iuOyYonv7kAk7O0oHruyi4lrdcozpJUP-_drMD18lBxJTEluoKaxJ7SmDbYLBvgPZljRJzBipNBK_T3wjl_FwMVT_KbzjM/s1600/i3t5kzicsfheswbidxkd.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="800" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV6MQ3vBX-2vIOjo_aUMMANogVIa_-AYwhyphenhyphenKLLnYxuHJmK8iuOyYonv7kAk7O0oHruyi4lrdcozpJUP-_drMD18lBxJTEluoKaxJ7SmDbYLBvgPZljRJzBipNBK_T3wjl_FwMVT_KbzjM/s400/i3t5kzicsfheswbidxkd.webp" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Jezebel/Pictorial, by Angelica Alzona</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You’re a women writer. A man you know finds out that you’re
writing. The first thing out of his mouth is a jokey assumption that you’re
writing something raunchy.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why?! I’m not asking from feminist outrage, I’m just genuinely
baffled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I like men. I adore my Dad and my husband; I have two fabulous
sons. Many of my dearest friends are men. I enjoy male banter: the mickey-taking,
the quick-fire wit, the belly laughs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nor do I have an issue with people who ARE writing something
raunchy. Good for you – I hope it’s brilliant and titivating. I’ve read all three
Fifty Shades books. I’m not elitist or a prude.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But when I find out that someone I know is writing, I think
all kinds of things. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What genre are you
writing? Are you good? Published? Self-published? What inner worlds are you
pouring onto your pages?</i> <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s really never sex scenes that first spring to mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get it – these men are joking, but why always the same
joke? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writing is an expression of your inner self. Your world
view, your life experience – it all comes out into the light. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is sex the only secret men can imagine me expressing?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhML8ZjNGhN_eNJGTP-Wpllw9oItcnfZ32BHX_ScG0vU4edKvuAjNWBho2OpcglWGxETRJwRuTa6Sv2TQ5a_NaWdz4DM2-fOp_JBDdWknhG4Yal-hzFM_5iAr-VI8tcz0zb34xWMMJjgJE/s1600/jane-austen-399-t-600x600-rw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="600" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhML8ZjNGhN_eNJGTP-Wpllw9oItcnfZ32BHX_ScG0vU4edKvuAjNWBho2OpcglWGxETRJwRuTa6Sv2TQ5a_NaWdz4DM2-fOp_JBDdWknhG4Yal-hzFM_5iAr-VI8tcz0zb34xWMMJjgJE/s320/jane-austen-399-t-600x600-rw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I often wonder, did Jane Austen get this? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m guessing that
she did because, as English professor <a href="http://op-talk.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/09/14/when-novels-were-bad-for-you/">Barbara M Benedict</a> has written, in Austen’s
time: 'Novel reading for women was associated with inflaming sexual passions; with liberal, radical ideas; with uppityness; with the attempt to overturn the status quo'.<br />
<br />
Imagine what they thought of women actually <i>writing</i> novels – those inflaming minxes!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #333333;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Women writers, I’d love to know – does this happen to you?<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-54200293635258292992018-12-03T06:39:00.000-08:002018-12-03T06:39:53.896-08:00The Apprentice – You're Fired<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWXMWEy9xNaR5khX849ooWLOjYcSw1-z40_C49EtULhU5Vd4JCWPyzpoqfxRb5nyDOfax4DFiSCPWWunYZ_iFixyVGbFfcCP0sugDFM1uogRU0iLj6KXpLkZXyF_Hcv3wl3X2jHP8R9o/s1600/BlogTheApprentice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1334" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXWXMWEy9xNaR5khX849ooWLOjYcSw1-z40_C49EtULhU5Vd4JCWPyzpoqfxRb5nyDOfax4DFiSCPWWunYZ_iFixyVGbFfcCP0sugDFM1uogRU0iLj6KXpLkZXyF_Hcv3wl3X2jHP8R9o/s400/BlogTheApprentice.jpg" width="332" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
This Saturday I was on the Meet the Authors
stand at Penshurst Christmas Market doing my first ever face to face sale of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i>. I wasn’t speaking,
blogging or posting – I was sitting with a pile of paperbacks to sell to the
public. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My ex-boss always says that publishing is about creating
books that people want to buy. And as a self-published author, you can’t just
be a wafty creative type – you have to <i>sell</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I started with an inferiority complex. The lovely author I
took over from, Deborah, had spread out an array of published titles. She has an agent who moved to America and found her deals there. She wrote her most
recent bestseller 'as a joke' and then ‘found that it was
taken seriously.’ <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Better than the other way round,’ I quipped through a tightening
smile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Perhaps recognising a rabbit in the headlights, she asked
all about my book and bought a copy before she left. Bless her – my nerves
settled. At least I’d be able to say I had sold one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My fellow stallholder was also friendly and
frighteningly successful – he had written two bestsellers about Churchill. For
the first fifteen minutes of my two-hour slot, I watched him sell three copies
while <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i> lay unnoticed.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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And why wouldn’t people see his books, think of someone they
knew who was interested in Churchill, and snap up a copy for Christmas? He was relaxed and confident, able to chat about a popular subject with a
mix of authority and gossipy titbits.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I was beginning to feel like the candidate on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Apprentice</i> who can’t sell anything
and gets fired.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3Xuq10bMoTS33oW4Ju6cyA8VNd1vmszbEAJ4_ZbtdLs6ydr4k0Pjp1hIW0IASC7Ml7akYxmfOG7CpM90qA6D9rwXe_MFt_jEsOEjs0XphazjJhmGwq0axzwZKGyp99wT3rNmxP9Qn0o/s1600/Apprentice+candidate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx3Xuq10bMoTS33oW4Ju6cyA8VNd1vmszbEAJ4_ZbtdLs6ydr4k0Pjp1hIW0IASC7Ml7akYxmfOG7CpM90qA6D9rwXe_MFt_jEsOEjs0XphazjJhmGwq0axzwZKGyp99wT3rNmxP9Qn0o/s320/Apprentice+candidate.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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I had watched Deborah enthusing about her book, its glowing reviews,
the publisher wanting a second, the delights of the setting. I needed to shake
off my feeling of failure, up my game and wax lyrical about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i>. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Unfortunately I couldn’t remember a single thing about it. I
read the cover as last-minute revision. Something about motherhood and madness.
<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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‘It’s for someone who likes a dark, creepy thriller,’ I
began to say to people who showed an interest. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Now there is a divide between people who can’t resist this
kind of thing and those who avoid it like the plague, and you can’t tell just from
looking at them. A few festive market-goers shuddered as if I’d said it was a
story about hurting kittens. Perhaps they all had mad mothers. Or were mad
mothers themselves?<o:p></o:p></div>
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After one couple bought a Churchill book, the husband looked
at mine with benevolence and said to his wife, ‘What about this one for
so-and-so?’ I didn’t hear her disdainful reply.<o:p></o:p></div>
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‘That’s not very nice, is it?’ he said to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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My smile was becoming frozen. You see this happening to Lord
Sugar’s young hopefuls, and from the comfort of your armchair, it is very
entertaining. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfz7NtXgp8IDBORa3z_TmweG9HTPkX_43mowETEQwnjh8-xKM6axkNiMk7LBSuz0vau7PTIMKc301Z8wx59qSTqqDaE1WEAD9YZrSwnnrH2Uw8d_pxQNhY9pfAiIwDJT3T6OlVMFwJR1Q/s1600/Apprentice+frozen+smiles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="750" data-original-width="1000" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfz7NtXgp8IDBORa3z_TmweG9HTPkX_43mowETEQwnjh8-xKM6axkNiMk7LBSuz0vau7PTIMKc301Z8wx59qSTqqDaE1WEAD9YZrSwnnrH2Uw8d_pxQNhY9pfAiIwDJT3T6OlVMFwJR1Q/s320/Apprentice+frozen+smiles.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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After a passer-by stalked away from my offer of dark, creepy
thrills, I got the hang of spotting those who were genuinely interested and
throwing out a comment to entice them. I sold another copy and restrained
myself from throwing my grateful arms round the buyer. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hall remained busy and money was clearly no object. I
had decided beforehand to reduce my usual price of £7.99 to a special offer of £5. Now I
saw that people had brought enough cash to do some serious Christmas shopping
while supporting local traders.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I began to suspect that my novel was the cheapest thing at
the market. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A stallholder opposite explained why she had stopped selling
a particular item. ‘They took hours to make and I could only sell them for a
fiver.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i>
took me twenty-three years to write. I was literally underselling it.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the end I found my readership and found myself selling
and signing copies. My smile was now genuine as I remembered that many people
have enjoyed the novel, and it is actually worth buying. I left with an
envelope full of fivers and some really valuable lessons.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To begin with there were shades of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m a Writer – Get Me Out of Here</i>. Selling in a market is not my
natural environment. But if you publish your writing, your books are your
product, and if you can’t sell your own product, you shouldn’t be publishing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I wasn’t the candidate who couldn’t sell anything, but Alan Sugar would not have approved that I had sold at a knock-down price in one of
the South-East’s wealthiest villages. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Thank you to the organisers of Penshurst Christmas Market!
You were kind, welcoming and willing to stretch the boundaries of your village to include me as a local author. I had a lovely afternoon there in the
end.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Apprentice</i>,
I would still have been fired.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-11870743769672128982018-10-05T03:50:00.000-07:002018-10-05T03:51:18.150-07:00Me and Kate Atkinson<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9l0LWzKilZPPiBxIf3RLP6Nq-9glO8JOLoBKT6ixwr451tDr8G3QC92xgab_YZglZTlpMVLqLard31r_yxCBlws307_aThTIv5Rk3eVb-sCw5LaI9uidcG2ltSZ99ayjc_zbahFkfx0/s1600/Me+and+Kate+Atkinsont.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1138" data-original-width="1600" height="283" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju9l0LWzKilZPPiBxIf3RLP6Nq-9glO8JOLoBKT6ixwr451tDr8G3QC92xgab_YZglZTlpMVLqLard31r_yxCBlws307_aThTIv5Rk3eVb-sCw5LaI9uidcG2ltSZ99ayjc_zbahFkfx0/s400/Me+and+Kate+Atkinsont.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This summer I plucked up the courage to take a few copies of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Unspeakable-Things-Sophie-Kersey/dp/1999776925/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1538735679&sr=8-1&keywords=unspeakable+things+in+books">Unspeakable Things</a></i> into a local bookseller. I mean an actual one –
not a coffee shop or a secondhand bookshop.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I had been
warned the manager was dubious about self-published books, but I breezed in with
fake confidence and assured her I would advertise it through my vast social
media following. To my delight, she agreed to try it out for three months
(thank you Fiona at Sevenoaks Bookshop!)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">While there,
I bought a ticket for a talk the bookshop had organized by author Kate
Atkinson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I love Kate
Atkinson. I loved her duo of wartime-set novels, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.kateatkinson.co.uk/book_detail.php?b=Life_After_Life">Life after Life</a></i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.kateatkinson.co.uk/book_detail.php?b=A_God_in_Ruins">A God in Ruins</a></i> so fervently that I made my Dad read them too, implying that I wasn’t
really interested in talking to him until he had done so. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I
turned up for the talk three months later, I felt like a tiny, unworthy fish in
a huge pond dominated by the brilliant likes of Kate Atkinson. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm75-JQRJS-S1XEFOLbrE0lkQBw87MA-kniqKtqzZ6skjDtpWkKjt_fucHX2qDAfUPZ7NU38Ke-2aKb7rjY5MlBVUkXicppK29jTcw_NMmyrFwJw5cwFC3HlyHaIDtaC8cN55xQA_QCUA/s1600/KateAtkinson.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1344" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm75-JQRJS-S1XEFOLbrE0lkQBw87MA-kniqKtqzZ6skjDtpWkKjt_fucHX2qDAfUPZ7NU38Ke-2aKb7rjY5MlBVUkXicppK29jTcw_NMmyrFwJw5cwFC3HlyHaIDtaC8cN55xQA_QCUA/s320/KateAtkinson.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;">To make
things worse, I popped into the bookshop beforehand to discover that no copies
of </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">Unspeakable Things</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> had sold. Fiona
was busy with the </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">real </i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">author’s talk
so I told the salesgirl I would pick up my unsuccessful efforts later.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As the crowd
gathered, I got chatting to a fellow admirer of Kate Atkinson and commented
that you could assess who her readers are by looking round at the audience – for
instance, most of us were women. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">‘I hadn’t noticed
that,’ she said. ‘What made you pick up on it?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, this
blog was my first big step out of the closet as a writer. Since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things </i>came out in January,
I am happier to declare myself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So I replied
that I am interested in such things because I am a writer, though of course,
not a proper one like Kate Atkinson. She kindly she asked about my book and I told her a bit about it. I
always have some postcard-sized ads with me for just such occasions, so I silenced
the ‘don’t show off’ voice in my head and gave her one. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Most of us
had bought a copy of Kate Atkinson’s new novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.kateatkinson.co.uk/book_detail.php?b=Transcription">Transcription</a></i> in the lobby, but this woman had decided to buy it later at Sevenoaks Bookshop and to choose two more novels to take on holiday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And guess what?
She promised to buy <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i>.
It would have been lovely to chat to her anyway, but now my three-month trial
had been saved at the eleventh hour by this encounter at the feet of
Kate Atkinson.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The proper
author came on, and her talk was great and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Transcription
</i>looks excellent. I still felt utterly unworthy, but as she spoke I felt a
tingle of recognition that said, yes, I get it. I am a writer too. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When it came
time for que</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">stions, a woman asked, ‘Your novels seem to flow so creatively, as
though they just grow organically. Do you do any planning at all?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Of course
she does, I thought. She’ll plan meticulously. Writers don’t commit to a shopping
list without working out how it will end. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Kate
Atkinson smiled. ‘I’m delighted you think that my novels just flow organically,’
she said. ‘But the truth is, I plan everything meticulously.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And it turns
out we have something else in common. The plot for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Transcription</i> came to her when she was doing research for her other
wartime novels and came across the story of a real spy from the era. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My new novel
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Year of the Ghost</i> is partly set
in the war years. While researching the history of child evacuees, I came across
some extraordinary facts and stories. Perhaps the effect of wartime propaganda,
which encouraged people to see Operation Pied Piper in a positive light has lingered
on, meaning that its darker side has not been much explored.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUdkemjK8Uf_52X4SQ8lp4Fvk6ePkv2QX_kMuNCc9PXaB-CX-sepRm4sSwmCJ91_VhvpScHWLszMnyLgUoGbMuC5pWQnIxR2Cj_QyAiqNuBH2EaJFl4Be65pHbKo133CTtgvyF5A-N7sM/s1600/Operation-Pied-Piper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1024" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUdkemjK8Uf_52X4SQ8lp4Fvk6ePkv2QX_kMuNCc9PXaB-CX-sepRm4sSwmCJ91_VhvpScHWLszMnyLgUoGbMuC5pWQnIxR2Cj_QyAiqNuBH2EaJFl4Be65pHbKo133CTtgvyF5A-N7sM/s320/Operation-Pied-Piper.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Defense Media Network</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /><span style="font-size: 14pt;">One of these
stories, of evacuation with loving hosts, followed by the discovery of a shocking
family secret, inspired a major plot line of </span><i style="font-size: 14pt;">The Year of the Ghost</i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m not a million-selling
author or a multiple prize-winner on a prestigious book tour. But I am a
writer. I plan meticulously. I find inspiration from research. And apparently I
promote my book wherever I go! <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So yeah – me
and Kate Atkinson. We do that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-65985163386677925312018-09-18T04:44:00.000-07:002018-09-18T04:47:37.194-07:00Are your kids off to uni? 7 top tips to help you survive and thrive<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbW9Q3hNTQU3zjccdAgjVjvWODPqRAZbLAgq6-_2uSBEbSovzs4bNXZMQWnjKUtnizorvs3VAuXxb0bNP56G5Wp5ms2Kx5qG46DUgBFWklAHgI0nlIQkOszinnsWPB22s32N8pmB2bdk/s1600/Parents-letting-go-kids-going-off-to-college-e1504037108947.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="303" data-original-width="700" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWbW9Q3hNTQU3zjccdAgjVjvWODPqRAZbLAgq6-_2uSBEbSovzs4bNXZMQWnjKUtnizorvs3VAuXxb0bNP56G5Wp5ms2Kx5qG46DUgBFWklAHgI0nlIQkOszinnsWPB22s32N8pmB2bdk/s400/Parents-letting-go-kids-going-off-to-college-e1504037108947.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of MoneySpace</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>(Based on my article that appeared in Juno Magazine)</i><br />
<br />
‘You’ll be sad when Sam leaves,’ everyone warned me four
years ago when my younger child’s departure for university loomed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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‘I know. But we’ll be fine,’ I said. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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I had a good marriage and a fulfilling job. Sam was hardly
there anyway, with his busy social life and travel bug. I would miss him, but I
was not going to be one of those women who moon over their lost babies.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My first son, Ben had left two years before. I was
determinedly bright and positive then: I knew he was going to be happy. I
pitied the tear-stained mothers I saw on campus, but me? I was fine. Then
across a crowded hall, I saw a Dad cuddling his daughter. At the sight of his
loving gesture, a dam broke, releasing tears I hadn’t known were there. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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We spent a couple of hours settling Ben in – peering at
other newcomers, wondering if they’d be his friends, and trawling round Asda,
pointing out the cheap ranges and the urgent need for broccoli. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When we got up to leave him, he stood in the corner of his
room, looking anxious. ‘Are you going?’ he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘We have to,’ I told him. ‘Your new life won’t start until
we’ve gone.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day a text arrived. After we left, he had met his new
flatmates. They were brilliant. He loved it. They had all been up until three.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At home, we adjusted to putting three plates out instead of
four (I made the same amount of food – we just ate it). We missed Ben, but he
was studying film – his passion since the age of ten. I couldn’t feel
negative about him pursuing his dreams. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a decent interval, we spent a happy weekend visiting him,
enjoying a new, more adult relationship. A routine set in of absence, then lovely
visits. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTH7A6js4VggZURule1h2cuc7zSnzN_Dw8AfXGxWW4SUa1CwwDJ5eSUi9xZmRjPIz9FNnQtykqU7PwbjtemYZ8nFzWRPxRF0lPO9PeS47KLQXxrvqmFGdcGf_Tz4x1DVt7Cb4Eqj1XUx0/s1600/Visiting+Ben+uni.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTH7A6js4VggZURule1h2cuc7zSnzN_Dw8AfXGxWW4SUa1CwwDJ5eSUi9xZmRjPIz9FNnQtykqU7PwbjtemYZ8nFzWRPxRF0lPO9PeS47KLQXxrvqmFGdcGf_Tz4x1DVt7Cb4Eqj1XUx0/s320/Visiting+Ben+uni.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The start of Sam’s first term brought another nervous drive,
another Asda shop, another moment of parting. I was ready for the tears this
time. On the way home, I retreated deep inside myself as I had after Ben’s birth,
adjusting to the shock of motherhood. Now the whole adjustment process was
thrown into reverse. Both my babies were gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘You must miss him terribly,’ people said. We did, but we
had busy lives, and work, and each other. Eighteen-year-olds, I pointed out,
are not all that easy to live with. They crash around at three in the morning
and eat all the cheese. The house was quieter now, and tidier. We chattered
brightly over the silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having vowed to let Sam find his feet before visiting, we
decided to make a date to go and see Ben.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But Ben had a hotel job now. He wasn’t sure when we would be free to see
us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our coping façade disintegrated. We knew that we loved those
weekend visits. We hadn’t realised they were keeping us going.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The house felt deserted – our own company an open wound. I
could hardly bear to watch those Gogglebox families sitting down together to
watch TV. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If we talked about it, parents with teens at their side joked,
‘Ooh, can we lend you ours?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘They come bouncing back,’ others said with a weary air. We
stood chest high in a misery that no one understood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s when the dreams began. I would drop a boy off at
university and drive home. In his bedroom, I would find him, a baby still,
standing in his cot, arms reaching out for me. If everything was all right, no
one had told my unconscious mind.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote this tragic little ditty to express it all:<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boys, you are men, <br />
But when I get back <br />
From dropping you off at university,<br />
You are standing up in your cot,<br />
Still needing me.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For all my denial, I was grieving. I began to accept this
instead of fighting it. If tears came on my walk to work, I let them. When
memories took hold of me, I allowed them to run their course. That end of the
kitchen table was where Ben used to sit when he could still fit under that
cupboard. That’s where Sam sat in his highchair, shaking his drink over his
head.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I began to fret over what my function was, at work and at
home. I had lost a role that had filled my life. We had been a family together
for twenty years. Now what was I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">for</i>?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If this is you, I offer you my heartfelt sympathy, and these
few things the experience taught me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<h3>
<br />7 tips for coping when they fly the nest</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<h4>
1) Acknowledge the impact when your youngster leaves. It’s all
right to be anxious. It’s all right to be sad. You are not just missing your adolescent,
but the baby, infant and child they were. You are also missing the parent you
were and your place you had in their life. Give yourself time and permission to
grieve.</h4>
<h4>
<br />2) Try not to dump your emotion on the departing child. They
have the right to spread their wings with barely a look back. This doesn’t mean
pretending you don’t miss them. But don’t expect them to fix you – that’s not
their job.</h4>
<h4>
<br />3) Schedule in a visits straight away – it will be a beacon to
aim for. Once you have seen your offspring again, you will feel so much better.
Settle into a new routine in which you see them at intervals. Negotiate those
intervals – they’ll be missing you too, but give them space!</h4>
<div>
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3869KmXc_3DijeG3oE2UcoCb0KG_6zEIKNmoJdGKqCLBgnQccOBjbiODBZAjDFrG2RVjYA7nNtC9jMob8zjonubTQDRRab1ctIHlVu9l5OMGKCld-WGo_aE5S9Fsx5zahH5ZZZfYMa0/s1600/Visiting+Sam+at+uni_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEje3869KmXc_3DijeG3oE2UcoCb0KG_6zEIKNmoJdGKqCLBgnQccOBjbiODBZAjDFrG2RVjYA7nNtC9jMob8zjonubTQDRRab1ctIHlVu9l5OMGKCld-WGo_aE5S9Fsx5zahH5ZZZfYMa0/s320/Visiting+Sam+at+uni_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<h4>
<br />4) Be kind to yourself. Book in some treats and new experiences.
Behave as though you are relishing your newfound freedom. Eventually your heart
will adjust and this might actually be true.</h4>
<h4>
<br />5) Take stock. What was important to you before you had a
family? What is important now? Years of catering for others might have
prevented you from wondering. This time of flux can help kick-start positive
change.</h4>
<h4>
<br />6) Your child’s new life, full of opportunity and excitement,
can make you wistful. What if you could start again? When you come out of the
cocoon you formed with your family, the world will still be out there. Explore
it – you might thrive!</h4>
<h4>
<br />7) Relish those moments when they need you again. The phone
call about toothache, or their bike being nicked. Of course they still need you
– they always will! Try not to sound pleased, though. Just sympathetic,
understanding and confident that they’ll cope.</h4>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As for you, you will survive, and I hope you will thrive!<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-11792832079976590932018-09-09T04:49:00.003-07:002018-09-09T04:49:56.598-07:00Stop procrastinating now – or soon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvF60CNvUKjSSXScFMXvYPJ0qKrq5yksCJ2M1DJXmMQGFYyOoT8HRw8yho0x6gx2AylEcBeN4TbR4oCPX4q0Z6_RDZn2HIayF-LdXK1s4uu9ZbQCW9LNMLMWgPnj6YVZDJUMiek0nuk7o/s1600/procrastinate.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="276" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvF60CNvUKjSSXScFMXvYPJ0qKrq5yksCJ2M1DJXmMQGFYyOoT8HRw8yho0x6gx2AylEcBeN4TbR4oCPX4q0Z6_RDZn2HIayF-LdXK1s4uu9ZbQCW9LNMLMWgPnj6YVZDJUMiek0nuk7o/s400/procrastinate.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Soonish, anyway. At least put it on your To Do list.<br />
<br />
Writers are world-class at putting off writing. I can’t focus on it unless every scrap of freelance work is done. And the house is
clean, and I’ve made chutney.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lately I have had a partner in procrastination – my
just-graduated son. We returned home from a family holiday. I had a
pile of urgent work to do, so writing was out of the question. He had an online
TEFL course to finish by producing a lesson plan and an essay. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I met my work deadlines, so for a very rare moment, all I needed to do was write. I had just been on the
annual holiday that inspired my new novel <i>The Year of the Ghost</i>. What better time to press on?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And yet I put it off. I made a very good show of being busy
– there was the holiday washing to do, windfall apples to preserve, decorating to get started. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son was more transparent. He’d stay in bed until midday,
then say he was keen to get going. ‘Me too,’ I’d say, ‘I’m going to get down to
some writing.’ He would potter around until mid-afternoon, by which time he’d
be starving. Shopping for food, preparing and devouring it would take up
another few hours. He was lucky if he got started by the evening, and then not much
progress was made.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was so sloppily obvious, his student-style procrastination. And yet I wasn’t writing either. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What was stopping us? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Year of the Ghost</i> is at an exciting point – the plot and
sub-plots hurtling towards a crisis, long-kept secrets about to burst
into the open.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My son’s life, too, is at a tipping point. Once he gets the
TEFL qualification, he is going to get a job so he can finish saving up to go and teach in Vietnam. It has been his dream for ages, and it’s finally about
to happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was it precisely because our prospects are so profoundly wished for and worked for, that we were putting off
achieving them? Is it scary to reach out at last for what you’ve longed
for, like leaving the ground and flying?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I gave up my career to finish my first
novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i>, then
battled with the worst procrastination I’ve ever been mired in. I’d wanted to
publish a novel my entire life, but I let terrifying self-doubt paralyse me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I got through it in the end. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable
Things</i> burst upon the literary scene, only twenty-three years in the
making. And I had watched my son agonise over the <i>bete</i><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> noir</i> of his dissertation, but eventually he had ground it out (and got a First
for it).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now we were both slouching round the house putting off the
inevitable. I knew it had to stop when I took to the bathroom with a tube of
hair remover. ‘Apparently I can’t write with hairy legs!’ I called. We both
knew the game was up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I opened up my document of changes to be made to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Year of the Ghost</i> and went through
the novel applying them. I have almost finished rewriting a whole character,
among other important improvements. Goodness knows, eventually I'll actually go on with the story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As he sat down at his laptop, my son grunted and groaned as
though literally pushing through a barrier. Soon, though, there was no distracting him.
He wanted feedback from his father when the two of us were in evening mode, nodding off in front of the TV. He battled on, got the work
done, submitted it in the middle of the night and found out within hours that
he had passed the course. He’s doing an intensive peer-teaching course this weekend to
improve his chances of employment. In other words, he’s flying.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Try these 8 strategies to break through procrastination:</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
1 Work out what you really want to achieve. It could be as
profound as ‘end career, finish novel’ or as basic as ‘write thank you letters’
or ‘clean out the cupboards’. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />2 Divide it into smaller, achievable tasks.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />3 If you find yourself procrastinating, think through what’s
really stopping you from reaching your goal. Once you catch yourself
putting obstacles in your own way, it’s easier to push past them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />4 Commit yourself to spending 25 minutes on a task, then plan
a break. You’re afraid getting down to it will be horrible. It probably won't be, and even if it is, we can put up
with horrible for only 25 minutes, right?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />5 Think past the task which is daunting you to the way you’ll
feel when it is done.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />6 Cut yourself off from distractions – facebook, Instagram,
Reddit – you know who you are!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />7 Leave off the task at a good point – don’t leave yourself
with a difficulty to solve when you restart. If it’s an essay, stop
for a break when you have a clear idea of what you’re going to write next.<br /><br />8 Plan a reward for when you’ve finished. This stuff is HARD – you deserve it! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some people are genetically inclined to procrastinate, and if you suffer from
OCD or any kind of attention deficit disorder, it can be a particular problem.
Give yourself huge credit when you push through it to achieve your goals. You
are a legend!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a sense, we’re always putting something off. When I’m
working, I feel I should be writing. If I have time for writing, I worry I
don’t have enough work. When I finally got down to working on the second novel,
I felt guilty for putting off marketing the first. I should be writing this
blog, booking talks, going round the bookshops to see how <i>Unspeakable Things</i> is doing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s give ourselves a break! Let's do one thing at a time
and do it well. There will always be other things competing for our attention.
We have to be at peace with putting them aside. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The hairy legs, the marketing, the other stuff can wait. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-28569181186719398802018-07-11T00:39:00.000-07:002018-07-11T00:39:40.989-07:00Why would she do that? Motivation in The Handmaid's Tale<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am addicted to Channel 4’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Handmaid’s Tale</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you can get beyond the harrowing first episode of Season 2, the
rewards are rich. The new series is as thought-provoking as Margaret Atwood’s
novel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Margaret Atwood made a rule when inventing Gilead: she wouldn’t
show anything that hasn’t happened somewhere in real life.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I understand why the series resonates so powerfully: it
echoes authoritarian regimes all over the world, from the slave plantations of
the Deep South to Nazi death camps to Islamic State. These echoes are the
reason we believe in Gilead. This dystopic vision makes us look at our world:
what political realities do we face today that we wouldn’t have believed five
years ago?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The writers have done an excellent job of moving beyond the novel’s
plot, melding details that were in the book but not in first series with the backstories
of Offred, the Waterfords and Moira. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The plot is gripping, with Offred always in jeopardy. Personal
and political relationships change in fascinating ways from one episode to
another. The storyline makes us ponder profound issues in the real world. Is
terrorism ever justified? How do the oppressed suffer when power is
destabilised? What does work mean to women?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But something has niggled this writer and editor! Because at
times character motivation has been sacrificed for the sake of the clever plot
and themes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was delighted to discover that Offred was an editor – now
I can relate to her even more! And I loved the scene when Serena Joy and Offred
work together, writing things for the injured Commander Waterford so that he
can protect his power from his hospital bed. Handmaids are not allowed to read
and write, but Offred is empowered when she is given a pen. The two women
glimpse an alternative life in which they might have been colleagues. We feel
how much they both miss their lost working lives. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is riveting and powerful. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what about motivation? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Serena Joy has to protect her husband’s position and her
household, and she will bend the rules to do it. I get that. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But why would she commit a crime by involving Offred? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We see Offred handing back a draft, suggesting swapping the
order of two paragraphs. But Serena Joy has been instrumental in the movement
that has swept to power in Gilead. She has been a powerful speaker and the
brains behind some of their policies. Why would she risk everything to secure
Offred’s editing services? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Look, I’m an editor – editing is vital! Don’t even think of publishing
anything without it! But with the enforcers of a reign of terror running amok
in the streets, would you commit a crime with the handmaid carrying your baby,
just to have her reorder your paragraphs?!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remain addicted to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Handmaid’s Tale</i>, but I couldn’t let this go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you struggle when a fictional character does something
that leaves you thinking, ‘But why would you do that?’<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-25204958489791137782018-06-29T02:12:00.000-07:002018-06-29T02:14:30.615-07:00Chilling on the Beach - Why We Relax with Scary Books<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrrQeVRy2dGGbEsalzWw7BrMfg8u8-vUQslHlUx6ISyVCwCmu9y58OOwsdItAdWaJ8nPG6e2N5KsrtDdObl7SddOIwsgwlAMQ-FbRp0y7mOTZsp69ld5BZ8rOtuQjmOuaQt8UYnku-fY/s1600/IMG_7021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJrrQeVRy2dGGbEsalzWw7BrMfg8u8-vUQslHlUx6ISyVCwCmu9y58OOwsdItAdWaJ8nPG6e2N5KsrtDdObl7SddOIwsgwlAMQ-FbRp0y7mOTZsp69ld5BZ8rOtuQjmOuaQt8UYnku-fY/s320/IMG_7021.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The only problem you face when reading on the beach is that
holding the book can make your arm ache. It’s a deliciously stress-free situation
– you’ve saved up for it all year! So why choose to enhance it by lapping up fictional
stress from the pages of a novel?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Life is hectic and full of challenges – surely the last
thing we need is more anxiety? Many people want cheering or soothing reads with
just enough drama to keep them interested. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But some of us are wired up differently. We love to spice up
our relaxation with a dose of spine-chilling excitement. We need to see
characters we care about in terrible jeopardy. We want our hearts thumping,
pulses racing, minds tormented with dreadful dilemmas – ideally while getting a
tan.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI0I0RACRciXNUF6LJLaWFiK0Rkk8j1xvhBBqA-Dv6If_CbBbIJwuBquNA54PXS3GhD6HHxKdfvd59zIt6YH9jSkxIaK5OsuY7ZB8dBQGJ1tryJr9ZT1KjlxmpCht4aLYgdpvYEzbRZw/s1600/Beach-Reading.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="630" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI0I0RACRciXNUF6LJLaWFiK0Rkk8j1xvhBBqA-Dv6If_CbBbIJwuBquNA54PXS3GhD6HHxKdfvd59zIt6YH9jSkxIaK5OsuY7ZB8dBQGJ1tryJr9ZT1KjlxmpCht4aLYgdpvYEzbRZw/s320/Beach-Reading.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have always loved books that create strong emotions. I don’t
want to be mildly amused, slightly concerned or a tad sad. A good read has me crying
with laughter, gripped with tension or wracked with sobs. I made the mistake of
reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Birdsong</i> during a bus
journey, and had to stop when I became so upset that other passengers were
looking.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it came to writing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable
Things</i>, I thought about what scared me most. Madness, came the answer – and
the fear and treatment of madness. And so the gothic setting of an old asylum
was born, and the Gatehouse nearby where Sarah moves in, newly pregnant and
desperate to learn about the mother she lost when she was four. Her only hope of
learning her family history is Uncle John, who runs the Woodlands Clinic. But
what he says about her mother terrifies Sarah. As her usually strong grip on
friendships, marriage and reality is threatened, can she trust what he’s
telling her – or is the truth stranger and darker still? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love hearing from people who have read the novel. Many
have said they couldn’t put it down, read deep into the night, put the children
in front of a DVD and wouldn’t rest until they finished it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLbaPTjHPA1vS83pLdN5PGkxHjYRLuUvKmHzlsjo3OojzswL3nhAbpJ9z17vs6jStgus9dSot2hWInLekL_mqfPdGZDTbNKD1R3L_F6jx1KJeEFpv30LnBxEQ4BxZrW9Zv1zfLAlo9vU/s1600/Book+Group+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrLbaPTjHPA1vS83pLdN5PGkxHjYRLuUvKmHzlsjo3OojzswL3nhAbpJ9z17vs6jStgus9dSot2hWInLekL_mqfPdGZDTbNKD1R3L_F6jx1KJeEFpv30LnBxEQ4BxZrW9Zv1zfLAlo9vU/s320/Book+Group+3.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We are a particular tribe, we lovers of fictional thrills. We
don’t need bungee jumping – we take our adrenaline rush on a sun-lounger, when
there’s nothing else to worry about.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why not grab <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable
Things</i> for a beach read and enjoy a chiller while you’re chilling? If you’re local to me, you can get it in Halls Bookshop in
Chapel Place or The Cake Shed on the Pantiles, in the Earl Grey Tea Rooms in
Southborough, Mr Books in Tonbridge or Sevenoaks Bookshop.<br />
<br />
For everyone else,
there’s Amazon! The Kindle version cost pennies!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-32164224212725348302018-04-15T07:27:00.000-07:002018-04-15T07:31:12.118-07:00Success - a step-by-step guide<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1cGEh-2K7kLZo8T7f0N8G85pXaWOEyjdPXkSdqfKu03JFldavVbNRpz69RbyaL-gc9yvYpgnpg7zDiZTGTMF4YVFx9_ntee7YASVKI4G0mRpGacM1trSkU2xFBWyWjW_56LaUpm-YQs/s1600/hbz-oscars-couples-00-index-new-1520292709.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="384" data-original-width="768" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1cGEh-2K7kLZo8T7f0N8G85pXaWOEyjdPXkSdqfKu03JFldavVbNRpz69RbyaL-gc9yvYpgnpg7zDiZTGTMF4YVFx9_ntee7YASVKI4G0mRpGacM1trSkU2xFBWyWjW_56LaUpm-YQs/s400/hbz-oscars-couples-00-index-new-1520292709.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Harper's Bazaar</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
A roomful of losers</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Successful people are the ones on the red carpets, right?
They are attending premieres or being nominated for glittering prizes. We see
them dressed in designer clothes they haven’t paid for, looking more glamorous
and more successful than we will ever be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A while ago I heard from someone who came on stage late in
an Academy Awards ceremony to announce one of the final Oscars. ‘At this point
in the evening,’ he said, ‘you’re looking out at a room that is mainly full of
losers.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wait – losers? Those were our successful people! Is success
so elusive that you can epitomise it one minute, and the next it slips away to celebrate
at a party to which you’re not invited?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLVyxBXSEo6w4MpskNMyARtyFtDO-laTz3MCUJjWPkSJr8NOFNloQrhYbDbgJdfQ20mMGNB0mLmN8ysXjonjFOi2TL1QWZbvrJIJxBQkU3twckapCWSuJqnPU1ei55N_CGZQz7NYbnjQ/s1600/Oscars+room+full+of+losers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="780" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNLVyxBXSEo6w4MpskNMyARtyFtDO-laTz3MCUJjWPkSJr8NOFNloQrhYbDbgJdfQ20mMGNB0mLmN8ysXjonjFOi2TL1QWZbvrJIJxBQkU3twckapCWSuJqnPU1ei55N_CGZQz7NYbnjQ/s320/Oscars+room+full+of+losers.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of IndieWire</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Are you a success? </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your answer will depend on the field in which you operate,
and on your dreams and aspirations.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Writers are dreamers: we all dream of success. When we’re struggling,
everyone says not to despair, because J K Rowling had her work rejected to start
with and now she’s on all the rich lists and is still writing great fiction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the London Book Fair last week, Millwood Hargrave’s book
<i>Vardo</i> ‘was the subject of a battle between 13 publishers.’ It eventually went to
Picador for a ‘significant six-figure sum’ (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Guardian</i>).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Are Rowlings and Hargrave the writers I should be emulating?
If so, I am falling short. For me, the rejection didn’t stop – it continued. I
ended up self-publishing, just to get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable
Things</i> off my desk and into people’s hands (or Kindles).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wherever you are in life, there will be someone who is doing
better than you. Someone in your industry or workplace or classroom, or at the school
gate who is your idea of success. You admire them, but with a nasty envious afterburn.
They put you in the shade and that’s a dark, cold place. They might be a real
person or a celebrity. They have made it and you haven’t. You’ll have to work
harder, or all your efforts will end in failure.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
We need to rethink our concept of success</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When <i>Unspeakable
Things</i> came out, I was filled with relief. I had wanted to write all my
life – and my lack of success was eating away at me, as if my life’s purpose
had derailed and was going nowhere. Now I had succeeded – or had I?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Once your book is out, everyone asks how it is selling. For
a while, my sales ticked up in ones and twos. I would get excited about a spike
in my KDP sales graphs, until I realised the scale: oh, that was only two books.
When people asked, I fudged the issue – with ease, because I didn’t often look
at the reports.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One day it hit me: I was in danger of not enjoying my
publishing experience for what it was, because I was worrying about what it wasn’t.
No, I was not selling millions. Or thousands. But I was into triple figures! And
it seemed that everyone I knew was reading the book, and many were saying they
couldn’t put it down. Five-star reviews were coming in and I was going to book groups
and talking about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i> with
people who had entered the world I had created. Articles came out in the local
press and friends and family were excited for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Couldn't give it away...</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Over Easter I scheduled a 5-day Kindle free offer on Amazon.
I didn’t look at the sales reports for days, fearing I was about to find out
that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">literally</i> ‘couldn’t give it
away’. When I looked, I saw a spike in the graph – it looked big – perhaps a
dozen books? But no – it was 761! Soon sales soared to over a thousand. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now, this may not be your idea of success – I make no
royalties from the free purchases. But do you know, I feel much better for it.
Having adjusted my attitude to enjoy the success I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had </i>achieved, instead of grieving for heights not scaled, I allowed
myself to be very happy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
There's always someone even better</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you struggle with a sense of failure, could you stop and celebrate
your achievements? There’s always more we could aspire to, and there’s nothing
wrong with that. But if the only success that will satisfy us is something very
few people achieve, we are on a hiding to nothing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If any achievement is followed by the sense that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> success is what that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">even better</i> person has, we are doomed to
think we’re failures. And then we will miss out on all the joy we could be
feeling about what we have actually done.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
The happiest person at the Oscars</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here’s my step-by-step guide to success. The first step
is to work out what you want to achieve in life and focus on it. The next is
work and more work and setbacks and learning and never giving up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the most important step is to realise this: the success
you dream of is probably an impossible dream. Not because you’re not good
enough, but because even if you won all the prizes you want to win, you probably
wouldn’t feel the way you want to feel. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those who have the success you aspire to probably have
another dream they’ll never achieve. If those people at the Oscars ceremony felt
that way, then they really were a roomful of losers. The happiest person in that
sparkling room was someone who was happy with their actual achievements. It is
as likely to have been one of the waiters as one of the film stars. It bet it was.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1iG6pvHBj9ad_aFIu-_FErU9dhZT5drv9jnN0jKDNN_TEMJJ3oEiXiFfhQ8VOU01sTORIWYhTDG0p4uColyeyIXnFUlTNCRwB9eILyLhGyqDiSOsO2jswCos7M7pksGGLOVlUq_jvEk/s1600/Waiter-serving-fine-wine-to-a-woman-in-a-fine-dining-restaurant.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="760" data-original-width="1000" height="243" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR1iG6pvHBj9ad_aFIu-_FErU9dhZT5drv9jnN0jKDNN_TEMJJ3oEiXiFfhQ8VOU01sTORIWYhTDG0p4uColyeyIXnFUlTNCRwB9eILyLhGyqDiSOsO2jswCos7M7pksGGLOVlUq_jvEk/s320/Waiter-serving-fine-wine-to-a-woman-in-a-fine-dining-restaurant.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Bon Vivant</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Am I a success?</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most writers are not J K Rowling. Most make nothing much, or
even lose money. After I changed my view of success, a startling realisation
hit me. I have wanted to be a writer since I was five. Now I am a writer. I
have published a novel and over a thousand people are potentially reading it. I
make much of my freelance money from writing. I am really enjoying writing my
next novel, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Year of the Ghost</i>. I’m
editing more and more fiction and loving working with other writers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I could put ‘writer’ on my passport, and it would be true. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No one is battling to give me a six-figure deal. My sales
are cheering, but not financially so. I won’t be appearing on any red carpets
or peering down any paparazzi lenses. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I am what I have always wanted to be. And I choose to
call that success.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-90689048696358063572018-03-31T08:38:00.000-07:002018-03-31T08:38:14.186-07:00Being True to Toddler You<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaq4zvlratg4AXfW27MsFLeo6Npc7uR0CyGkSftoNckU-q0H4HQYppRBk-E1ya5YgA6rQG5ozhMTCzEMXVKkXu8VUpu7fgK63B2SrZX-IxTtPnxF3CPhIkOC7xH87sLooe0HR64_c2LbI/s1600/IMG_5910.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaq4zvlratg4AXfW27MsFLeo6Npc7uR0CyGkSftoNckU-q0H4HQYppRBk-E1ya5YgA6rQG5ozhMTCzEMXVKkXu8VUpu7fgK63B2SrZX-IxTtPnxF3CPhIkOC7xH87sLooe0HR64_c2LbI/s320/IMG_5910.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Slimy pants!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was looking after my favourite three-year-old this week. We
made Slime – the blend of PVA glue, bicarb and contact lens solution that
miraculously forms a blob of viscous, squeezable joy. Flobbery, bouncy and
endlessly stretchy, it is surely the best stress-buster since Valium.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Charlie threw the Slime into the washing basket. ‘Ughh!’ I
said. ‘Slimy socks!’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This led inevitably to more ‘accidental’ throws and to slimy
pyjamas, slimy pants, slimy knickers, a slimy bra… Soon, Charlie was laughing
so hard that he could hardly breathe.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMO1mRmpn85hUEd09cNbQSfbH8pEjjGlPp8Se6MaSaSwJCGzjDWpcZs18MeK_QdwKzQMC-dDoCD0lJ57iphd7OGwp7nzN19AOOaodv2e3Fm2un9odJt3RVsH9vWzl4stnrLjvubxP4z4Y/s1600/IMG_5779.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMO1mRmpn85hUEd09cNbQSfbH8pEjjGlPp8Se6MaSaSwJCGzjDWpcZs18MeK_QdwKzQMC-dDoCD0lJ57iphd7OGwp7nzN19AOOaodv2e3Fm2un9odJt3RVsH9vWzl4stnrLjvubxP4z4Y/s320/IMG_5779.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Teddy Bunkles watching TV</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now Charlie is nearly four, his sense of humour and mine are
very much on a level. He delights in word-play and nonsense rhymes, slapstick,
cheekiness and the world’s funniest thing: farting. All jokes I have never
grown out of.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you are bringing up a toddler (or can borrow one, like me),
you will know that at three a child’s personality shines out. Three-year-olds
have got over the two-year-old’s struggle for self-assertion and world domination.
They are beginning to know – and to show – what makes them tick. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbh-d1ONkGVCmPybt3YRvMl90T5ig1zyprzVtWa7FNvIL4iCmQumfMLBddKfj7GW_LbqRmLxJSlVwFHxT2sXEA3br_EJtf_Qpmjjh-a_2G2jHj4H8SgiWuiHVpgm3Wa0TYeUspfh7mmvM/s1600/IMG_4632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbh-d1ONkGVCmPybt3YRvMl90T5ig1zyprzVtWa7FNvIL4iCmQumfMLBddKfj7GW_LbqRmLxJSlVwFHxT2sXEA3br_EJtf_Qpmjjh-a_2G2jHj4H8SgiWuiHVpgm3Wa0TYeUspfh7mmvM/s320/IMG_4632.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My son, Ben, aged 3</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My Mum has photographs of her three grandchildren at the age
of three, and I can see why she preserves them at this golden age: though baby-cute and still malleable, they are already fully-formed versions of themselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In later life, we lose sight of this. I recently found
myself a married, church-going, middle-class woman with two children, a
mortgage and a very settled career. Life yawned ahead of me, a well-worn path through
child-rearing to moderate career advancement to pension.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Was this the real me, living this life – contemplating this
future? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No. As a toddler, I was a thrill-seeker. I’d be coming down
the biggest slide in the play park while mum was still explaining that I was
too small for it. I loved puddles, getting dirty and going for walks in storms.
I would go exploring on the beach and bring tar back to the picnic rug. I made funny
faces if people peered into my pushchair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was fiercely determined: I wanted to skip like my older sister
before I had even mastered jumping. I stayed out in the garden with the
skipping rope until I was red-faced and exhausted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a vivid imagination and wild dreams I still recall. I
made up gods and loved stories.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At fifty, in mid-life torpor, toddler Sophie re-emerged. I
left my full-time employment to write, freelance and volunteer, and finally achieved
my life-long ambition, publishing my psychological thriller <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable Things</i> this year. I am loving writing my second novel.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-_YnHq5Q_G23S6CAEEj1u4AqwQQtOoVwxwYW0hRBJ5WPbzxGbWkAB0LVG_2WoEj_udjRzLl5k6FlGNCT76FDD9RJHfBgql1hF7c0vWrDYBlyjFoddzlGhCYQ6X_dFOIZ7dCdPfopl-0/s1600/Sophie+Author-104.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4-_YnHq5Q_G23S6CAEEj1u4AqwQQtOoVwxwYW0hRBJ5WPbzxGbWkAB0LVG_2WoEj_udjRzLl5k6FlGNCT76FDD9RJHfBgql1hF7c0vWrDYBlyjFoddzlGhCYQ6X_dFOIZ7dCdPfopl-0/s320/Sophie+Author-104.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photograph by Craig Matthews</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you feel like a stranger in the life that has formed
around you? Does time trudge by, weighed down by things you must do, but don’t
care about? Are there too few moments in the flow of deep, fulfilling enjoyment,
when the real you is out there, doing what he or she does best?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you’re dancing to someone else’s tune, the music you could
be making is silenced.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What did you dream of as a child? What excited you? You
might have fallen into a life that doesn’t reveal that little person. It seems
safe, particularly in later years, to stick with the status quo. But oh, the
sad toddler inside, stifled, unexpressed – the real essential you that you were
created to be.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1E1xsSYdwmIdgK5frrIllGduq_y3Wb2GAr0uLDWpgHWfd_hWPAvbhvIDW8mpyncb-mguVaoJZhyphenhyphenFmr7GQri3xxXgcT6qyASOhex_CIPXdPM4aIFf9lOW8qCF0_WHjhW8nfe6AiQSrLGU/s1600/toddler.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="178" data-original-width="425" height="134" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1E1xsSYdwmIdgK5frrIllGduq_y3Wb2GAr0uLDWpgHWfd_hWPAvbhvIDW8mpyncb-mguVaoJZhyphenhyphenFmr7GQri3xxXgcT6qyASOhex_CIPXdPM4aIFf9lOW8qCF0_WHjhW8nfe6AiQSrLGU/s320/toddler.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of JustMommies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have reconnected with my imagination, my need for new
challenges, my love of adventure, learning and discovery. The red-faced determination
of three-year-old Sophie got me through the anxiety of starting a freelance career
and the stress of self-publishing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m at peace now with toddler me. And I love my mornings
with Charlie. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-23972398309010740742018-03-09T05:26:00.000-08:002018-03-09T05:30:56.852-08:00What do people really think of your work? Meeting the critics face to face<br />
<h3>
Disaster and a consolation</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeCsKWLLRGOz0LDODhHcS1VVeZd1uk-QO-SKuZIl2W6dboOY73NADaM55iyHUAhUb_kfTQi68ycLzAEEowN781WrAio_1jJVmmnjLerBH92bxfX2q8f0anPPZ1TAqZ4kC6EAlCROjEI8/s1600/UT_BCover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifeCsKWLLRGOz0LDODhHcS1VVeZd1uk-QO-SKuZIl2W6dboOY73NADaM55iyHUAhUb_kfTQi68ycLzAEEowN781WrAio_1jJVmmnjLerBH92bxfX2q8f0anPPZ1TAqZ4kC6EAlCROjEI8/s200/UT_BCover.jpg" width="133" /></a>Feedback about my psychological thriller novel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Unspeakable
Things</i> has been wonderful. This was a great consolation after the disaster
of my blog tour – Facebook blocked me for spamming. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was in fact sharing unique content in groups
with which I had built up relationships over months and years, but try explaining
that to a broken algorithm! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Feeling that I had failed to reach out to a
readership I don’t know personally, it has been lovely to receive the encouragement
of people I do know, and to share their excitement and kindness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just need to know more people…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Into the reader's den</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was delighted to get my first invitation to speak to a
book group.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All did not go entirely to plan. I waited in the wrong place
(they had moved to a different bar) and when I found them and went to buy a
drink, I found that I had lost my purse. A lovely group member bought me a
drink, but as I launched into my talk about how I came to write<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>the novel, I was picturing thieves
running amok with my bank account. I may well have been talking rubbish. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were a great group – lively, interesting, intelligent and
all really focused on discussing the novel (which has not always been my
experience of book groups). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFEKASR2fUPU104NGOtpibHsDlRedydkvvw1-9i0ARj2YOYBqbAG9eVpK-ti_cUIxSFTxFfYdrlssplwKjB5KaIfjAKh1yVENIZN17r3cUg2eJksFJcvgDOTRKwmHaO2h7n-YG3CroA_Q/s1600/book+groupjpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="883" data-original-width="1600" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFEKASR2fUPU104NGOtpibHsDlRedydkvvw1-9i0ARj2YOYBqbAG9eVpK-ti_cUIxSFTxFfYdrlssplwKjB5KaIfjAKh1yVENIZN17r3cUg2eJksFJcvgDOTRKwmHaO2h7n-YG3CroA_Q/s320/book+groupjpg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was fascinating and enlightening hearing their thoughts.
They had plenty of positive things to say – many had been gripped and read
avidly to the end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One young man, usually a reader of Fantasy, said it was out
of his comfort zone, but he really enjoyed it, particularly the character of
David. His interest and insights into the character were very encouraging. As usual when receiving compliments, I tried desperately to erase them
from memory to avoid embarrassment, but I did treasure up these gems of
approval.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There were of course things they weren’t sure about – moments
they felt stretched credibility or left them confused. Once one person is brave
enough to bring up such points, others tend to wade in too. When something
comes entirely from your own head, it is a revelation to hear how it reads to
others. They all thought, for instance, that the injection John attacked Sarah
with was the reason for her collapse. I had left this open, intending the reader
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to fear this, but later realise it was
her high blood pressure that led to the crisis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some questioned why Sarah would stay in the house after what
happened there. I explained that she wanted to restore the past, making new
memories over the terrible ones. But as with a joke, if you have to explain
it…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What really struck me was how often the points brought up
were ones already raised by my literary consultant, which I thought I had dealt
with.<br />
<br /></div>
<h3>
Top tip for expert feedback</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When you have professional feedback, the advice is to leave
the rewrite for a time, and ponder on it fully. Writers are all very excited at
this stage, thinking, ‘If I just fix these things, it’s finished – I can
publish it!’ The risk is that we rush in with quick fixes, following each
suggestion. Perhaps it is better to wait for a solution to come from our own
imagination. This might mean a fuller rewrite, but you will avoid the same
issues being raised in future. In other words, don't do as I do, do as I say...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Dealing with (<i>ouch!</i>) criticism</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all know that writers need rhino hide – if your work is
published, it’s out there for the world to judge. But I’m not really a
rhinoceros, and let’s be honest, any criticism of your creative baby is like a
stab in your self-esteem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKkkCeeNRvh6k8_v-L8P1W207vG0DsXAOezaoOXwHcKd2ANQ6PkJ5NdqUpWW0tWXZDWtGOKUIzPt_zXnk8w2vcP9utzknIoH1eR1UnwUfxudMySVTwU1C9TbL8WVxxJI2sYejPc-_vg0/s1600/black-rhino_0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="371" data-original-width="660" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigKkkCeeNRvh6k8_v-L8P1W207vG0DsXAOezaoOXwHcKd2ANQ6PkJ5NdqUpWW0tWXZDWtGOKUIzPt_zXnk8w2vcP9utzknIoH1eR1UnwUfxudMySVTwU1C9TbL8WVxxJI2sYejPc-_vg0/s320/black-rhino_0.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nevetheless, I was determined to keep a cool head, and learn
from this. I made sure I discussed all the issues rather than becoming defensive,
and the result was an open and interesting talk, with a lot of warmth and
laughter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
The vexed issue of Codeine Linctus</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trick with criticism is to separate the useful from the …
less useful. One woman, having heard that I am an editor, took issue with my
capitalisation of Codeine Linctus. Having aired this grievance, she had other
matters to get off her chest. But we are never going to please everyone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was
a privilege meeting this book group. I am hugely grateful to every one of them
for buying the book and reading it. Their feedback was invaluable, and so was
the drink that they bought me when I was flapping. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I found my purse later in the car. And as for Codeine
Linctus, look – I’m still giving it capitals!</div>
<br />Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-66582651087994351682018-01-14T07:37:00.000-08:002018-01-14T07:37:50.784-08:00Inspiring mothers: are you buried in motherhood?<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s face it, we get buried in motherhood. Little people’s
needs and our instinctive responses are overwhelming. For a season, we lose
ourselves. Baby cries, we leak milk. Child wails, we make it better. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if anyone thinks these responses are an over-reaction –
think again. The human race would die out without them. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The weight of responsibility – not to mention the drudgery –
can be crushing for a woman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of all the mothers in my <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_2_20?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=unspeakable+things+sophie+kersey+in+books&sprefix=unspeakable+things+S%2Caps%2C131&crid=2LHZ8PH2HTDYV">novel,</a> <i>Unspeakable Things,</i> Deb is the buried one. Previously a high-flying
nurse, she now has a toddler who won’t go to Daddy. We meet her trying to throw
together a dinner party for her best friend, Sarah. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Now that her days were
filled with the mind-numbing chatter of the nursery run, it lifted her spirits
to be with people who had known her before.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Sarah gazes at her jumble of family memorabilia, Deb
calls it her ‘dusty old mess.’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>‘It’s not a mess. It’s
lovely. Like a museum of you.’<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>‘Museum’s about right.
I think I’m becoming extinct…’<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is there a you inside that rarely sees the light of day? Is
some essential spark of who you are being snuffed out by the burden of being
Mum?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you blame yourself for losing it but also feel guilty
because you yearn for it?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This weekend I went to a party and met a young mother. She
was singing in a wonderful band and her talent just shone. You could tell that
she was both gifted and well trained, and I wasn’t surprised to hear she had
been to drama school. She was fitting in singing with bringing up children of
three and six. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Preparation for a gig, she told me, involved vintage costume
and make-up, and took hours. But how do you explain to small children that
mummy is unavailable? ‘And then there’s the marketing,’ she said. ‘I know I
should be doing more – there’s Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and
everything, and I just can’t seem to get round to it…’<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had a powerful sense that she felt she was failing, and
yet what I’d seen onstage was someone radiant and inspiring.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNAAsBbI_AldNaHAcFhXXCI-oXQm2RoP9WvpmXsl16fmmpkm1A8v0ulprcJhxOU9OsZlc-PTGWtvtHpLjvtw04NkPQx2eRqe-bzhVMIa8zWr-Lb3AfKLPZLy3XbI28zn9p3pCIReJZMUk/s1600/Screen_Shot_2018-01-04_at_10.30.32_AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="640" height="227" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNAAsBbI_AldNaHAcFhXXCI-oXQm2RoP9WvpmXsl16fmmpkm1A8v0ulprcJhxOU9OsZlc-PTGWtvtHpLjvtw04NkPQx2eRqe-bzhVMIa8zWr-Lb3AfKLPZLy3XbI28zn9p3pCIReJZMUk/s320/Screen_Shot_2018-01-04_at_10.30.32_AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We hear that Serena Williams is struggling with the demands
of motherhood. Serena is a world-beater, brought up to give her all and reign
supreme. The woman won the Australian Open when she was four months pregnant!
And yet four months into motherhood, she has withdrawn from the tournament. Why?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because Serena does not enter a tournament unless she knows
she can win it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mothers, don’t be so hard on yourselves! You’re finding it
hard because it IS hard. But it won’t always be like this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You will resurface, and when you do, take stock. Is there a
part of you that’s buried? A dream? A talent? An idea for a business? Something
that connects you with the you inside, who has curled up and gone quiet in the noise
of family life?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do something for that essential you, the one from before. It
might be an hour spent crafting or writing. It might be jotting down plans. It
could be teaching or studying, or just talking about politics. Whatever you
achieve is a victory. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you have the drive of a world-beater like Serena, you
might need to give yourself time. Being realistic does not mean letting go of
your dreams.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes being a mother reconnects you with your childhood,
and who knows what yearnings you’ll find there? Perhaps not the same ones that
launched your career. Motherhood can prompt you to reinvent yourself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And if you do unleash that inner you and take to the stage,
don’t tell yourself you’re second-best! You’re a wonder, an inspiration, like
the singer who lit up that venue last night. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You won’t be ‘having it all’ in this season of your life,
you’ll be muddling through. But in years to come, as the impact of motherhood
eases, your time will come.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hope you flourish. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-53898679249617468172018-01-07T11:58:00.000-08:002018-01-07T12:01:23.392-08:00Feel the Fear and Self-Publish Anyway<div class="MsoNormal">
I have just self-published my first novel, <i><a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_1_19?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=sophie+kersey+unspeakable+things&sprefix=sophie+kersey+unspe%2Caps%2C130&crid=2QHPNDJN19JMX">Unspeakable Things</a></i>. It's a psychological suspense mystery about motherhood and madness – thank you for asking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I am like a hermit with a megaphone – I have to shout about it – all the self-marketing check-lists say so – but with every shout/post/tweet I want to apologise for
being so noisy and go back to hiding in my cave.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything about self-publishing means breaking out of your
comfort zone and doing something frightening. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Show someone</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First you have to show your writing to someone. In my day
job, I’m a <a href="https://sophiekersey.wordpress.com/">book editor</a>. I recently received the first chapter and synopsis of an
800-page novel. The writer has also written an 800-page sequel, but had never before
dared to show the works to anyone. Imagine having that dedication to writing,
but being afraid to reveal it to the world – and I think you’ve had a glimpse
into the mind of most writers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Showing you work makes you deeply vulnerable, like tearing
out a lump of your soul and letting someone judge it. They might crush your
dreams. Your outpourings might be unworthy of the world’s attention. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being an aspiring writer is like being an out-of-work actor
or a bathroom singer: you have an urge to express yourself, but no one is listening.
What if you’re the hapless singer in those early auditions for the X Factor – talentless
and deluded?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1bwS7Oh1NvpQbhZAl4f6p_gVIQymMa9UT2oIpBHOADWUzUfD7xuRoVHJSsUVeJjUCJiKhqJMRlbNgtQE96f52W7O0ChPTwFkCh61YZWYK01r9V_jHc33IBepPMgsn9trS9SbRT-sYXA/s1600/x1_3437151b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="387" data-original-width="620" height="199" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT1bwS7Oh1NvpQbhZAl4f6p_gVIQymMa9UT2oIpBHOADWUzUfD7xuRoVHJSsUVeJjUCJiKhqJMRlbNgtQE96f52W7O0ChPTwFkCh61YZWYK01r9V_jHc33IBepPMgsn9trS9SbRT-sYXA/s320/x1_3437151b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But if you don’t show anyone your writing, you’ll write your
way into a dead end. You’re so familiar with your work that you can’t see it as
a reader – you have no idea what’s good
or bad about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember my fear and trembling as I sat waiting to meet my
literary consultant, <a href="https://www.fictionfire.co.uk/">Lorna Fergusson</a>. Everything I cared about might be shot
down in flames. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But afterwards, I knew I’d done the right thing. I had a
project with real potential. I had a clear way forward and hope again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
Show someone professional</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Friends and family are too kind or too hurtful. Editors and literary
consultants are encouraging, honest, unbiased and clear. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lorna showed me what was working and what I needed to change.
This, and my relentless re-editing in the light of her comments helped me make <i>Unspeakable Things</i> good enough to
publish.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
The beast at the gate</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next hurdle was my phobia of online forms. They fill me
with self-loathing, because I shouldn’t be frightened – but every glitch,
time-out or error message panics me so much that I can’t remember a sensible
thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even paper forms do this to me if they relate to finance, and
don’t even say ‘tax’ to me – it’s a horrible swearword.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet I was going to self-publish through Createspace and
Kindle Direct Publishing. I had to upload my files and fill in my details on two
huge online forms which are notoriously difficult to conquer. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had wanted to publish a novel since I was five years old.
Now my lifelong dream was like a beautiful garden guarded by a monster.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8SG8F_OlYhBo7Y6bkMs0zLEQSgyH1CptwFwCf-jnIhJfIjZCFLd7mLSm2CrJSZDU5-3aXABNOBP-38_aIF9HjWIXZ3UmSc_dn69ZqnhtdykXKeq9ez-CKLg6TSUulNTKKgxBVuFia6VU/s1600/mythological-creatures-mythical-creatures.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8SG8F_OlYhBo7Y6bkMs0zLEQSgyH1CptwFwCf-jnIhJfIjZCFLd7mLSm2CrJSZDU5-3aXABNOBP-38_aIF9HjWIXZ3UmSc_dn69ZqnhtdykXKeq9ez-CKLg6TSUulNTKKgxBVuFia6VU/s320/mythological-creatures-mythical-creatures.jpg" width="295" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3>
When two fears fight </h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put it off and put it off. The files weren’t ready. It
wasn’t the right time of year. I’d do it when someone was there to help me. In
the end, my fear of never getting published was as powerful as my fear of the
forms. I was riven by anxiety. I had to do something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so one day I just did it. I sat down and tackled
Createspace. It took a couple of hours, a lot of research, a foray into forums
about US tax exemption and a lot of keeping calm under pressure. But I did it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You know why they say ‘feel the fear and do it anyway’?
Because that’s how we overcome phobias. After Createspace, I felt invincible. I
had learned that mistakes and glitches are not the end of the world, and once
you’ve worked through a few error messages, you get skilled at overcoming them.
Panic subsides, your brain restarts, and everything is easier with it working.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was barely even anxious about Kindle Direct Publishing. It
took a while and there were glitches, but I got through it, and at the end there
was a button that said, ‘PUBLISH’.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Reader, I published it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suspect that most things worth achieving are guarded by monsters
of our own making. We are brilliant at finding reasons to stay within our
comfort zones. But with every beast we slay, we grow and thrive.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do you have a lifelong dream you haven’t achieved yet? Are you
afraid you’ll never make it, but also afraid to try? I’ve been there and would
love to hear from you!<o:p></o:p></div>
Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-76409478702769898202017-12-13T06:00:00.000-08:002017-12-13T06:01:31.553-08:00Unspeakable: Why Don't Women Write About Birth?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQ64Z7GADdXaTZ0I-FC5wjRURWeX4nHEJn6ozrYZO9UcZJdPPKF2pqspwMqdTUrhA_yDc2KlMOTPlsPMPHHwts3BiF9wNF7PeFeqQhmUzk_EoyiEfulRChhTrQwkD6dZiNj3vQOHa5aQ/s1600/Birth02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1057" data-original-width="1600" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNQ64Z7GADdXaTZ0I-FC5wjRURWeX4nHEJn6ozrYZO9UcZJdPPKF2pqspwMqdTUrhA_yDc2KlMOTPlsPMPHHwts3BiF9wNF7PeFeqQhmUzk_EoyiEfulRChhTrQwkD6dZiNj3vQOHa5aQ/s400/Birth02.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Image courtesy of The Birth Project Paintings</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it came to writing the birth scene in <i>Unspeakable Things</i>, it struck me how
very rarely this is portrayed in literature. There’s the modern-day scene at
the end of <i>Birdsong</i> and the birth in <i>Tristram Shandy.</i> (Please leave a comment
if you can think of others!) Both my examples were written by men. <br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why do so few women write a mother’s experience of birth?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We write unflinchingly about sex, violence and death, so why
do we steer away from such an extraordinary process? (This <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/books/2012/aug/05/birth-in-fiction">article</a> ponders the
question).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Birth is a dramatic and pivotal experience, it changes
everything forever – much more so than marriage, which is the focus of so many
novels.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even if you read widely and go to classes, the first time you
give birth, much of it is unexpected. It is a rite of passage: you
start as someone who doesn’t know the secret and end up someone who knows. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The birth of my first child astonished me. Afterwards, I
went through every mother I knew in my head, and thought, <i>My God, you did that! I never knew!</i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is birth indescribable then? Surely not, with all the
mothers in the world, and all the words?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before writing Sarah’s experience in the novel, I searched for
my diary entry about my first son’s birth. I found an account in Ben’s ‘Baby
Diary’, but this is about having a new baby, rather than the birth itself: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>He was bluish and covered
in white stuff and I said, ‘Come to Mummy,’ and put my arms around him.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>What I had been
through was so overwhelmingly physical that I couldn’t feel anything emotional
except relief.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Scribbled on the back of some bills, I found a fuller
account of the birth. I have just read it again, shed a few sentimental tears
and decided there are parts I am not going to share.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Ironically, I am self-censoring just as, all those years
ago, I put a sanitised version in the Baby Diary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is it squeamishness that makes us withhold the truth, or a
fear of revolting our audience? Many women, as well as men, are disgusted by
the details. Is birth more intimate than sex, and more unmentionable?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For a time, women are obsessed with birth stories. I went
into labour during an antenatal class, and was still in hospital when the next
class was held there. I took my baby to show the expectant mothers, and as they
gathered round, the midwife said, ‘Tell us your story.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had gone through the rite of passage and spoke to them
from across the divide, but I couldn’t bring myself to<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>
tell them the whole truth about the pain, which they would all face in the
weeks to come. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My diary describes it though: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>The pain went on
getting stronger and I gulped the gas and moaned with every out breath... I
don’t know how long this went on… Since the pain got worse, time had slowed
right down. I was beginning to dread the next contraction. Suddenly the quality
of the contractions changed and I began to feel a great downwards pressure. It
was an astonishing feeling and quite frightening… I cried out, ‘I can’t do
this! I want someone else to do it for me!’ and Lily said to Jon, ‘Don’t worry,
they get like this towards the second stage’.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When it came to writing Sarah’s birth story, I called upon
two of my memories. One was of the extraordinary sensation, during transition,
of labour changing direction – the body switching, turning and reforming in a
different shape, like a Transformer becoming a robot. Another was the feeling
of an unstoppable force, which I told people afterwards was ‘like a freight
train bearing down inside.’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most of the details of Sarah’s birth are dictated by her
story: she wakes from a near-death experience to find herself in labour: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Her insides were
heaving in chaos. Contractions! There were things she had to do. Now a freight
train was bearing down inside her. It was nothing like the pains before; her
insides were rotating and switching positions, like a transformation in a
horror film, skin and muscle pushed beyond endurance. Pain was an unstoppable
pressure, building towards a crescendo. Then Sarah knew where it was going and
she opened her eyes and saw Jim’s face. She cried out to him, but all she heard
was a guttural noise: <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>‘Agghrrrbshh!’<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>‘What?’ He turned to
someone beside him, ‘What’s she saying?’ The force inside her was at bursting
point but still powering downwards. She was an animal with only one impulse. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>‘I gotta push!’<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s Sarah’s story, the climax of her plot, but it owes
something to my son’s unforgettable arrival – eight hours that changed my life. I hope it does something to make up for a mysterious absence in
literature. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Have you read, written or in any way portrayed the
experience of birth? Why do you think birth is so rare in books? I’d love to
hear from you in the comments below. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-76095251637772452422017-11-27T08:57:00.000-08:002017-11-27T08:59:45.408-08:00Editor, Edit Thyself – Why I Can’t Make Mistakes<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsezHw-TZ9gaLbpya5hV9kDTMVUm2UwIazPwroy5HEG0dFG4Ts1nTgTtpZ6EkNEii-V4k-ulav_Jiu4r6tF_l5khHhhY1AQGubI9KDrIrjUQ2z2P0j-B43pdzN3EWl3HaP-VBdbvWpjRQ/s1600/Hire-an-Editor-625x454.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="625" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsezHw-TZ9gaLbpya5hV9kDTMVUm2UwIazPwroy5HEG0dFG4Ts1nTgTtpZ6EkNEii-V4k-ulav_Jiu4r6tF_l5khHhhY1AQGubI9KDrIrjUQ2z2P0j-B43pdzN3EWl3HaP-VBdbvWpjRQ/s400/Hire-an-Editor-625x454.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of Writerful Books</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have been a book editor for thirty odd years – pointing out
the shortcomings of other people’s writing and insisting that I know best.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The scary part for any editor is the day a book appears in
print. It’s too late then to do anything about any errors you have missed. In
the publisher’s office, we would gather round when a book came in. The designer
would obsess about how the title sat on the spine; the production manager would
fuss over the resolution. As the editor, responsible for every aspect of the book’s
accuracy, I could hardly bear to look.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine my anxiety recently when my own novel <i>Unspeakable Things</i> came back from the
typesetter. I sweated with shame over every typo that had got past me (and the
proofreader). I fussed over fonts and italics, paragraphs full out or indented.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYrHAhQVXSZQWiDiL-DXf0c_pvck2CNEBYA3L4K7Sc7saD5ziTXiq_5aMBImIkZNcJRz85MohEYKK2o8dP4Pwh1uUFy4b8dHClQjeWTO-gBNq3Z9F1MS2fOfXmR62YRx_1LKm_ibM49A/s1600/Edit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYrHAhQVXSZQWiDiL-DXf0c_pvck2CNEBYA3L4K7Sc7saD5ziTXiq_5aMBImIkZNcJRz85MohEYKK2o8dP4Pwh1uUFy4b8dHClQjeWTO-gBNq3Z9F1MS2fOfXmR62YRx_1LKm_ibM49A/s400/Edit.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Courtesy of The Book Butchers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a Sod’s Law in editing that the further you go into
a book’s production, the easier it is to spot mistakes. This means they only
become visible when it costs a fortune to put them right. An error in a set of
ozalids is glaringly obvious, and the buck stops with the editor. A gaffe in a
finished book is impossible to ignore – even though it has got past you a dozen
times before.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nervously checking my typeset novel, I realised that the
first two chapters didn’t read as well as the others. This suspicion may have
whispered at me before, but I had brushed past it, determined that the novel
was ready AT LAST. I could not bear to tinker with it any longer.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now the problem was obvious. I had rewritten the first two
chapters last, and had not trimmed them back as thoroughly as the rest. The reading
mind tripped over the phrasing, halting the flow of the text. Superfluous words
muddied the stream and prevented the prose from sparkling. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How could I send the novel back to the typesetter with such last-minute
changes? How annoyed would I be if an author did this to me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But how could I, know-all editor, punctuation police and
grammar fascist, publish anything less than my very best work? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I couldn’t. I made the changes. The typesetter didn’t mind –
she is more tolerant than I am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My last struggle was over widows – those leftover single
words that take up a whole line and make the text look untidy. Editors can’t
stand them, and they are removed from most types of book. I flipped through a
handful of paperbacks at home and found that novels do sometimes contain them.
But could I tolerate them in mine? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tried to. But then I went back and made suggestions to get
rid of the worst ones. Then the fairly bad ones. Then nearly all of them. I
made myself leave a few in case the typesetter blacklisted me as a nit-picking
nightmare.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am happy with the result now.<i> Unspeakable Things</i> looks like a proper book! The first chapters
are as good as the others (how good that is, you can judge in January). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://sophiekerseyauthor.com/page/"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1067" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMLRB1oUYATIyP3Icn7hBxsAQORFl8o3P8BkznClZ7RamegEoolEuuyH5BDscmXT96NLhXrKEsNzKx7Evl6NUz2YUEHEmh_BpkH92zshPhthWtX3uWqAnP5W4ejH28DQHxdxvKS6Z5iA/s320/UT_BCover.jpg" width="213" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I still have horrible fantasies about other editors,
authors I have worked with and people who have seen my facebook punctuation rants
opening those pages. What if I'm not perfect after all!? What if I get found out?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-49362205704686117482017-11-18T09:22:00.000-08:002017-11-18T09:33:08.986-08:00Family Secrets: The Terrible and the Wonderful<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpasToU6L2hd77D74jjP1SzYulw4yOkM8cS0K_2TUQueJ_qi3IORcDQ_Pr9YRohm6czGz0qjtoWjULtJcxplVftujTBU2L5BjlI0gO-iwB_yvDeNRCFpQusBChwhLQG_NKjSupMVIq7xI/s1600/The+Boy+with+the+Topknot_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="750" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpasToU6L2hd77D74jjP1SzYulw4yOkM8cS0K_2TUQueJ_qi3IORcDQ_Pr9YRohm6czGz0qjtoWjULtJcxplVftujTBU2L5BjlI0gO-iwB_yvDeNRCFpQusBChwhLQG_NKjSupMVIq7xI/s400/The+Boy+with+the+Topknot_.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Family secrets fascinate me – they are at the heart of my
writing. So I was a captive audience for the BBC’s drama <i>The Boy With the Topknot</i>, based on the memoir by Sathnam Sanghera.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sathnam is a rather arrogant, westernized journalist, who
goes home to Wolverhampton to tell his family that he wants to marry an English
girl. In the bosom of his Punjabi Sikh family, he can’t face breaking the news.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He then discovers that his father has for years been a
paranoid schizophrenic and only his mother’s management of his medication has
kept him out of a psychiatric ward. His older siblings have always known, and
dismiss his shocked reaction. Torn between the new life he wants and the explosion
of the old life he thought he knew, Sathnam unravels. He asks strangers
questions for a living, but he has never investigated his own family.<o:p></o:p></div>
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How could he not have known?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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This might seem bizarre, but it rang utterly true to me.
Families conceal things, or don’t mention them; things that peek out from the
heart of often-told stories, but are never asked about, never questioned. I
know this because I hoard such things, gathered from people I know or from the
media. People discover that a parent was a spy, or a Nazi. I know someone who was in her
thirties when she found out at a family gathering that her Dad, now dead, was
not her real father. It came out through a casual comment from an in-law; the
whole family knew except the woman in question. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In <i>Unspeakable Things</i> my heroine, Sarah, knows nothing about her mother, who died when she was four. Pregnant and newly inquisitive, she visits the abandoned family home with her husband, who asks why her father moved them away.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<i> ‘I don’t know. He didn’t say.’ Dad had not talked about any of it. She didn’t even remember looking at old photographs with him, and wondered now why they had never pestered him about their dead mother, their abandoned first home. But during his life it had seemed unthinkable. Did they hesitate to test that resolute strength of his, in case it crumpled?</i></div>
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Families are different from other groups. They’re home to
our most profound relationships, our dearest loves and deepest resentments –
and yet they need to operate on an everyday level. Everyone needs to get fed,
clothed and off to school or work; to rest, mooch around together and sleep. We
are not our outward-facing selves in our families, the way we are with our colleagues
and friends. They see us grumpy or distracted, picking our noses, grunting
responses: the real people who emerge when we’ve shut the door on the outside
world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Things go unsaid in families, both good and bad. I read an
article by a man who decided not to save a eulogy for his father’s funeral, but
to tell him his feelings for him while he was alive. He did so. It was awkward.
He wasn’t sure if he regretted it or not. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is a reason we don’t do these things. Huge feelings
and shocking revelations might tear apart the everyday functioning that makes
up family life. If someone at a family gathering says something profound, we
are just as likely to shrug or squirm with discomfort.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Older siblings, like Sathnam’s, sometimes patronise younger
ones and pull the wool over their eyes. It becomes a habit in childhood and
they can’t shake it off later. At fifty-three, I sometimes still get a whiff of
it: that sense of being the youngest who can’t be taken seriously. When she
protests or tries to make her mark, she’s just showing off.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are terrible things in families, and as a writer of
dark fiction, I dig them out. Secrets concealed and secrets discovered form the darkness behind the suspense.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sathnam’s mother won't talk about her husband’s
illness, which came to light when she was a young bride in an arranged
marriage. Family friends fill Sathnam in, and then ask him about his sister. Suddenly,
Sathnam knows that she is a schizophrenic too – and that the day she was
sectioned as a teenager was the day he turned his back on his family, cutting
off his Sikh topknot and throwing in his lot with the western world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in the present day, Sathnam’s mother’s insistence on arranging a marriage for
him threatens his chance of happiness, and her obstructiveness when he questions
her is maddening.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the story’s conclusion is touching. Sathnam realises
that his family’s secretiveness has made him what he is. He has made it in life
because of them, not despite them as he thought. ‘I always thought you were
happy,’ he tells his Mum. Her strength in concealing the painful truth has
given him the happiness and confidence to succeed. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My second novel <i>The
Year of the Ghost</i> confronts all the family failings that infuriate us: the
things they won’t talk about, the awful things they conceal. The stress, pain
and anguish this causes come to a head during the annual holiday – when there’s
a ghost in the holiday home and nobody knows who it is.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I hope I have touched on something Sathnam discovered. There
are wonderful things in families, – things we don’t talk about either. <i>The Year
of the Ghost</i> delves into secrets and lies, but it’s a love song to family as
well.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-21390039705744198652017-11-05T11:05:00.000-08:002017-11-05T11:06:26.909-08:00Can your creativity survive motherhood?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnRoLfoFRmwZR3FZSG-KUX4U7ZaMY-bLzDx3dLUFJtug5_wpej65kzBk3xA68hmOpiXqOSJJPmWoJcABom0Lw3kYYvFcSI_tHT87JRVIhF5kaXveOPPl0O5V7PVXG3mO2g_Vzu8nEwi1M/s1600/IMG_4632.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnRoLfoFRmwZR3FZSG-KUX4U7ZaMY-bLzDx3dLUFJtug5_wpej65kzBk3xA68hmOpiXqOSJJPmWoJcABom0Lw3kYYvFcSI_tHT87JRVIhF5kaXveOPPl0O5V7PVXG3mO2g_Vzu8nEwi1M/s320/IMG_4632.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgO6EAwqOWYRWAWSktSsWxRMBcYPXe6t2FrR5MTS237mWTGSiOYzgBOKTK87-fgckrQ1J7vCIX-ZWjBEvEQ5xgPYuSJPAlp7xwsc4kJTwVX7gVAWDbJmDnLJFA1EF-v35-rSCe31lauQ/s1600/IMG_4634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpgO6EAwqOWYRWAWSktSsWxRMBcYPXe6t2FrR5MTS237mWTGSiOYzgBOKTK87-fgckrQ1J7vCIX-ZWjBEvEQ5xgPYuSJPAlp7xwsc4kJTwVX7gVAWDbJmDnLJFA1EF-v35-rSCe31lauQ/s320/IMG_4634.JPG" width="240" /></a><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
It was winter Saturday and Jon was taking Ben and
Sam to the park so that I could do some writing. They were at that age when
they don’t see the connection between removed gloves and cold hands, and
preparations were not going well. By the time one boy was gloved up, the other would
be taking his off – and there were still hats and wellies to be wrestled with.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had been buried in sleep-deprived, all-consuming
motherhood all week. I was still writing the screenplay I had started when I
was pregnant. I JUST WANTED TO GET ON WITH SOME WRITING. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked at my sweet-faced little ones, bundled up in their
woollies, and at Jon, doing a nice thing with infinite patience. There were
still four of us in the hallway. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘Oh just bugger off, all of you!’ said Mummy.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had wanted to be a writer since I was five. My Mum
pictured me as an adult, writing at the kitchen table while my children ran
around me. Wrong. I was never able to work with my boys in the building. I just
didn’t have the headspace. I certainly lacked that talent men have for reading
the paper (or their phone screen) while an entire coffee shop is driven mad by
their offspring saying ‘Daddy?’</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had written a novel after university, but life, travel and
career had got in the way, and now most of the time I was so mired in
motherhood that I could barely construct a sentence in reality, never mind
fiction.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet the seismic life event of becoming a mother had
sharpened my creative hunger. The experience was central to my screenplay, in
with a pregnant woman discovers that her mother tried to kill her as a
four-year-old, and that her mental disturbance might be hereditary.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I carried on writing when I could. The screenplay crawled
along to completion. I did a course, and wrote others. I researched producers and
contacted agents. I entered competitions and got positive comments. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But who was I kidding? Ben didn’t sleep through the night
until he was three and a half. Sam cried for much of his first year. I was
often so tired that I spent whole days on the verge of tears. Was I seriously
expecting to write a blockbuster to take the film world by storm?</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I worked part time until Sam went to school, and then got
back into publishing. The next fifteen years passed in absorbing
work, helping others to fulfil their writing dreams. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My boys grew up, learned to put their own gloves on, and
ultimately moved away. Did I say that I always loved being their mother? I mean, just look at their pictures. Nothing in life will ever be lovelier, or more
important.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought of all this recently when a mother on facebook
wondered if she’ll ever manage to write while her children are little. I told
her what a woman artist said to me when I asked how she had kept the drive going through the years of heavy mothering. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
‘I built up a great creative head of
steam,’ she said. ‘It paid off when I had time again.’</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My creative ambition survived the wilderness years. I rewrote
that first screenplay as a novel. I wrote it again, and showed it to a literary
consultant. Again, I rewrote it, honed it and refined it. A second literary
consultant read it and her comments were my masterclass. The task seemed
never-ending, but characters wouldn’t leave my head. Like a sculptor chipping
away anything extraneous, I cut back to the essence of their story. I
was learning my craft.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left full-time work to freelance and write, and in
January, my novel <i>Unspeakable Things</i>
will be published. I’m relishing writing my second, <i>The Year of the Ghost</i>, in which the joys, anguish and secrets of family life play a central role.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To all you mothers who are struggling to feed your creative urge: keep at it whenever you can. Make notes and stuff them in a
folder. Write short pieces: poems, exercises and sketches that might one day make it into a longer form. Record moments from your days – you think you'll never forget these times, but you will. Most of all, note down your ideas: they may well be brilliant. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The era of motherhood is a primaeval swamp of creativity. It
sucks at your energy and keeps you wallowing in the mire, but it’s fertile
ground for the artist. The creative things that emerge from it might not look
like much when they first<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> flop onto the land. But who knows
how they’ll evolve?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRt8Je5_dmwcYndz5m7slmsXVDrg0cOeQ9BQboC3236ewBjL2LHGblTScBTPPvSsuWEA8eRLe-YZyyWuR2CyKE-znS05-92wO4UhHm2TObm522ztoUUkNHukFhKEmdoTR9pHgZZw4f_ZQ/s1600/creepy-sea-creatures-evolutions-02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRt8Je5_dmwcYndz5m7slmsXVDrg0cOeQ9BQboC3236ewBjL2LHGblTScBTPPvSsuWEA8eRLe-YZyyWuR2CyKE-znS05-92wO4UhHm2TObm522ztoUUkNHukFhKEmdoTR9pHgZZw4f_ZQ/s320/creepy-sea-creatures-evolutions-02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Keep going, keep the faith. I salute you!</div>
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Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4804843777020491995.post-2736409650901084132017-10-29T01:21:00.000-07:002017-10-29T01:24:34.017-07:00Which childhood books did you love enough to keep?<div class="MsoNormal">
Last week a local plea went out online for a copy of Nina
Bawden’s <i>Carrie’s War</i>. I immediately
pictured my Puffin version from 1974 with the cover photo from the BBC teatime
series, and sure enough, there it was in the little collection of books I have
treasured since childhood.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglF9O0DgmopaVEx7d0s6NKknZqVax2EjoEo8iQ-P6NMDM_oe1NoKFQPuBrV14nBpETdUADVWen3R0HZr9DwFGYqelhSOe51Rx60rQeVjPlFIcS0FBbGHp9le7LBPowRj8vwP4yJE-m_Os/s1600/carrie-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="714" data-original-width="418" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglF9O0DgmopaVEx7d0s6NKknZqVax2EjoEo8iQ-P6NMDM_oe1NoKFQPuBrV14nBpETdUADVWen3R0HZr9DwFGYqelhSOe51Rx60rQeVjPlFIcS0FBbGHp9le7LBPowRj8vwP4yJE-m_Os/s320/carrie-01.jpg" width="187" /></a></div>
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I sank into a reverie of book lover’s nostalgia. There was no
need to ponder a list of my favourites –here were twenty-seven browned
paperbacks that I had loved enough to keep. Fascinated, I searched through them...
</div>
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<h3>
Classics</h3>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPcpmiUkdW53ydow_ryFK2opQbtZ7n1ivW_j4EtFdyQhFAVhV9o3a9qnDNZ07KxDuqQNpZ_t84rPzqX9xZKcmlN-Wu1sxsPcW-rYtK_iUuYQhRKm4JBcccaYCnauZXnPiWKIoSolLjKs/s1600/IMG_4617.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1600" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdPcpmiUkdW53ydow_ryFK2opQbtZ7n1ivW_j4EtFdyQhFAVhV9o3a9qnDNZ07KxDuqQNpZ_t84rPzqX9xZKcmlN-Wu1sxsPcW-rYtK_iUuYQhRKm4JBcccaYCnauZXnPiWKIoSolLjKs/s320/IMG_4617.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="text-align: center;">Perhaps keen to discover that I was a precocious
intellectual, I preened myself over these: </span><i style="text-align: center;">Alice’s
Adventures in Wonderland</i><span style="text-align: center;"> and </span><i style="text-align: center;">The
Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe</i><span style="text-align: center;">. Remember relishing a book so much that
you didn’t want to be out of it? I continued on to </span><i style="text-align: center;">The Silver Chair</i><span style="text-align: center;"> and </span><i style="text-align: center;">The
Magician’s Nephew</i><span style="text-align: center;">, searching for – but not finding – a repeat of that first
high. Then there was Antoine de Saint-Exupery’s enchantingly sad </span><i style="text-align: center;">The Little Prince</i><span style="text-align: center;">, and E.B. White’s heart-rending
</span><i style="text-align: center;">Charlotte’s Web</i><span style="text-align: center;">.</span><br />
<span style="text-align: center;"><br /></span>
<br />
<h3>
Books Off the Telly</h3>
<div>
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I was surprised to find that this was such a large category
– but then I come from a telly-devoted generation, brought up in front of an
array of brilliant 1970s children’s series – and clearly they encouraged my
reading. <i>Carrie’s War</i> was one of
these – I have fond memories of the TV version from when I was nine<i>. </i></div>
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I also found <i>A Pair of Jesus-Boots</i>, a 1974 Puffin that I bought after seeing the
series <i>Rocky O’Rourke</i>, about a
slum-dwelling Liverpool lad. Already I liked my fiction on the gritty side. I discovered <i>The Secret Garden </i>through
a teatime adaptation, and Ethel Turner’s <i>Seven
Little Australians</i>, written in 1894, was brought to life for me by the BBC
in 1973. </div>
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In 1979 I found the TV version of <i>The
Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy</i> funny, if a bit irritating, but I enjoyed
Douglas Adams’ book much more.</div>
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A haunting BBC series of <i>Tom’s
Midnight Garden</i> was the taster that led me to the book. A few years later,
Philippa Pearce did a talk at our school. She said that being a writer was like
having English homework every night of the week. ‘Don’t do it if you don’t have
to,’ she said. ‘But if you have to – good luck.’<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a> I
already knew that I had to. I never forgot.</div>
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<h3>
Nina Bawden</h3>
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At around the time of <i>Carrie’s
War</i>, our teacher, Mrs Skett, read <i>The
White Horse Gang</i> aloud to us, and I became hooked on Nina Bawden. She was
the kind of writer I wanted to be: her child characters were vivid and
believable, their adventures rooted in the real world. My collection includes <i>The Peppermint Pig</i>, <i>The Runaway Summer</i>, <i>On the
Run</i>, <i>The Secret Passage</i>, <i>Squib</i> and <i>The White Horse Gang</i>. I read others from the library.</div>
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<h3>
Children’s Favourites</h3>
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<i>Stig of the Dump </i>appealed
to my fascination with the idea of the primitive within us, and of a life ‘in
the wild’<i>.</i> I must have overcome my
fear of dogs to love <i>The Incredible
Journey</i> – though there was also the cat character to draw me in.</div>
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<h3>
Magical</h3>
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I had forgotten Barbara Sleigh’s <i>Carbonel</i> and <i>The Kingdom of
Carbonel</i>, but memories rushed back of these wonderful tales of a night-time
world of cats on the rooftops. There was a potion that allowed a little girl to
understand the cats’ language, found in those oversized bottles that used to
advertise chemist’s shops. I remember peering at the one in Boots... <i>The Winter of Enchantment</i> by Victoria
Walker had a similar theme of a child escaping an unpleasant reality to
discover a world of magic.</div>
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<h3>
A Mixed Bag</h3>
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The final four show how my taste was varied, then as now –
there’s <i>I am David</i>, about a Jewish
boy who escapes from a concentration camp. I am still willing to be challenged
and disturbed by what I read. But there’s also <i>Flicka</i>, the story of a Wyoming ranch boy and his beloved horse – I
remember relishing the horsey sentimentality and scenes of Mom making doughnuts.
There’s early teen fare: <i>Freaky Friday</i>,
about a thirteen-year-old who swaps places with her mother, but also Eleanor
Atkinson’s <i>Greyfriars Bobby</i> which was
hard work, but worth it, with a lot of pages spent in a graveyard and a Scottish
dialect to grapple with, which may have prepared me for <i>A Clockwork Orange</i>.</div>
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But now we’re getting onto teenage reading, which is a whole
other subject…</div>
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I’d love to hear from you if you remember any of these books
or series, or if you have a treasured collection of your own? What books were
landmarks in your childhood reading journey?</div>
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Creaky door writerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06400268332581266488noreply@blogger.com6