Day 76
Another new day after another old, sleep deprived night. Took nightnurse and everything but still couldn't sleep. I dunno. My New Life isn't taking off with quite the speed, vigour and enthusiasm that I had hoped. Still feel wrecked all the time, and have little energy to do anything but just push through. What do I have to shift to make some change occur here?
Steve has been contacted about a contract job that is within walking distance of our house. The pay is on the limp side, to say the least, but with no travelling costs it evens out a bit. Am very excited - I have a good feeling about this one. Hope he gets an interview. Hope he gets the job. Hope he's happy in it if he does. Lots of hope, basically.
Am trying to decide between gardening and ironing, as a way to wear myself out a bit so that I sleep better. I like gardening, especially pruning which suits my artistic eye and OCD tendencies, but it is wet and cold, and I don't cope well with the cold when I am tired. Ironing is warm and dry and I can do it in front of the telly, but it is IRONING! Urrrrrgh! Hurts my feet terribly and gives me backache as well as turning my brain into cauliflower. What to choose?
Suddenly, I am prompted to stop.
I think I have to move away from al these verbs if I want to promote advancement into My New Life. I spend my time doing, doing, doing. This is a bit of a novelty in itself, and therefore is pulling my focus. After all these years of incapacity with the Chronic Fatigue, it is encouraging to be able to push through and achieve things, to cross them off my endless lists, to be able to do something just because I said I would.
I know deep down in the bright and wise places within me, that it is not about what I do, but how I do it, what state of mind I inhabit, and what goal I am aiming for, that counts. If my life is to change it starts from the inside. So I will pause awhile here.
What to choose?
I hear the answer from a clearer place.
"It does not matter. Get dressed and tell your body it is beautiful, affirm who you are, and be grateful for all that you have and all that is being called forth for you. Breathe gently and deeply. Inhale the fresh new seconds of this gift of a day. Find an empty space of pure, crystal clear silence within and ask for direction. Pull love into your being so that whatever you do becomes a meditation. Give thanks, be happy, do as your heart decides."
And so a line from a favourite poem - ' I will arise and go now'.
Monday 30 November 2009
Friday 27 November 2009
It's all too much today
Day 73
I can't write today - I find I can't do anything today. I am wracked with an all-encompassing sense of inability and inertia. The more I push against it, the more invasive it seems to become.
I had a very bad night, with nightmares so real and scary that I almost woke Steve to go to the loo with me, and I am not an easily frightenend person. Steve says he woke in the night too and got very worried because he thought I wasn't breathing, so perhaps I was holding my breath in my sleep from plain terror.
The upshot is that I have no energy, no aptitude, and no enthusiasm for anything today. I hate days like this. I feel useless and lazy and just plain wrong. My feet are killing me. I have no energy to feed myself well and am eating over-sugared rubbish, which doesn't help. How many baths can one usefully have in one day if one is not a Golgafringen?
In My New Life I wanted to do away with days like these. Perhaps I have strayed too far off track - I am not spending any time with visualisation or meditation at the moment, having been caught up in practicalities. Maybe feeling like this is my wake-up call.
I think, to some extent, I saw things beginning when Steve went back to work and I was left to sort out my days alone. That's what I had mentally prepared myself for - having to do it unaided. I have been putting things on hold, I now realise.
Another resolution then - to take a more holistic approach, to focus on the spiritual and mental as well as the physical and practical. It is not just what I do, but how I do it, what space I am coming from, and what vision I am creating, that will start to determine My New Life.
But I have to say, I could really do with a good night's sleep.
And it seems I can write, it just happens to be rubbish!
I can't write today - I find I can't do anything today. I am wracked with an all-encompassing sense of inability and inertia. The more I push against it, the more invasive it seems to become.
I had a very bad night, with nightmares so real and scary that I almost woke Steve to go to the loo with me, and I am not an easily frightenend person. Steve says he woke in the night too and got very worried because he thought I wasn't breathing, so perhaps I was holding my breath in my sleep from plain terror.
The upshot is that I have no energy, no aptitude, and no enthusiasm for anything today. I hate days like this. I feel useless and lazy and just plain wrong. My feet are killing me. I have no energy to feed myself well and am eating over-sugared rubbish, which doesn't help. How many baths can one usefully have in one day if one is not a Golgafringen?
In My New Life I wanted to do away with days like these. Perhaps I have strayed too far off track - I am not spending any time with visualisation or meditation at the moment, having been caught up in practicalities. Maybe feeling like this is my wake-up call.
I think, to some extent, I saw things beginning when Steve went back to work and I was left to sort out my days alone. That's what I had mentally prepared myself for - having to do it unaided. I have been putting things on hold, I now realise.
Another resolution then - to take a more holistic approach, to focus on the spiritual and mental as well as the physical and practical. It is not just what I do, but how I do it, what space I am coming from, and what vision I am creating, that will start to determine My New Life.
But I have to say, I could really do with a good night's sleep.
And it seems I can write, it just happens to be rubbish!
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Being a Domestic God-help-us
Day 71
Having spent a couple of days where everything I made was rubbish and the more I tried to fix it the worse it got, I have now spent a day doing the same with my cooking. There are obviously some weeks when I should not attempt anything more complicated than de-fluffing my navel.
Allow me to elucidate. My book group is meeting tonight and it's my turn to host it. Being in an impecunious space right now, it made sense to use up what was already in the house rather than go out and buy nibbles and goodies. A while back Steve got a yen to try making biscuits and bought lots of stuff for it, much of which is still there. Aha! I thought - I'll make cookies for my group, how hard can it be?
The answer, apparently is, harder than I thought. I'm sure some people are blessed with a deft and delicate touch when it comes to all things of a pastry or confectionery nature, but I am clearly not one of them. My first batch of biscuits (choc chip and walnut, yum yum) spread all over the place, burning at the edges while still liquid in the middle, looking like steam-rollered jellyfish with a bad bottle tan.
My second batch (lemon Shrewsbury biscuits) were even worse - insipid and oddly shaped, far too sweet, and somehow divorced from any lemon flavour. Decided on icing as a way to perk them up a bit. The book we are discussing was Hilary Mantel's 'Beyond black', which is all about a clairvoyant, and I thought I could call them Ectoplasm cookies. The icing sugar Steve bought looked white until you mixed it up whereupon it turned a nasty, phlegm-like colour, because it was unrefined icing sugar (did I look at the box? No, I did not).
But you know how when you're really tired, and things have been going steadily wrong to the point where your brain has frozen, and you just go and do something stupid anyway? Well, I carried on and iced a few, I have no idea why. Steve came in and looked at them and asked why I'd got Sam to gob on all of my biscuits. I bravely suggested that they tasted good despite appearances, but Sam shook his head sadly after trying one. Oh well.
I made a Victoria sponge. You can't go wrong with a Victoria sponge, I thought. It looked ok to me but I have just gone to take it out of it's tin and it seems to have covered itself in sweat. Cake sweat! Where did that come from! I know it was properly cooled when I put it away, so I can only conclude that the damp layer is a sort of spongy expression of despair, brought on by the pressure of my expectations of it after the disastrous cookies.
Diversionary tactics are now called for. The room must be atmospheric, fitting the mood of the book, and setting the scene properly. Have printed out several Ouija boards to use as placemats, and will scatter the table with Rune stones and crystals. Had a rummage and found a skull on Sam's bedroom floor (naturally), and have pinned a 'ghostly' leering face inside my tumble dryer, peeping out. This represents Morris, the clairvoyant's repellent spirit guide. Also stuffed a pink rubber glove and fashioned it into a rude gesture to complete the 'Morris' effect.
Who's going to notice snotty biscuits now, ha ha?
Having spent a couple of days where everything I made was rubbish and the more I tried to fix it the worse it got, I have now spent a day doing the same with my cooking. There are obviously some weeks when I should not attempt anything more complicated than de-fluffing my navel.
Allow me to elucidate. My book group is meeting tonight and it's my turn to host it. Being in an impecunious space right now, it made sense to use up what was already in the house rather than go out and buy nibbles and goodies. A while back Steve got a yen to try making biscuits and bought lots of stuff for it, much of which is still there. Aha! I thought - I'll make cookies for my group, how hard can it be?
The answer, apparently is, harder than I thought. I'm sure some people are blessed with a deft and delicate touch when it comes to all things of a pastry or confectionery nature, but I am clearly not one of them. My first batch of biscuits (choc chip and walnut, yum yum) spread all over the place, burning at the edges while still liquid in the middle, looking like steam-rollered jellyfish with a bad bottle tan.
My second batch (lemon Shrewsbury biscuits) were even worse - insipid and oddly shaped, far too sweet, and somehow divorced from any lemon flavour. Decided on icing as a way to perk them up a bit. The book we are discussing was Hilary Mantel's 'Beyond black', which is all about a clairvoyant, and I thought I could call them Ectoplasm cookies. The icing sugar Steve bought looked white until you mixed it up whereupon it turned a nasty, phlegm-like colour, because it was unrefined icing sugar (did I look at the box? No, I did not).
But you know how when you're really tired, and things have been going steadily wrong to the point where your brain has frozen, and you just go and do something stupid anyway? Well, I carried on and iced a few, I have no idea why. Steve came in and looked at them and asked why I'd got Sam to gob on all of my biscuits. I bravely suggested that they tasted good despite appearances, but Sam shook his head sadly after trying one. Oh well.
I made a Victoria sponge. You can't go wrong with a Victoria sponge, I thought. It looked ok to me but I have just gone to take it out of it's tin and it seems to have covered itself in sweat. Cake sweat! Where did that come from! I know it was properly cooled when I put it away, so I can only conclude that the damp layer is a sort of spongy expression of despair, brought on by the pressure of my expectations of it after the disastrous cookies.
Diversionary tactics are now called for. The room must be atmospheric, fitting the mood of the book, and setting the scene properly. Have printed out several Ouija boards to use as placemats, and will scatter the table with Rune stones and crystals. Had a rummage and found a skull on Sam's bedroom floor (naturally), and have pinned a 'ghostly' leering face inside my tumble dryer, peeping out. This represents Morris, the clairvoyant's repellent spirit guide. Also stuffed a pink rubber glove and fashioned it into a rude gesture to complete the 'Morris' effect.
Who's going to notice snotty biscuits now, ha ha?
Monday 23 November 2009
"It's time to get political" said the teacup
Day 69
"It's time to get political", said the teacup - this is the last thing I remember from my dream last night. There was also a large, sequined, Disney-style dragon thing, that was actually Eeyore, or possible a real donkey, but ever so nice and not gloomy at all. Then along came the teacup and saucer, which I remember thinking about yesterday as I wanted my friend Rebbecca to put a candle in it, (but I don't recall thinking about a donkey), but anyway the teacup was there, complaining about being too silly, and suggesting 'improvements', and I think there was a theme park or a village fete or something. So is it any wonder that I wake up disorientated and foggy and out of sorts?
Had a bad night anyway. Couldn't sleep because my skin was crawling with irritability and my emotions were boomeranging around hormonally, and I kept wanting to cry and scream and scratch all my skin off. This happens sometimes. Steve talked kind nonsense to me until I was exhausted enough to fall asleep. Even then, I kept waking up and struggling to sleep again, until too early this morning when I was disturbed by the alarm on his phone and I promptly snapped at him - although I'm hopeful that displaying such ingratitude was actually part of my weird dream, I rather suspect it wasn't.
(Not going to ask, don't want to know, feel too embarrassed. Especially as when I did get up, he gave me a hug and brought me a poached egg on toast.)
Yesterday was fairly unproductive. Totally failed to get on with making the Christmas pressies because everything I did turned out wrong, and when I tried to fix things I made them even worse. I showed one of the results to Steve, who usually says "oh isn't that nice" about everything so he's not a very impartial critic, but even he said "oh dear", and admitted it wasn't up to standard. Will start all over again today. Fingers crossed.
I remember a time when, if I got something horribly wrong, I would be assailed by thoughts of uselessness and inadequacy. I would beat myself up, concluding that "I couldn't get anything right", and even if I couldn't hear those thoughts clearly, I would still feel terribly down, discouraged, flat, and disenchanted.
Well, enough of that! I know my parents didn't think much of my capabilities, but I don't have to perpetrate what they started. These days I allow myself the freedom to make mistakes, have good days and bad days, pick myself up when I fall down and try again, only differently, with more effort, allowing my creativity freer rein, or taking better care. I no longer use failure as an excuse to doubt myself, but as a means of self-improvement. I choose to learn from the mistakes in order to do things better, and as this is hard to do if one is heavy with self-doubt and disappointment, then sod that for a game of conkers.
So, a clean slate, a fresh outlook, a new day - let us see what they can bring. I may only be making silly hand-made Christmas presents, but if all my heart and soul and care and thoughtfulness goes into the creating of them, then I am truly giving a gift, aren't I?
"It's time to get political", said the teacup - this is the last thing I remember from my dream last night. There was also a large, sequined, Disney-style dragon thing, that was actually Eeyore, or possible a real donkey, but ever so nice and not gloomy at all. Then along came the teacup and saucer, which I remember thinking about yesterday as I wanted my friend Rebbecca to put a candle in it, (but I don't recall thinking about a donkey), but anyway the teacup was there, complaining about being too silly, and suggesting 'improvements', and I think there was a theme park or a village fete or something. So is it any wonder that I wake up disorientated and foggy and out of sorts?
Had a bad night anyway. Couldn't sleep because my skin was crawling with irritability and my emotions were boomeranging around hormonally, and I kept wanting to cry and scream and scratch all my skin off. This happens sometimes. Steve talked kind nonsense to me until I was exhausted enough to fall asleep. Even then, I kept waking up and struggling to sleep again, until too early this morning when I was disturbed by the alarm on his phone and I promptly snapped at him - although I'm hopeful that displaying such ingratitude was actually part of my weird dream, I rather suspect it wasn't.
(Not going to ask, don't want to know, feel too embarrassed. Especially as when I did get up, he gave me a hug and brought me a poached egg on toast.)
Yesterday was fairly unproductive. Totally failed to get on with making the Christmas pressies because everything I did turned out wrong, and when I tried to fix things I made them even worse. I showed one of the results to Steve, who usually says "oh isn't that nice" about everything so he's not a very impartial critic, but even he said "oh dear", and admitted it wasn't up to standard. Will start all over again today. Fingers crossed.
I remember a time when, if I got something horribly wrong, I would be assailed by thoughts of uselessness and inadequacy. I would beat myself up, concluding that "I couldn't get anything right", and even if I couldn't hear those thoughts clearly, I would still feel terribly down, discouraged, flat, and disenchanted.
Well, enough of that! I know my parents didn't think much of my capabilities, but I don't have to perpetrate what they started. These days I allow myself the freedom to make mistakes, have good days and bad days, pick myself up when I fall down and try again, only differently, with more effort, allowing my creativity freer rein, or taking better care. I no longer use failure as an excuse to doubt myself, but as a means of self-improvement. I choose to learn from the mistakes in order to do things better, and as this is hard to do if one is heavy with self-doubt and disappointment, then sod that for a game of conkers.
So, a clean slate, a fresh outlook, a new day - let us see what they can bring. I may only be making silly hand-made Christmas presents, but if all my heart and soul and care and thoughtfulness goes into the creating of them, then I am truly giving a gift, aren't I?
Sunday 22 November 2009
Waiting for a "Yes"
Day 68
My rejection letters are starting to turn up now - I have three already. Although I am impressed by the kindness and thoughtfulness of the wording, they still say NO. I tell myself they could sometimes be saying "not at this time", and all the things I've read are quite clear on the point that a 'no' from one person is not a reflection of your work. Or even a 'no' from lots of people, apparently.
All the experts say "don't give up, believe in what you have done, persevere," etc., but what if your book actually is crap? What if you, as an author, are the equivalent of those unfortunate hopefuls on X Factor with voices like nails down a blackboard, and all the star quality of a soggy lettuce, and no-one will tell you? How do you find out?
When I watch the auditions of shows like that I am, of course, entertained, but I also feel very sympathetic towards the young people concerned. I think they been sold a pack of lies by the media. They firmly believe that if they "really, really want this" then that is what will make it happen. They do not seem to consider that talent plays any part in this at all.
The stars themselves only perpetuate this illusion. No-one since Mohammed Ali has been able to get away with blatant bragging and showing off, without committing career suicide. Nobody nowadays concludes publicly, that their success is due to them being just a hell of a lot better at this than anybody else, oh no. The most they will concede is that they have worked very hard, or were very lucky! I ask you.
This doesn't really help anyone, least of all those poor chumps under the illusion that because they go down a storm on Karaoke night (and we all know why), that that makes them God's gift to the music industry. Nor do they seem to understand that happiness is not guaranteed by appearing in Heat magazine - it does not mean your life is wonderful, fulfilling, worthwhile, utilizing your unique talents, and leaving you proud and without regrets 'when you face the final curtain'.
I feel for them, I really do.
However, by writing and illustrating this book I believe I am using my unique talents - this just may not be the format that works, I don't yet know. I will do what is suggested - I will persevere, keeping my vision clear and my hope abundant. If I get rejections from ALL the agents, I will try others, and if that does not work I will contact every publisher I can.
If all this fails to bring about the result I desire, I will find another avenue through which to express my creativity and uniqueness. I do not believe I deserve this because "I really, really want it", but only if my work is good enough. And if that proves not to be the case then, Hell's bell's but I'll work until it is.
My rejection letters are starting to turn up now - I have three already. Although I am impressed by the kindness and thoughtfulness of the wording, they still say NO. I tell myself they could sometimes be saying "not at this time", and all the things I've read are quite clear on the point that a 'no' from one person is not a reflection of your work. Or even a 'no' from lots of people, apparently.
All the experts say "don't give up, believe in what you have done, persevere," etc., but what if your book actually is crap? What if you, as an author, are the equivalent of those unfortunate hopefuls on X Factor with voices like nails down a blackboard, and all the star quality of a soggy lettuce, and no-one will tell you? How do you find out?
When I watch the auditions of shows like that I am, of course, entertained, but I also feel very sympathetic towards the young people concerned. I think they been sold a pack of lies by the media. They firmly believe that if they "really, really want this" then that is what will make it happen. They do not seem to consider that talent plays any part in this at all.
The stars themselves only perpetuate this illusion. No-one since Mohammed Ali has been able to get away with blatant bragging and showing off, without committing career suicide. Nobody nowadays concludes publicly, that their success is due to them being just a hell of a lot better at this than anybody else, oh no. The most they will concede is that they have worked very hard, or were very lucky! I ask you.
This doesn't really help anyone, least of all those poor chumps under the illusion that because they go down a storm on Karaoke night (and we all know why), that that makes them God's gift to the music industry. Nor do they seem to understand that happiness is not guaranteed by appearing in Heat magazine - it does not mean your life is wonderful, fulfilling, worthwhile, utilizing your unique talents, and leaving you proud and without regrets 'when you face the final curtain'.
I feel for them, I really do.
However, by writing and illustrating this book I believe I am using my unique talents - this just may not be the format that works, I don't yet know. I will do what is suggested - I will persevere, keeping my vision clear and my hope abundant. If I get rejections from ALL the agents, I will try others, and if that does not work I will contact every publisher I can.
If all this fails to bring about the result I desire, I will find another avenue through which to express my creativity and uniqueness. I do not believe I deserve this because "I really, really want it", but only if my work is good enough. And if that proves not to be the case then, Hell's bell's but I'll work until it is.
Saturday 21 November 2009
The legacy of a life well lived
Day 67
I went to my old friend's funeral yesterday. I visualised him standing at the front of the church, smiling at us all the way he used to. I spoke to him quietly in my mind. "Thank you, Eric, for choosing me to be one of those, whose path you crossed in this lifetime. Thank you for sharing who you were. I know what a true gentleman is now, partly because of you. I am grateful indeed, that of all the people in this world, I was one of those included in your life, if even for a brief time. God speed, and say 'hello' to my sister, where you are going."
His newest grandchild was also in the church - a tiny girl named Rose Erica, after her grandad. She wore bright Christmas red, and she glowed amongst the sea of black like a heartbeat, a ruby, a promise, a prayer. The pure life-force streamed from her like an affirmation of everything good and true and precious. She pulled our attention. She would suddenly shriek with delight at a sunbeam or a funny face. Her place in the cycle of life made Eric's passing a natural peace - a life is over, but another life is also beginning, and so it goes on, just as it should.
We stayed overnight with some wonderful, true friends, and came home today, tired, a little emotional, enriched and saddened, having been spoilt and entertained, and leaving their gin and tonic bottles a little (a lot) emptier. I worry about all my friends, about their difficulties, their trials and misfortunes. I wonder if I do enough, if I give back sufficiently for all they do for me. I know without one shred of doubt that I would not have coped with my own troubles, without the generosity of their support in the past.
I hope I say the right things. I hope I cheer them up at the right times, and lend an ear when it's needed. I hope I step up with practical help often enough. I hope also that they know how grateful I am, and how much they mean to me. It is the one area of my life where I feel rich beyond description, no matter what else is happening, or how little we sometimes have. I know I cannot solve their problems, or choose the right path for them, nor am I responsible for them. Sorrow is part of every life, and that also, is how it should be, but I'm here, guys, I'm here - call me if you need me.
I gravitated naturally towards Steve that night, reinforcing a connection to the life we have here and now. I held his arm around me as we drifted to sleep, letting the air between our skin communicate for us, "it is ok, there is nothing to be afraid of, the past is gone, the future will be what we make it, and this moment - this moment, is where we are now, and nothing else matters".
Death inspires that affirmation as much as it brings the grief. Perhaps the energy released from a life returning to source, seeks to renew and remind those left behind as it passes along. Maybe that is the final blessing a departing soul can bestow, the 'Amazing Grace' that we sang of.
A last gift from Eric.
I like to think so.
I went to my old friend's funeral yesterday. I visualised him standing at the front of the church, smiling at us all the way he used to. I spoke to him quietly in my mind. "Thank you, Eric, for choosing me to be one of those, whose path you crossed in this lifetime. Thank you for sharing who you were. I know what a true gentleman is now, partly because of you. I am grateful indeed, that of all the people in this world, I was one of those included in your life, if even for a brief time. God speed, and say 'hello' to my sister, where you are going."
His newest grandchild was also in the church - a tiny girl named Rose Erica, after her grandad. She wore bright Christmas red, and she glowed amongst the sea of black like a heartbeat, a ruby, a promise, a prayer. The pure life-force streamed from her like an affirmation of everything good and true and precious. She pulled our attention. She would suddenly shriek with delight at a sunbeam or a funny face. Her place in the cycle of life made Eric's passing a natural peace - a life is over, but another life is also beginning, and so it goes on, just as it should.
We stayed overnight with some wonderful, true friends, and came home today, tired, a little emotional, enriched and saddened, having been spoilt and entertained, and leaving their gin and tonic bottles a little (a lot) emptier. I worry about all my friends, about their difficulties, their trials and misfortunes. I wonder if I do enough, if I give back sufficiently for all they do for me. I know without one shred of doubt that I would not have coped with my own troubles, without the generosity of their support in the past.
I hope I say the right things. I hope I cheer them up at the right times, and lend an ear when it's needed. I hope I step up with practical help often enough. I hope also that they know how grateful I am, and how much they mean to me. It is the one area of my life where I feel rich beyond description, no matter what else is happening, or how little we sometimes have. I know I cannot solve their problems, or choose the right path for them, nor am I responsible for them. Sorrow is part of every life, and that also, is how it should be, but I'm here, guys, I'm here - call me if you need me.
I gravitated naturally towards Steve that night, reinforcing a connection to the life we have here and now. I held his arm around me as we drifted to sleep, letting the air between our skin communicate for us, "it is ok, there is nothing to be afraid of, the past is gone, the future will be what we make it, and this moment - this moment, is where we are now, and nothing else matters".
Death inspires that affirmation as much as it brings the grief. Perhaps the energy released from a life returning to source, seeks to renew and remind those left behind as it passes along. Maybe that is the final blessing a departing soul can bestow, the 'Amazing Grace' that we sang of.
A last gift from Eric.
I like to think so.
Thursday 19 November 2009
Bad news, sad news.
Day 65
I set my family a small challenge the other day. I noticed that the loo roll needed changing, but yet again, somebody had just left the new one propped on the old, empty, cardboard tube. I declined to change it and waited to see how long it would be before someone else did. I have to tell you, we were well into the third loo roll before it got changed, and I found the empty tubes propped on the cistern - they never made it as far as the bin. So my conclusion is that my fellas still believe in the toilet-roll Fairy. Aaah, bless 'em.
Have had my second rejection letter, out of the seven I initially sent off. Again, it was unfailingly polite and quite kind. They were at great pains to point out that they received over 300 manuscripts per week and could only take on two or three. Although I dislike the suspense of waiting, their replies leave me with no sense of rejection at all, which is pretty good. The power of words, eh.
Have shelved working on book number two for this week, while I concentrate on getting the Christmas stuff done. Also, my brain was going round in the same old circles trying to work out the format, and when you get stuck in that loop it's always good to give yourself a break. Will get back to it on Monday, when hopefully the fog will have cleared.
Some years ago, I was involved a couple of wonderful support groups, full of people who had done the same self-develpment course as me. We upheld each other's vision in life and took a firm line against self-sabotaging behaviours and thought patterns. Sadly, one of those old, dear friends has passed away and we're going to his funeral tomorrow.
I personally believe very strongly in reincarnation, but I am aware it is just a belief, and that not everybody thinks that way. I find it comforting, and logical, and it seems to make more sense to me than any of the alternatives. My beloved sister therefore, is someone I shall meet again, but is currently a bit further away than Kenya, or Antigua, or Botswana, or any of the other places she used to live. And out of cell phone reach.
My friend Ruth, the widow of our lovely Eric who passed, probably doesn't share these beliefs, so I will endeavour to be tactful tomorrow. She is a strong and extraordinary woman who has helped me many times in the past. We taught a 'Self-Esteem Course' together, which was a privilege and a treat. She has by far the biggest heart.
I know from past experience that the day before the funeral is extremely difficult, so Ruth, I send my love, my energy, and my thoughts to you, out over the ether, and hope your pain is not too great. I will see you tomorrow, my sweet lady.
And Eric, I will see you when I see you. God speed, my darling, you were wonderful to know.
I set my family a small challenge the other day. I noticed that the loo roll needed changing, but yet again, somebody had just left the new one propped on the old, empty, cardboard tube. I declined to change it and waited to see how long it would be before someone else did. I have to tell you, we were well into the third loo roll before it got changed, and I found the empty tubes propped on the cistern - they never made it as far as the bin. So my conclusion is that my fellas still believe in the toilet-roll Fairy. Aaah, bless 'em.
Have had my second rejection letter, out of the seven I initially sent off. Again, it was unfailingly polite and quite kind. They were at great pains to point out that they received over 300 manuscripts per week and could only take on two or three. Although I dislike the suspense of waiting, their replies leave me with no sense of rejection at all, which is pretty good. The power of words, eh.
Have shelved working on book number two for this week, while I concentrate on getting the Christmas stuff done. Also, my brain was going round in the same old circles trying to work out the format, and when you get stuck in that loop it's always good to give yourself a break. Will get back to it on Monday, when hopefully the fog will have cleared.
Some years ago, I was involved a couple of wonderful support groups, full of people who had done the same self-develpment course as me. We upheld each other's vision in life and took a firm line against self-sabotaging behaviours and thought patterns. Sadly, one of those old, dear friends has passed away and we're going to his funeral tomorrow.
I personally believe very strongly in reincarnation, but I am aware it is just a belief, and that not everybody thinks that way. I find it comforting, and logical, and it seems to make more sense to me than any of the alternatives. My beloved sister therefore, is someone I shall meet again, but is currently a bit further away than Kenya, or Antigua, or Botswana, or any of the other places she used to live. And out of cell phone reach.
My friend Ruth, the widow of our lovely Eric who passed, probably doesn't share these beliefs, so I will endeavour to be tactful tomorrow. She is a strong and extraordinary woman who has helped me many times in the past. We taught a 'Self-Esteem Course' together, which was a privilege and a treat. She has by far the biggest heart.
I know from past experience that the day before the funeral is extremely difficult, so Ruth, I send my love, my energy, and my thoughts to you, out over the ether, and hope your pain is not too great. I will see you tomorrow, my sweet lady.
And Eric, I will see you when I see you. God speed, my darling, you were wonderful to know.
Tuesday 17 November 2009
Creativity Overdrive
Day 63
Been ridiculously busy for a few days and have now got a stomach bug, but very pleased to report that this is not stopping me. Went out yesterday and bought stuff to make the Xmas pressies with, and have completed the first one. Spent £36! Steve panicked at my wanton extravagance.That this covers - at the very least - four birthdays, seven Xmas pressies, two birthday cards, a sympathy card, and some stamps, is clearly by the by.
Over the years, my sewing and painting skills have been stretched to the limit as funds have been rather an issue. In the past people have received hand-painted silk cushions, personalised paintings, collages, note cards made from our best photos, handbags, tote bags, aprons, napkins, place mats, kimono dressing gowns, toilet bags with lace trimmed flannels, covered books and boxes, delicate beaded Xmas tree decorations, handmade jewellery, hats, scarves and scrunchies, to name but a few. I have had to think mighty hard, and scour the Internet this year, to come up with stuff I haven't already done.
Thirty year old nephews with well paying jobs and yuppie lifestyles are the hardest to make for, obviously, so I'm going to set Steve and Sam the task of learning how to make peanut brittle, chocolate fudge and peppermint creams. Food is never refused, is it. Well, not until January. We all go on a diet in January anyway, so that's ok.
I love making presents for people, even more than I like buying them. The giving of gifts is one of the great joys in life. Coming up with something new may have been a bit of a challenge, but it is exercising my creativity and expanding my skill set. Can't ask for more, can you. I once read that in the Scandinavian countries, it is traditional to take a handmade Xmas tree decoration as a gift to anybody you visit during the Xmas period. How lovely is that!
I like to think that there is still plenty of so-called Christmas spirit around at this time of year, that it has not all been subsumed beneath a frantic veil of dogged consumerism, greed, panic and over-consumption. I know there are still traditions that are honoured, acts that are generous and charitable, and times of peace that are bestowed, even if it is just saying how much you've always wanted a hand-crocheted purple ipod cover with pom-poms, to your Aunty Irene.
The finest Christmas tradition I remember from my childhood, was the one where my brother, my sister and I pretended to be asleep until after Dad had laid the stockings on the end of our beds and reached the bottom stair, whereupon we leapt out of bed and excitedly tore everything open. This was swiftly followed by that other tradition of Dad racing back up and barking at us all to go back to sleep, or else.
Another was searching the house in the weeks leading up to the great day, until we found where the presents were hidden. The trick was to make the hole in the wrapping you peeped through look small enough to be done by a mouse. Mice get very active at Christmas, it's a well known fact, and I've never been any good at all with suspense. If I buy presents too early I get so excited I give them to people in advance, and then have to go out and buy more.
What I really like for Christmas is contentment. A log fire, a film I haven't seen for years on the telly, no exercise thank you (not with my bad feet), plenty of good food, nice drink and a few treats, family around me, silly games to play, the cat purring and the kids happily occupied, a bit of a nap, a lot of laughs, and a working dishwasher. A small pile of presents that represents the kindness, thoughtfulness, and love of my family towards me is nice too, but it is definitely just a bonus. The real treat is having everybody together, feeding them well, and seeing them happy.
On that note, having got myself well in the mood, I shall go and make the next lot of gifts. See ya.
Been ridiculously busy for a few days and have now got a stomach bug, but very pleased to report that this is not stopping me. Went out yesterday and bought stuff to make the Xmas pressies with, and have completed the first one. Spent £36! Steve panicked at my wanton extravagance.That this covers - at the very least - four birthdays, seven Xmas pressies, two birthday cards, a sympathy card, and some stamps, is clearly by the by.
Over the years, my sewing and painting skills have been stretched to the limit as funds have been rather an issue. In the past people have received hand-painted silk cushions, personalised paintings, collages, note cards made from our best photos, handbags, tote bags, aprons, napkins, place mats, kimono dressing gowns, toilet bags with lace trimmed flannels, covered books and boxes, delicate beaded Xmas tree decorations, handmade jewellery, hats, scarves and scrunchies, to name but a few. I have had to think mighty hard, and scour the Internet this year, to come up with stuff I haven't already done.
Thirty year old nephews with well paying jobs and yuppie lifestyles are the hardest to make for, obviously, so I'm going to set Steve and Sam the task of learning how to make peanut brittle, chocolate fudge and peppermint creams. Food is never refused, is it. Well, not until January. We all go on a diet in January anyway, so that's ok.
I love making presents for people, even more than I like buying them. The giving of gifts is one of the great joys in life. Coming up with something new may have been a bit of a challenge, but it is exercising my creativity and expanding my skill set. Can't ask for more, can you. I once read that in the Scandinavian countries, it is traditional to take a handmade Xmas tree decoration as a gift to anybody you visit during the Xmas period. How lovely is that!
I like to think that there is still plenty of so-called Christmas spirit around at this time of year, that it has not all been subsumed beneath a frantic veil of dogged consumerism, greed, panic and over-consumption. I know there are still traditions that are honoured, acts that are generous and charitable, and times of peace that are bestowed, even if it is just saying how much you've always wanted a hand-crocheted purple ipod cover with pom-poms, to your Aunty Irene.
The finest Christmas tradition I remember from my childhood, was the one where my brother, my sister and I pretended to be asleep until after Dad had laid the stockings on the end of our beds and reached the bottom stair, whereupon we leapt out of bed and excitedly tore everything open. This was swiftly followed by that other tradition of Dad racing back up and barking at us all to go back to sleep, or else.
Another was searching the house in the weeks leading up to the great day, until we found where the presents were hidden. The trick was to make the hole in the wrapping you peeped through look small enough to be done by a mouse. Mice get very active at Christmas, it's a well known fact, and I've never been any good at all with suspense. If I buy presents too early I get so excited I give them to people in advance, and then have to go out and buy more.
What I really like for Christmas is contentment. A log fire, a film I haven't seen for years on the telly, no exercise thank you (not with my bad feet), plenty of good food, nice drink and a few treats, family around me, silly games to play, the cat purring and the kids happily occupied, a bit of a nap, a lot of laughs, and a working dishwasher. A small pile of presents that represents the kindness, thoughtfulness, and love of my family towards me is nice too, but it is definitely just a bonus. The real treat is having everybody together, feeding them well, and seeing them happy.
On that note, having got myself well in the mood, I shall go and make the next lot of gifts. See ya.
Saturday 14 November 2009
Counting down
Day 60
I lay awake last night until four in the morning. I am lucky enough, that when the insomnia hits, I can be unstressed about it. There is nothing I have to do today, so I can catch up on sleep if I need to. I have no young children to be up and about for at six thirty in the morning, no job that I must be alert for at nine. I can take today as my body dictates.
So I listened to the wind whipping itself into a primeval frenzy, the rain constant and ferocious. This morning my beautiful Japanese Maple tree, so recently turned the colour of burning embers, is semi-nude, the garden littered like shame.
Last night, wary of the impending storm, we had packed away the garden chairs and taken down the wall plates, so the visiting wind did not hurl and smash them. Today, the tree trunks are black with soaking damp, the beds churned into chaos, and the whole garden has a Jurassic feel. The Old Magic stirs.
It seems to have blown my mind clear. Yesterday, I woke with a thumping head that hung like a reprimand over me all day. I finally gave in and took painkillers (which may be why I could not sleep, they don't much agree with me), but I still lay exhausted most of the time. I tried to work on my next book, but the concentration needed eluded me. I tried to rest, but tears overwhelmed me. I wanted to blog, but my brain blanked out. Another day older, that is all.
Today, I feel me again, and I am in that sacred place - an empty house. I shall put aside my book until Monday, and concentrate on starting the great Christmas present make schedule. We have less money than it takes to get through the month (on the dole thanks to the recession), and so everything must be less than cheap, it must be practically free.
My family are wonderful - they won't mind this at all. I personally, prefer homemade presents, and though I don't know if they go that far, I know they appreciate them. For my birthday this year, My brother and his wife filled a picture frame with old photos of me that I didn't know existed. I love that they made that effort for me. It is special.
For me, Christmas should have that feel. It is a time of thankfulness, of reminding ourselves what is important, of telling those we love how much we care. I don't subscribe to the 'Christmas shopping is hell' point of view. If you aren't enjoying it, don't do it. Being able to go into a shop and choose something particular for a special person in your life, is a privilege and a treat.
When I was a kid, there was never any money. A pair of hand-me-down shoes was, frankly, a big deal. I saw my brother and sister go without so much that they wanted, and often needed. One big dream I had was that one day, when I was older, I would be able to get them everything they wanted, desired, or deserved.
Well, next year maybe. In the meantime, this year, everybody is going to get my love, energy, creativity, and hard work instead. Really, what more could anyone want?
I lay awake last night until four in the morning. I am lucky enough, that when the insomnia hits, I can be unstressed about it. There is nothing I have to do today, so I can catch up on sleep if I need to. I have no young children to be up and about for at six thirty in the morning, no job that I must be alert for at nine. I can take today as my body dictates.
So I listened to the wind whipping itself into a primeval frenzy, the rain constant and ferocious. This morning my beautiful Japanese Maple tree, so recently turned the colour of burning embers, is semi-nude, the garden littered like shame.
Last night, wary of the impending storm, we had packed away the garden chairs and taken down the wall plates, so the visiting wind did not hurl and smash them. Today, the tree trunks are black with soaking damp, the beds churned into chaos, and the whole garden has a Jurassic feel. The Old Magic stirs.
It seems to have blown my mind clear. Yesterday, I woke with a thumping head that hung like a reprimand over me all day. I finally gave in and took painkillers (which may be why I could not sleep, they don't much agree with me), but I still lay exhausted most of the time. I tried to work on my next book, but the concentration needed eluded me. I tried to rest, but tears overwhelmed me. I wanted to blog, but my brain blanked out. Another day older, that is all.
Today, I feel me again, and I am in that sacred place - an empty house. I shall put aside my book until Monday, and concentrate on starting the great Christmas present make schedule. We have less money than it takes to get through the month (on the dole thanks to the recession), and so everything must be less than cheap, it must be practically free.
My family are wonderful - they won't mind this at all. I personally, prefer homemade presents, and though I don't know if they go that far, I know they appreciate them. For my birthday this year, My brother and his wife filled a picture frame with old photos of me that I didn't know existed. I love that they made that effort for me. It is special.
For me, Christmas should have that feel. It is a time of thankfulness, of reminding ourselves what is important, of telling those we love how much we care. I don't subscribe to the 'Christmas shopping is hell' point of view. If you aren't enjoying it, don't do it. Being able to go into a shop and choose something particular for a special person in your life, is a privilege and a treat.
When I was a kid, there was never any money. A pair of hand-me-down shoes was, frankly, a big deal. I saw my brother and sister go without so much that they wanted, and often needed. One big dream I had was that one day, when I was older, I would be able to get them everything they wanted, desired, or deserved.
Well, next year maybe. In the meantime, this year, everybody is going to get my love, energy, creativity, and hard work instead. Really, what more could anyone want?
Thursday 12 November 2009
What big ambitions you have, Grand mama
Day 58
I have received the first official rejection of my manuscript, and although I was expecting it, I didn't think they'd get to me quite so soon. They were very nice though - wording it as not able to get enthusiastic enough about it - but definitely "a bit previous", as my old Gran used to say.
Do grans still say things like that? Are there any left that wear lumpy cardigans and have helmet-hard perms? Whatever happened to the grans that speak in old saws and proverbs - "see a pin and pick it up", or "n'er cast a clout til May is out" - (that's a coat, by the way, and I still don't).
My Gran was small and round and cuddly, just the way they're supposed to be. When she smiled she twinkled like a pixie. She smelt of Wintergreen, Eau de Cologne, Vicks Vapour Rub and cabbage water (the latter for her main preoccupation, bowel movement), and I absolutely adored her.
She wore so many layers of clothing that dressing her was a military operation. I remember thinking that if she had another heart attack, then the nurses would be in an exhausted heap on the floor by the time someone got the paddles out and yelled "clear"! To which the answer would probably be "no, not quite, we've still got two vests and a petticoat to go".
I don't quite know what she was arming herself against by all these layers, because it clearly wasn't just the cold (which was already barricaded away by the top five). She once went to church and came home distraught, having realised that she'd gone without her knickers on. How would she even know? And what made her think that the God whom she believed was omnipresent, hadn't already seen her in the bath? She had on her long johns but that, she declared, didn't count.
For the time that my Gran lived with us, we had a terrible cat. Although naming pets in our household was a serious and long thought out business - I put less time into naming my children - this cat had never been sociable enough to merit a proper name. He was just the cat, or sometimes fat cat, and he was a viscious brute of an animal that hated the whole world, and people in particular.
I remember once a local farmer coming to our house to speak to my Dad. "Arthur, can I shoot your cat please, only he's been worrying my dogs again?". My Mum screamed a horrified "No!", and my Dad took the poor guy off and showed him his bees (this is not a euphemism, OK?). Anyway, this dreadful animal also adored my Gran (I think it may have been the heady cocktail of smells - pure cat Heaven).
Every afternoon she took a nap and the cat took this as a signal that it was time to show his fealty and love. We always knew when she woke up because of the piercing scream followed by the utterance, "That bloody cat!". This, in turn, was our signal to go in and remove the two headless, bleeding rabbits, or similar offering, from her lap, and appease her with a cup of tea "and a slice", (that's bread and butter, apparently - why do they always talk in code?).
Nowadays, grans look better than they did when they were ten years younger. They can afford better clothes, good haircuts with slick highlights, and pamper packages at the local spa. They start new businesses 'now that the children are gone', and get loans from Dragon's Den to take them global. They do Pilates and run marathons and go back-packing in Nepal or Peru. My Gran wouldn't fit all her undergarments in one backpack, let alone her pills and crochet.
When we read youngsters stories that feature kindly, little old ladies in shawls, with white hair and gappy teeth, I wonder who they think we're talking about, because it certainly doesn't bear any resemblance to their Nanna. That whirlwind of creativity and energy wouldn't ever be someone you could confuse with a wolf with big teeth and ears.
So, I have decided - if I want to get fit and lose weight, and become dynamic and sucessful, then one of my kids is going to have to get sprogging and make me a new-age, 21st century Gran. It's the only way.
P.S. Welcome Matt (geddit?)
I have received the first official rejection of my manuscript, and although I was expecting it, I didn't think they'd get to me quite so soon. They were very nice though - wording it as not able to get enthusiastic enough about it - but definitely "a bit previous", as my old Gran used to say.
Do grans still say things like that? Are there any left that wear lumpy cardigans and have helmet-hard perms? Whatever happened to the grans that speak in old saws and proverbs - "see a pin and pick it up", or "n'er cast a clout til May is out" - (that's a coat, by the way, and I still don't).
My Gran was small and round and cuddly, just the way they're supposed to be. When she smiled she twinkled like a pixie. She smelt of Wintergreen, Eau de Cologne, Vicks Vapour Rub and cabbage water (the latter for her main preoccupation, bowel movement), and I absolutely adored her.
She wore so many layers of clothing that dressing her was a military operation. I remember thinking that if she had another heart attack, then the nurses would be in an exhausted heap on the floor by the time someone got the paddles out and yelled "clear"! To which the answer would probably be "no, not quite, we've still got two vests and a petticoat to go".
I don't quite know what she was arming herself against by all these layers, because it clearly wasn't just the cold (which was already barricaded away by the top five). She once went to church and came home distraught, having realised that she'd gone without her knickers on. How would she even know? And what made her think that the God whom she believed was omnipresent, hadn't already seen her in the bath? She had on her long johns but that, she declared, didn't count.
For the time that my Gran lived with us, we had a terrible cat. Although naming pets in our household was a serious and long thought out business - I put less time into naming my children - this cat had never been sociable enough to merit a proper name. He was just the cat, or sometimes fat cat, and he was a viscious brute of an animal that hated the whole world, and people in particular.
I remember once a local farmer coming to our house to speak to my Dad. "Arthur, can I shoot your cat please, only he's been worrying my dogs again?". My Mum screamed a horrified "No!", and my Dad took the poor guy off and showed him his bees (this is not a euphemism, OK?). Anyway, this dreadful animal also adored my Gran (I think it may have been the heady cocktail of smells - pure cat Heaven).
Every afternoon she took a nap and the cat took this as a signal that it was time to show his fealty and love. We always knew when she woke up because of the piercing scream followed by the utterance, "That bloody cat!". This, in turn, was our signal to go in and remove the two headless, bleeding rabbits, or similar offering, from her lap, and appease her with a cup of tea "and a slice", (that's bread and butter, apparently - why do they always talk in code?).
Nowadays, grans look better than they did when they were ten years younger. They can afford better clothes, good haircuts with slick highlights, and pamper packages at the local spa. They start new businesses 'now that the children are gone', and get loans from Dragon's Den to take them global. They do Pilates and run marathons and go back-packing in Nepal or Peru. My Gran wouldn't fit all her undergarments in one backpack, let alone her pills and crochet.
When we read youngsters stories that feature kindly, little old ladies in shawls, with white hair and gappy teeth, I wonder who they think we're talking about, because it certainly doesn't bear any resemblance to their Nanna. That whirlwind of creativity and energy wouldn't ever be someone you could confuse with a wolf with big teeth and ears.
So, I have decided - if I want to get fit and lose weight, and become dynamic and sucessful, then one of my kids is going to have to get sprogging and make me a new-age, 21st century Gran. It's the only way.
P.S. Welcome Matt (geddit?)
Wednesday 11 November 2009
All change
Day 57
There is no such thing as a perfect room, at least, none that I have inhabited - they can always be tweaked or improved somehow. One of my most familial habits is to change rooms around, happily searching for that elusive, perfect set-up.
My mum did it, my sister did it, and I have always done it. The children adjusted admirably to coming home from school and finding everything in a different place. They would get a bit annoyed if I did it to their rooms without permission though, so I learnt, just as quickly, to leave well alone there.
We moved house a lot, so our furniture never quite fitted the new rooms it had to furnish, necessitating the shifting, sorting, re-jigging and altering, in order to make it work. My husband knows that his socks only have a temporary permanence in their present drawer, that any week I could decide that another cupboard fits better in the room. Thankfully, he is OK with this.
I spent yesterday moving all the furniture in our sitting room around. We have a long, thin, dark room in a beautiful house, but, come the autumn when the heating is switched on, the sofa (which blocks the radiator all summer) has to be reassigned elsewhere. In this room, there aren't too many options where, and because it is dark, all the plants have to find new places as well.
Today, the shifting I did yesterday, will invoke more knock-on work today. I have already swapped my husband over to the other side of the bed, bookcases now need moving, more plants reallocating (trouble is, they keep getting bigger and I'm more than running out of space), and bedside tables reshuffling.
When it is all done, it will seem for a while to be the perfect set-up. I will enjoy it and feel proud of my endeavours, and keep it tidy and sparkling for a time. It will feel like a new house, and I do so love a new house.
They say that the brain only sees a small percentage of what the eye actually registers, that it uses it's own library of images to fill in the blanks. I find that after a while, I stop seeing my house as it is, it all becomes wallpaper, rather stale, a bit too much under the radar. If I change it all around, rearrange my teapot collection, the family photos, the tea-lights, cushions and pictures, then I really see them again.
I hate waste and I dislike padding. I believe in William Morris's philosophy of having nothing in my house that I do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. I add on, however, anything that has great sentimental value, ie. the anatomically impossible clay cat that your kid made at school.
Anything in my wardrobe that I have not worn in a year gets sent to charity or handed onto friends, and books I have read get recirculated through the same channels. If you move house a lot, big, heavy, boxes of books you will never read again are the first things to go, believe me.
So I dislike the idea of the things that I do have and love, being constantly passed over by my jaded eye. It does me good to refresh them by moving them to a new place, where for a while they will be seen and appreciated. I live in a beautiful house, as I said, and this is my way of putting value on that.
P.S. Hi Janine, my lovely girl, thanks for being there.
There is no such thing as a perfect room, at least, none that I have inhabited - they can always be tweaked or improved somehow. One of my most familial habits is to change rooms around, happily searching for that elusive, perfect set-up.
My mum did it, my sister did it, and I have always done it. The children adjusted admirably to coming home from school and finding everything in a different place. They would get a bit annoyed if I did it to their rooms without permission though, so I learnt, just as quickly, to leave well alone there.
We moved house a lot, so our furniture never quite fitted the new rooms it had to furnish, necessitating the shifting, sorting, re-jigging and altering, in order to make it work. My husband knows that his socks only have a temporary permanence in their present drawer, that any week I could decide that another cupboard fits better in the room. Thankfully, he is OK with this.
I spent yesterday moving all the furniture in our sitting room around. We have a long, thin, dark room in a beautiful house, but, come the autumn when the heating is switched on, the sofa (which blocks the radiator all summer) has to be reassigned elsewhere. In this room, there aren't too many options where, and because it is dark, all the plants have to find new places as well.
Today, the shifting I did yesterday, will invoke more knock-on work today. I have already swapped my husband over to the other side of the bed, bookcases now need moving, more plants reallocating (trouble is, they keep getting bigger and I'm more than running out of space), and bedside tables reshuffling.
When it is all done, it will seem for a while to be the perfect set-up. I will enjoy it and feel proud of my endeavours, and keep it tidy and sparkling for a time. It will feel like a new house, and I do so love a new house.
They say that the brain only sees a small percentage of what the eye actually registers, that it uses it's own library of images to fill in the blanks. I find that after a while, I stop seeing my house as it is, it all becomes wallpaper, rather stale, a bit too much under the radar. If I change it all around, rearrange my teapot collection, the family photos, the tea-lights, cushions and pictures, then I really see them again.
I hate waste and I dislike padding. I believe in William Morris's philosophy of having nothing in my house that I do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. I add on, however, anything that has great sentimental value, ie. the anatomically impossible clay cat that your kid made at school.
Anything in my wardrobe that I have not worn in a year gets sent to charity or handed onto friends, and books I have read get recirculated through the same channels. If you move house a lot, big, heavy, boxes of books you will never read again are the first things to go, believe me.
So I dislike the idea of the things that I do have and love, being constantly passed over by my jaded eye. It does me good to refresh them by moving them to a new place, where for a while they will be seen and appreciated. I live in a beautiful house, as I said, and this is my way of putting value on that.
P.S. Hi Janine, my lovely girl, thanks for being there.
Monday 9 November 2009
A time to remember
Day 55
Yesterday was Rememberance Sunday, something that gets very overshadowed by that other 'remember, remember' on the fifth. When I was a child, the last great war was still very much in people's memories.
My parents had been brought up through evacuation and rationing, make-do-and-mend and grow-your-own. It informed much of who they were as individuals, and therefore, much of what they were like as parents. They would buy a Mars bar on very rare occasions and it was split five ways, each of us hoping for the extra-chocolatey end-piece, and savouring it slowly.
String was hoarded, christmas presents carefully unwrapped and the paper folded neatly for next year, jam jars were scraped until it felt like you were eating the glass, and socks were darned when they ran to holes. Does anybody know how to darn any more? Do sewing kits still contain those wonderfully tactile, brown, wooden mushrooms? A pity if they don't.
Every autumn, the dropped apples were de-bruised and stewed, while the hedgerows were religiously cleared of rose-hips and blackberries. Jumble sales supplied our clothes, very few things were wasted, leftovers were made into other meals, and each winter we relied heavily on hot water bottles and warm brushed-cotton sheets, as the bedrooms were invariably unheated.
My Uncle lost a leg flying fighter planes in the Air Force. He was treated not as disabled, but as a hero. Films were still made celebrating the courage of 'the Few'. As a child I had no idea who they were, but I knew one spoke of them in terms of distinct reverence. I know a little better as an adult and I am truly grateful - whatever my pacifist beliefs on the subject of war are - to all those who fought for me, and the generations that will come after me.
I think it's good to remember a time when - for all those years - selflessness and sacrifice were a part of every day life. When people knew how lucky they were to be alive. When having the latest handbag (at the cost of a small family car) "because you're worth it" would have been recognised as the nonsense that it truly is.
I'm glad that I can live a more comforable life now. That I hoard postmans red elastic bands because I can, not because I must. That apart from one day a year I can forget - they made my life safe enough to take it for granted. So today I shan't, and I say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Yesterday was Rememberance Sunday, something that gets very overshadowed by that other 'remember, remember' on the fifth. When I was a child, the last great war was still very much in people's memories.
My parents had been brought up through evacuation and rationing, make-do-and-mend and grow-your-own. It informed much of who they were as individuals, and therefore, much of what they were like as parents. They would buy a Mars bar on very rare occasions and it was split five ways, each of us hoping for the extra-chocolatey end-piece, and savouring it slowly.
String was hoarded, christmas presents carefully unwrapped and the paper folded neatly for next year, jam jars were scraped until it felt like you were eating the glass, and socks were darned when they ran to holes. Does anybody know how to darn any more? Do sewing kits still contain those wonderfully tactile, brown, wooden mushrooms? A pity if they don't.
Every autumn, the dropped apples were de-bruised and stewed, while the hedgerows were religiously cleared of rose-hips and blackberries. Jumble sales supplied our clothes, very few things were wasted, leftovers were made into other meals, and each winter we relied heavily on hot water bottles and warm brushed-cotton sheets, as the bedrooms were invariably unheated.
My Uncle lost a leg flying fighter planes in the Air Force. He was treated not as disabled, but as a hero. Films were still made celebrating the courage of 'the Few'. As a child I had no idea who they were, but I knew one spoke of them in terms of distinct reverence. I know a little better as an adult and I am truly grateful - whatever my pacifist beliefs on the subject of war are - to all those who fought for me, and the generations that will come after me.
I think it's good to remember a time when - for all those years - selflessness and sacrifice were a part of every day life. When people knew how lucky they were to be alive. When having the latest handbag (at the cost of a small family car) "because you're worth it" would have been recognised as the nonsense that it truly is.
I'm glad that I can live a more comforable life now. That I hoard postmans red elastic bands because I can, not because I must. That apart from one day a year I can forget - they made my life safe enough to take it for granted. So today I shan't, and I say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Saturday 7 November 2009
Finding my place, at last
Day 53
All done, finished, on it's way, hope for the best. Have just emailed the last of the agents with the manuscript for 'I am Red', and there's nothing more I can do now but wait.
That's seven agents in total which doesn't sound like a lot, I know, but they are all in London (which is only 1 1/2 hours away) and they accept submissions of children's books. There were two more on my list, but one turned out to be in Cumbria, and the other isn't taking on anybody at the moment. Needless to say, J. K. Rowling's agent is chock full, big surprise.
The next job is to clear out my work cupboard (which has been geared towards college for the last two years), and turn it into an ordered space for all the paperwork about my book. I can, at this juncture, feel happily confident that there will be paperwork about my book (that doesn't just consist of rejection letters), because I have no evidence to the contrary yet.
This is a FAB space to be in.
This feels like it did when I was ten years old and just knew I was going to be a popstar, or when I was fourteen and discovered I was clearly destined to marry Donny Osmond. (Moving swiftly on....)
There came a time, however, when I wasn't sure what I was useful for. I used to joke that I was born in the wrong century - I could sing and paint and sew and entertain people - and I sometimes felt as if I was missing a tuffet upon which to sit, saying "La" and "Lawks a mercy", whilst looking terribly good in a bonnet. My qualities of being good at raising children and being nice and rather arty seemed more fitted for a Jane Austen novel than London in the 1980's.
At the time, Madonna was photographing herself naked or in bondage gear, and Mrs T was Prime Minister. Yuppies were up and housewife was a dirty word, (thank you Nigella for rebranding that as Domestic Goddess, by the way). I'd missed the tie-dye and macrame craft-fest of the sixties, and I felt out of my league and out of place.
Roll forward to the present day, and suddenly I am congruent with the times. Being a children's author is too cool for school (although saying that, probably isn't). Finding one's own path and treading it with determination, creativity and self-belief, undaunted and unapologetic, seems to be what it's all about.
Maybe this is my decade, who knows? Just as with my book, I must wait and see.
All done, finished, on it's way, hope for the best. Have just emailed the last of the agents with the manuscript for 'I am Red', and there's nothing more I can do now but wait.
That's seven agents in total which doesn't sound like a lot, I know, but they are all in London (which is only 1 1/2 hours away) and they accept submissions of children's books. There were two more on my list, but one turned out to be in Cumbria, and the other isn't taking on anybody at the moment. Needless to say, J. K. Rowling's agent is chock full, big surprise.
The next job is to clear out my work cupboard (which has been geared towards college for the last two years), and turn it into an ordered space for all the paperwork about my book. I can, at this juncture, feel happily confident that there will be paperwork about my book (that doesn't just consist of rejection letters), because I have no evidence to the contrary yet.
This is a FAB space to be in.
This feels like it did when I was ten years old and just knew I was going to be a popstar, or when I was fourteen and discovered I was clearly destined to marry Donny Osmond. (Moving swiftly on....)
There came a time, however, when I wasn't sure what I was useful for. I used to joke that I was born in the wrong century - I could sing and paint and sew and entertain people - and I sometimes felt as if I was missing a tuffet upon which to sit, saying "La" and "Lawks a mercy", whilst looking terribly good in a bonnet. My qualities of being good at raising children and being nice and rather arty seemed more fitted for a Jane Austen novel than London in the 1980's.
At the time, Madonna was photographing herself naked or in bondage gear, and Mrs T was Prime Minister. Yuppies were up and housewife was a dirty word, (thank you Nigella for rebranding that as Domestic Goddess, by the way). I'd missed the tie-dye and macrame craft-fest of the sixties, and I felt out of my league and out of place.
Roll forward to the present day, and suddenly I am congruent with the times. Being a children's author is too cool for school (although saying that, probably isn't). Finding one's own path and treading it with determination, creativity and self-belief, undaunted and unapologetic, seems to be what it's all about.
Maybe this is my decade, who knows? Just as with my book, I must wait and see.
Thursday 5 November 2009
Knit one, pearl one, Pitt one, Clooney one...
Day 51
I am almost a real author - about 35%, I reckon - I will be a proper, true, authentic, absolute and totally real author, when I get the first official letter of rejection about my book. Come that day I shall know that I am a grown-up.
I handed my carefully packaged manuscripts over the counter at the Post Office today, but the lady behind the counter (with weirdly good eyeshadow) looked extremely grumpy that I was taking a long time and requiring proof of postage, etc. I wanted to break through the glass and hug her tightly, dance around the room with her and shout "Isn't it fantastic? There goes my first book!", but of course I said nothing. These are sensitive times for the the GPO, and it doesn't do to frighten their staff.
My manuscript was too large a file to email to one of the agents, so we spent two days finding ways to compress it. I mailed the agent about the problem yesterday and got a reply today, so I mailed her again with the reduced manuscript and she replied saying she'd got it. This is not the height of wit and repartee, I know, but now I can say that I have "been in conversation with an agent about my book", which is the dog's danglies.
My hormone cream has arrived at last - I ran out several days ago and sleeping has been a bit of a problem. Last night, for instance, when I did manage to nod off, I dreamt about knitting! Honestly, I couldn't believe it - I literally bored myself awake. I've nothing against knitting or knitters (knits?), but as the subject of a dream that did not even have the grace to balance itself out by including George Clooney and a decent carpet, it sucks.
What happened to all those marvellous 'flying' dreams one has when one is young? You could just leap onto an air pocket and sail out over the town, free as the wind, and light as a feather. What did they represent, I wonder, that just stops needing expression once we are no longer children? Or were they a memory of our true state, our pre-birth selves, that adults are too far removed to catch even an echo of?
Although some dreams are too 'X' rated for children, (see George and the carpet, above), nothing is quite as free or intense as the way we slept then. The monsters of our adult nightmares are often too close to the truth, born of our fears and insecurities, to be as easily washed away with a hug and glass of milk as they were then. A pity.
Still, tonight I shall sleep well - my cream both knocks me out and reduces the night sweats, so I'm not too disturbed. Even if I don't, I can lie there planning my next book, and when it's done, I'll take balloons in to the Post Office lady so she can join in the fun.
I am almost a real author - about 35%, I reckon - I will be a proper, true, authentic, absolute and totally real author, when I get the first official letter of rejection about my book. Come that day I shall know that I am a grown-up.
I handed my carefully packaged manuscripts over the counter at the Post Office today, but the lady behind the counter (with weirdly good eyeshadow) looked extremely grumpy that I was taking a long time and requiring proof of postage, etc. I wanted to break through the glass and hug her tightly, dance around the room with her and shout "Isn't it fantastic? There goes my first book!", but of course I said nothing. These are sensitive times for the the GPO, and it doesn't do to frighten their staff.
My manuscript was too large a file to email to one of the agents, so we spent two days finding ways to compress it. I mailed the agent about the problem yesterday and got a reply today, so I mailed her again with the reduced manuscript and she replied saying she'd got it. This is not the height of wit and repartee, I know, but now I can say that I have "been in conversation with an agent about my book", which is the dog's danglies.
My hormone cream has arrived at last - I ran out several days ago and sleeping has been a bit of a problem. Last night, for instance, when I did manage to nod off, I dreamt about knitting! Honestly, I couldn't believe it - I literally bored myself awake. I've nothing against knitting or knitters (knits?), but as the subject of a dream that did not even have the grace to balance itself out by including George Clooney and a decent carpet, it sucks.
What happened to all those marvellous 'flying' dreams one has when one is young? You could just leap onto an air pocket and sail out over the town, free as the wind, and light as a feather. What did they represent, I wonder, that just stops needing expression once we are no longer children? Or were they a memory of our true state, our pre-birth selves, that adults are too far removed to catch even an echo of?
Although some dreams are too 'X' rated for children, (see George and the carpet, above), nothing is quite as free or intense as the way we slept then. The monsters of our adult nightmares are often too close to the truth, born of our fears and insecurities, to be as easily washed away with a hug and glass of milk as they were then. A pity.
Still, tonight I shall sleep well - my cream both knocks me out and reduces the night sweats, so I'm not too disturbed. Even if I don't, I can lie there planning my next book, and when it's done, I'll take balloons in to the Post Office lady so she can join in the fun.
Wednesday 4 November 2009
Today I Go, Boldly
Day 50
It is an extraordinary thing to suddenly start discovering myself at fifty years old. I thought I knew who I was, (and to some extent, I did,) but I didn't realise I could feel so different internally, or experience life from such a new perspective.
Take today, for instance. I woke up after a terrible night, with a thumping headache, stiff neck and shoulders, feet so painful I could barely walk, and tinnitus so loud I thought the car alarm had gone off. This is normally a recipe for thinking that things are a bit shit. Today, however, none of that mattered, because I could hardly wait to get down to the computer to finish sending off my manuscripts.
The difference is this - I am finally involved in creating a life that calls me forth and demands that I access my creative energy, that requires me to be who I truly am inside. The sense of balance that is growing within me seems comparable to some lost traveller, stranded out at sea for nineteen years and now finally standing on solid ground.
Internally I feel that something has shifted into it's rightful place, the cogs are beginning to run more smoothly, and the engine is sparking back into life. I know that this is how I must proceed with life, it is indisputable. I recommend to everyone - find your heart's desire, your true path, your unique purpose, and follow it, follow it, if you can no matter how long it takes to find.
It is an extraordinary thing to suddenly start discovering myself at fifty years old. I thought I knew who I was, (and to some extent, I did,) but I didn't realise I could feel so different internally, or experience life from such a new perspective.
Take today, for instance. I woke up after a terrible night, with a thumping headache, stiff neck and shoulders, feet so painful I could barely walk, and tinnitus so loud I thought the car alarm had gone off. This is normally a recipe for thinking that things are a bit shit. Today, however, none of that mattered, because I could hardly wait to get down to the computer to finish sending off my manuscripts.
The difference is this - I am finally involved in creating a life that calls me forth and demands that I access my creative energy, that requires me to be who I truly am inside. The sense of balance that is growing within me seems comparable to some lost traveller, stranded out at sea for nineteen years and now finally standing on solid ground.
Internally I feel that something has shifted into it's rightful place, the cogs are beginning to run more smoothly, and the engine is sparking back into life. I know that this is how I must proceed with life, it is indisputable. I recommend to everyone - find your heart's desire, your true path, your unique purpose, and follow it, follow it, if you can no matter how long it takes to find.
Tuesday 3 November 2009
Happy Birthday book!
Day 49
It has happened at last - as I write this, my book is zinging it's electronic way across miles of country, in an email to my first agent. It is now officially a thing in it's own right - not just an idea of mine, or a project I work on in the privacy of my home, or something that will happen 'one day'. It is a manuscript about to land on somebody's electronic desk, that at some point will be read and considered by a stranger, that has a life of it's own now. My little book has been born.
I spent all of yesterday (until 9.30 at night) hacking away at the computer, and all of today as well. I have searched for, located, and researched nine agents that are currently accepting work from children's authors. I have found out the names of their clients, the kind of work they represent, the person whose desk it should arrive at, and the format they prefer it to be in.
I have scanned in and endlessly re-formatted all my artwork, producing a comprehensive and - dare I say it - beautiful manuscript, reducing an initial file of over 38,000 megabytes to just under 8,500 with Steve's eternally patient help. I have written a covering letter and a short CV of myself. I am now completely cross-eyed and my bum has turned to concrete, but oh, what a buzz!
I have three more agents to email tonight, then tomorrow I must print everything out and send it to the other five. Then that's it - there's nothing else I need to do until I hear from someone. This could take up to ten weeks, so I will push on with book number two whilst I wait. If I got an agent - wow - what a Christmas present that would be!
My book is now the first thought I have upon waking and my last glimpse of consciousness at night. If nothing else, it is helping me to develop My New Life at a rate of knots. My old concerns and difficulties are getting replaced by a constant developement of ideas about my book and it's marketing etc. I always knew that if I wanted to change my life, I daren't wait until I recovered from my illness, I needed to act differently first and then my body and soul would rise to that.
Although I am shattered, I can feel it sitting comfortably upon me, like a well-earned rosette. I am happy, I am happy, what more could I want from life?
It has happened at last - as I write this, my book is zinging it's electronic way across miles of country, in an email to my first agent. It is now officially a thing in it's own right - not just an idea of mine, or a project I work on in the privacy of my home, or something that will happen 'one day'. It is a manuscript about to land on somebody's electronic desk, that at some point will be read and considered by a stranger, that has a life of it's own now. My little book has been born.
I spent all of yesterday (until 9.30 at night) hacking away at the computer, and all of today as well. I have searched for, located, and researched nine agents that are currently accepting work from children's authors. I have found out the names of their clients, the kind of work they represent, the person whose desk it should arrive at, and the format they prefer it to be in.
I have scanned in and endlessly re-formatted all my artwork, producing a comprehensive and - dare I say it - beautiful manuscript, reducing an initial file of over 38,000 megabytes to just under 8,500 with Steve's eternally patient help. I have written a covering letter and a short CV of myself. I am now completely cross-eyed and my bum has turned to concrete, but oh, what a buzz!
I have three more agents to email tonight, then tomorrow I must print everything out and send it to the other five. Then that's it - there's nothing else I need to do until I hear from someone. This could take up to ten weeks, so I will push on with book number two whilst I wait. If I got an agent - wow - what a Christmas present that would be!
My book is now the first thought I have upon waking and my last glimpse of consciousness at night. If nothing else, it is helping me to develop My New Life at a rate of knots. My old concerns and difficulties are getting replaced by a constant developement of ideas about my book and it's marketing etc. I always knew that if I wanted to change my life, I daren't wait until I recovered from my illness, I needed to act differently first and then my body and soul would rise to that.
Although I am shattered, I can feel it sitting comfortably upon me, like a well-earned rosette. I am happy, I am happy, what more could I want from life?
Monday 2 November 2009
Running on empty, but running
Day 48
Well, so hormonal today that I had to wake up Steve to help me get up. Doesn't matter - still on the ball with the next stage of my book project. Ready to spend the day on the computer researching Agents who specialise in children's literature. Getting quite excited now.
Spent some time yesterday helping a friend of Joe's choose colour schemes for all the rooms in her new council house (well, new to her, anyway). Some people really like travel brochures, the Sunday papers, or Heat magazine to look at, but give me the latest batch of paint colour charts, and I'm a happy bunny.
I get a lot from helping people find their own style, rather than impose my own, so Donna is going to have a deep crimson and grey bedroom with a feature wall in black and white wallpaper, a purple and sand sitting room, and a green and orange kitchen complete with the Irish flag and shamrocks painted on the wall. May not be my taste - which hovers somewhere between New England cottage, Karl Larssen and retro kitsch - but it's hers and she's happy.
I suppose that living in rented accommodation (as we do now, since my husband's company went bust) is a little restrictive for me, as I can never paint a room the colour I really want - I always have to keep the landlord and future tenants in mind. My imagination can never really be allowed full reign, so it is quite a treat to be able to go and do it for somebody else. Even if their taste is miles away from my own, at least I get to play at decorating for a bit.
Still, maybe one day - if this book is a success - then I will finally have a place of my own to decorate as crazily or tastefully or outrageously or gorgeously as I want.
Better get on then, hadn't I.
Well, so hormonal today that I had to wake up Steve to help me get up. Doesn't matter - still on the ball with the next stage of my book project. Ready to spend the day on the computer researching Agents who specialise in children's literature. Getting quite excited now.
Spent some time yesterday helping a friend of Joe's choose colour schemes for all the rooms in her new council house (well, new to her, anyway). Some people really like travel brochures, the Sunday papers, or Heat magazine to look at, but give me the latest batch of paint colour charts, and I'm a happy bunny.
I get a lot from helping people find their own style, rather than impose my own, so Donna is going to have a deep crimson and grey bedroom with a feature wall in black and white wallpaper, a purple and sand sitting room, and a green and orange kitchen complete with the Irish flag and shamrocks painted on the wall. May not be my taste - which hovers somewhere between New England cottage, Karl Larssen and retro kitsch - but it's hers and she's happy.
I suppose that living in rented accommodation (as we do now, since my husband's company went bust) is a little restrictive for me, as I can never paint a room the colour I really want - I always have to keep the landlord and future tenants in mind. My imagination can never really be allowed full reign, so it is quite a treat to be able to go and do it for somebody else. Even if their taste is miles away from my own, at least I get to play at decorating for a bit.
Still, maybe one day - if this book is a success - then I will finally have a place of my own to decorate as crazily or tastefully or outrageously or gorgeously as I want.
Better get on then, hadn't I.
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