Getting my blogging mojo back

Lordy, lord. MONTHS of silence, and now you can't shut the girl up.

This is mainly because as I mentioned last week, I have finally finished the rewrites on the new book, now entitled A Merry Little Christmas. I'm waiting for the final final round of rewrites, and am allegedly getting going on the new book, Midsummer Magic, but you know me... Procrastination is my middle name, so here I am instead. Plus, finally after many months I feel a little as if I've got my blogging mojo back.

There are lots of reasons, why it disappeared. The main one being, that creatively my heart and soul has been swallowed up by the Book for the last few months, but also, I think I've been in a period of deep mourning, from which I hope I am just emerging. Losing Rosemarie has affected me more then I thought it would. She was such a huge part of our family life - for years she came to us every Sunday for lunch, and in the last couple of years, we pushed her down the road in her wheelchair, and took her into our garden, so she could enjoy the fresh air, as she couldn't get out on her own. Every time I am in the garden, I see her sitting there, enjoying watching the children play, feeling the breeze on her face, and taking a much more animated interest in the doings of the guinea pigs then I ever do. I miss her more then I can say. She was slightly mad, and said the funniest things, but she was also wise and kind, and always batted in my corner. Something I will ever be grateful for, as that's a rare thing I think, in a mother in law.

The sense of mourning has been probably why I have battled so long and hard with the book. When I started writing it, this time last year, Rosemarie was starting to attend fortnightly sessions at the hospital to have blood transfusions. The staff were immensely kind and supportive, but the majority of patients could take themselves in an out of the unit and they simply weren't geared up for Rosemarie's needs. After the first disastrous attempt to use hospital transport (it arrived late, and the guy appeared never to have pushed a wheelchair before), I took her instead. I'd organise the carers to come in early and go with the children round to her flat, where I'd then get her into the wheelchair, and push her out to the car. This sounds so easy, but it was complicated by a front door which swung back quickly if not held open, and a step that was really awkward to negotiate. My worst moment was the time I nearly tipped the wheelchair in the flowerbed. Luckily no4 who had an instinctive knowledge of what to do to help, was on hand to right it for me.

Sometimes mil walked to the car. But she suffered terribly with her feet, and gave up wearing shoes, so we then had to negotiate a stony path to the car, with her yelping in pain all the way. Then, it was a question of lowering her into the car (she was very tall) helping her get enough purchase, so she didn't fall, and when we'd sat her down, swinging her legs into the car, as she couldn't do that alone. My  brother in law came up with the wheeze of putting a blanket on the car seat, and pulling her across on it, which was a great idea, but jeez it was hard work. Then I had to load the wheelchair and zimmer in, take the kids to school, and then go on to the hospital (luckily within a stones' throw of school), where I'd unload Rosemarie, put her in the wheelchair, load the zimmer and her day bag on the back, and then push her up the steepish slope to the hospital.

Once into the haemotology unit, I'd get her settled in with the nurse, and then she had to endure the longest of days, for someone of her age and in her condition. First, she'd have her blood taken. Poor Rosemarie HATED the sight of blood, so I used to hold her hand and talk loudly about the children while she was having it done. They'd then test to see if she need a transfusion. Nine times out of ten, the answer was yes. On the rare occasion that it was no, we both felt like we'd got out of jail free. On one such instance, I took Rosemarie for coffee up the road - the first time she'd been in a cafe for months, and the waitress was so kind, giving us free muffins, and really looking after Rosemarie, I still think of that kindness and smile. We had a rare moment of pleasure in the misery, and it was the last time I took her out for a coffee.

Then we'd have to wait around for the blood pack to be made up. It always took hours. And I'd have to weigh up at what point I should take Rosemarie to the loo, given it took her a while to get there, and pushing a zimmer, while being attached to a drip is no fun at all. I never asked the staff to take her. They were simply too busy, and like I said, the department just wasn't geared up for Rosemarie's needs. To while away the time when we were waiting, I used to ask Rosemarie about her life in Germany - which is where the stories from my other blog http://storiesfromagedmil.blogspot.com came from. I wish I'd done that earlier, but c'est la vie. I got some of them down.

Once the blood transfusion was up and running, I felt it was safe to leave her. More often then not, bil would arrive to take over, so I could either go home and catch up, or depending on the time, go and do the school run. It was always an exhausting and difficult experience, and for Rosemarie, it must have been nightmarish at times. She bore it all with her usual fortitude and equanimity, but she would be shattered by the time she got home. I did wonder if it were worth it, though the first few times, she certainly seemed less tired then before. And I guess it kept her going a bit longer then if she hadn't had it. Though I suspect she might have been doing it for our sakes, and left to her own devices, would have been just as happy to let nature take it's course.

So during last summer, precious little writing got done. I did sometimes take my notebook and write while Rosemarie slept, but it was distracting and difficult to concentrate. And of course the constant emotional rolller coaster has an impact too.

Come the autumn, it got worse. Rosemarie had been having back pains on and off, and they became so bad she couldn't get up one day. So I called the doctor and despite our desperate desire to avoid it, we had no choice but to let Rosemarie to hospital. It was a grim and ghastly experience. Spouse and I spent a long and hideous day in casualty before Rosemarie was eventually taken to the ward, where she was treated with barely concealed contempt and a roughness which made me want to kill people. HOW anyone can treat the elderly and vulnerable the way Rosemarie was treated that day and call themselves a nurse I don't know. All I do know, was that when we left, we both felt terrible leaving her that night, and it still makes me furious.

Being mil, she got back on her feet, and got herself out of there, thank god, but we were quickly approaching a crisis, and on a weekend away which had we known how things were going, we would have cancelled, we made the decision to move Rosemarie in with us. It was hard for all of us, but particularly for mil, as she had clung to her independence for so long, and I'm fairly sure would have wanted to die there. But we had no option. After a terrible weekend when we'd asked for two carers for each visit as mil couldn't manage anymore with one, we had a farcical situation with the carers putting her in bed the wrong way round one night, and I spent more time with her then at home, mil agreed to come to us. So bil came and moved her bed (carrying the mattress up the road on his head), we packed up all her stuff, and her, and she came to stay. It was a bitter sweet moment. We all knew she was never going back to the flat again, and we kept up the pretence she was staying with us, till she felt better.

And better she did feel at first. Mil had a tendency to take dips down and then rally back again. Her spirit was indomitable and her endurance astonishing. Having not been able to walk for several days, suddenly she was able to get to the loo again with help. But our loo was too low for her (we did have a raised seat) and it was narrow, and there was very little purchase. All too soon, she couldn't manage anymore, and we had to get a commode. To explain all the delays and the difficulties of getting the equipment we needed (including getting the wrong equipment) would take me the rest of my life, but one surreal moment included trying to raise the bed so the newly delivered hoist would work. As sod's law would have it, they forgot to deliver the bed raising blocks, so the hoist would fit underneath it. Spouse in his usual can do, will do anything spirit, tried to prop it up with bits of wood, but it was a disaster, so we went back to square one and got Rosemarie to bed without the help of the hoist (as it happened they'd sent the wrong sized sling anyway).

We had a month where life was like that. I had days where the result of an enema would occur the minute the district nurse/carer left (poor Rosemarie was very constipated, and I swear 90% of the time she performed the minute I was on my own), we had nights where she couldn't settle and Spouse and I were in and out raising her legs in and out of bed, a hilarious night, where she'd tried to get out of bed to go to the loo, and in my attempt to get her to the commode, she ended up on my lap, and a more poignant one, where she suggested I get into bed with her and snuggle up. In the end it was all too much. We were both exhausted, the kids who were amazing  throughout it all were struggling, and Rosemarie's needs had got beyond what I could manage alone (even with the much valued help of my amazing mother - an ex nurse - who came for two weeks and taught me how to lift and roll Rosemarie so she was comfy in bed). One night, Rosemarie looked at me and said, I don't think I should be here anymore.

So that was it. After the last attempt to give Rosemarie a transfusion had failed in October, the consultant had referred us to the Princess Alice Hospice where Rosemarie eventually died. We had a wonderful wonderful nurse who came to see us several times a week, and she arranged for Rosemarie to get into the hospice quickly. So quickly in fact, they came two hours after I called. I wasn't ready, and was heartbroken she was leaving us, on what we all knew was her last journey. The kids were desperate too, when they came home and discovered her gone. She'd always lived up the road from us, and now she seemed very far away.

Being Rosemarie, once she was there, she rallied again. So we were able to visit that weekend, and take her for a coffee in the little cafe at the hospice, and have a lovely lovely afternoon, the memory of which I will cherish for ever. In fact she rallied so much, there was a suggestion she came home again. From having wanted to keep her, I had realised once in the hospice, I couldn't possibly care for her as well as they could (my first experience of this - up until then I felt the so called professionals had let us all down). Now the thought of her coming back filled me with horror. I knew we couldn't manage, and felt lousy for not being able to. Fortunately, it was only a suggestion, and though Rosemarie lingered for another five weeks, it was never again mooted that she should come home.

Her time in the hospice was very strange. We visited daily, bil and I in the day, Spouse in the evenings, the children at the weekends, and we had some wonderful moments. The best of which was the afternoon we took Rosemarie's accordion in (it's 80years old, handmade, laden with mother of pearl), and no 1 played it for her, and one afternoon when I was with no 2 and sang Silent Night to her in German. Daily life continued as normal, but I felt I was stuck in a bubble, where I would forever be driving back and forth to Esher and nothing would ever change.

During that time, Rosemarie told me ever more about her early days in Germany, returning again and again to her childhood. I wrote it down, desperately, wishing each day for one more story. Till we came to a day when she could tell me no more. She was slipping away from us, but still gave a delighted smile when we arrived, and held my hands tightly the whole time I was there, insisting as my poor hands were so cold they had to come under the blanket.

On the Sunday before she died, no 3 and I went in the afternoon. She was cheery and pleased to see us as ever, and still at that point able to talk. I left wishing she'd go like that - a similar feeling to one I'd had just before fil died. As we left the hospice a dark cloud was forming on one side, against bright sunshine on the other. We drove home to not one but two rainbows, even spotting a third. Somehow, that gave me hope and comfort.It seemed so appropriate for Rosemarie somehow.

The next day she could barely speak, and by the Wednesday, was very weak, but still that smile, and that joy when no 4 and I went in. By the Thursday afternoon, the smile had gone, and she was in considerable pain and distress. I couldn't hear what she was saying to me, and no 4 realising that she couldn't either, just took Omi's hand and talked to her. She was only 9 years old, but she showed such a ready empathy. Children are amazing sometimes.

I must have looked rough as hell as several of the nurses asked if I was ok. I wasn't. I felt overwhelmed with it, wondering how long it was going to go on, and feeling for the first time as though I couldn't take it anymore. It was so distressing to see Rosemarie like that. I just wanted her suffering over.

And that night it finally was.Spouse and I went back in the evening, where to my relief they'd upped her pain relief, and Rosemarie was unconscious but calm. I hope she  knew we were there. A couple of hours later we got a call to say we should come soon. No 1 was at a friend's house, so I went to pick her up early. Earlier in the day, we had joked about her indestructible granny. Can I come with you to the hospice? she asked. I wasn't expecting that. She was only fifteen. Was she too young to come? But she was insistent. When at midnight we got the expected call, she was determined to come. No 4 was asleep, but the other two had been up crying, so we left them with chocolate and to comfort each other and drove in the dark to Esher.

It was so weird,  it was a mild night and the birds were SINGING. I didn't know they did that. We got out at Esher feeling sick to the pit of our stomachs. I thought maybe we would be there for the end, but as soon as we rang the bell, a nurse appeared to say that sadly Rosemarie had died peacefully a  few minutes before. We went to see her, and she did look peaceful. They brought us tea, and we all cried. Bil and sil turned up five minutes later and hugged no 1. She had wanted to come and support us, she said, and all she could do was cry. That's all we all did pretty much for the next couple of days. No 3 felt dreadful as she hadn't been able to pluck up courage to see Rosemarie the previous day, which was perfectly fine of course, and no2 who had been incredible at helping look after Rosemarie when she was with us, was also in bits. It was a very soggy house, but in a good way I think and immensely bonding for us as a family.

I hadn't meant to write any of that, but out it came anyway. Weird how the subconscious works, innit?

From October to Christmas I didn't write a thing, unsurprisingly, I guess, and it took me weeks to get going again in the New Year. It felt like drowning in sludge, but eventually I got the first draft in six weeks late. I had thought the rewrites would be a doddle, but they were even worse. I felt tangled and confused, and making sense of the manuscript was a nightmare. But somehow I've persevered, and am pleased to say my editor likes the result. I hope you will too. There is a strong thread of fictionalised truth running through the book - like any good writer I turn my pain into something useful.

I'm still sorting out in my head what the last year has meant to me, and I don't think emotionally, I'm quite out of the woods yet. What I do know, is this, it was a huge privilege to have held Rosemarie's hand while she lay dying. I still miss her every day, but I am glad she's not suffering anymore. And finally, I'm getting my blogging mojo back. About time too, I can hear her say. Get on with it girl, why don't you?

Inspiration... or lack of.

I am in a state of limbo with writing at the moment. I am still waiting for rewrites on the Christmas book, which is hovering round the edges of my consciousness, and preventing me from going full speed ahead and getting properly started on my next book. Uggh. I wish I could do this another way. It would be lovely to sit down for three hours every morning after Spouse has gone to work and the kids are at school and just WRITE in a focussed and meaningful kind of way. But. I. Just. Can't....

Instead I witter about, putting off the housework. Now doing THAT would be at least productive. Visiting blogs I like, joining in chats on my online groups, surfing the net ostensibly for research, getting on with editing stuff I also need to do, and ... looking up songs I want for the soundtrack for the next book.

Starting a new book is incredibly daunting. In fact, it seems to be getting more daunting every time I do it. Is this the time the muse will fail to strike? Will someone find me out for the fraud I am? Will everyone hate it? Will I hate it?

Oh stop buggering about and just DO it...

I know once I take the plunge it will probably be fine, and this frittering/wittering time is I am convinced part of the process for me, because although I still haven't completely worked out my plot, or my structure, or even all of the characters' names, my subconscious is working over time at the moment, and every day throws up another good idea, which goes conscientiously down on the huge list I seem to be writing for all things relating to this masterpiece, and which I am hoping I still remember when I come to write it.

This book, as I've mentioned before is going to focus on female friendship. So the story is about four girlfriends - I've called them the Fab Four in honour of a quartet I was part of with my twin in our teens, and I've tried to give them significant names according to important female friendships I've had at various points in my life.

So I have: Sarah, who represents my Fab Four era, Beth for my university days (named after Beth Jordache from Brookie, which was a formative influence at the time) Doris for the time I got married, as a friend jokingly named me that, and I'm a bit stuck on number four who is representative of my friends now. I'm toying with Fran or Frankie as a nod to Dirty Dancing which is the favourite film of a good friend of mine, but I don't really like that name, so I may just ask my mate her second name instead, or possibly use a character from Desperate Housewives. Having not named number four is one of the reasons I'm a bit stuck, as until her name's right I can't get properly going on her story. I am comforting myself with the fact that Emily wasn't going to be the main thrust of Strictly Love, but came good in the end. So I'm sure my unnamed heroine will be fine... in the end.

In the meantime I am getting lots of ideas about music....

White Wedding by Billy Idol is a must, as is Here Come the Girls, by the Sugababes. But I'm also lining up: Ever Fallen in Love by the Buzzcocks, Shadow of Love by the Damned, Don't You Forget About Me Simple Minds, Always on my Mind Pet Shop Boys (all of which were part of the soundtrack to my own love life, and I need to tap into that emotion). I'm also considering Man with the Child in his Eyes by Kate Bush, Before I Fall to Pieces by Razorlight and Let me Entertain you by Robbie (good old Robbie, what would I do without him?)

Part of the process of this for me also is that I need to be working towards a major pivotal emotional scene which occurs at the end of the book, and always before I start writing I have that scene in my head. In Pastures New I soundtracked it to Sing by Travis, in Strictly Love it was Feel by Robbie Williams, and in Last Christmas it's Pretty Amazing Grace by Neil Diamond.
This time around, I had worked out what the scene was, and also worked out how I was going to utilise some spare untapped emotion I needed to get rid of without upsetting people I know in my real life, but I hadn't got a song. If I wasn't stupid, I'd have picked up Mad Twin's reference to it month's ago, but somehow I didn't, and I only got it from Medium Rob's blog last week, and then heard it again used to fabulous effect in Being Human. It's Johnny Cash's version of Hurt. Apparently recorded just before he and his wife died. Listen and weep...

Back to it....

Regular readers of this blog may have noticed that I have been rather chatty in the last two weeks. In fact there have even been days when I have written more then one blog post. This is mainly because I had finished the first draft of my next book, Last Christmas (which is coming out next Christmas).

I use the word "finish" advisedly. This is the fifth novel I've written (seventh if you include two unpubbed children's books) and over the ten years I've been plugging away at this I've come to realise that my MO tends to be to get the story out as quickly as I can, and then go back and fill in all the gaps, insert a bit more depth and spend lots of time polishing. When I first started out I used to revise as I went and it nearly drove me demented, as well as having the unfortunate effect of editing out any of the energy and impetus of the original version. Plus I usually hated it when I came to look at it again. This way I throw the story out warts and all and then take a long hard look at it when it comes winging its way back from my editor and agent.

Good news this time is editor and agent both like it (What, said Spouse, would you do if they didn't????), phew. Other good news it's coming back in time for me to be in the proper pre-festive mode suitable for writing a book about Chrimbo. I can't TELL you how hard it was writing about Christmas in July. I kept all the kids' nativity bits and pieces and letters to Santa (have been hiding them all year, they've just written new ones which is handy), have got stacks of Christmas books to look at, lists of Christmas carols to choose from and last year's Argos catalogue. But there is absolutely nothing like having that sinking feeling I got to today when I realised there's a month to go and I've barely started, to dig deep into what it really means to plan Christmas in all it's glory(which is vital for one of my characters).

For this book I have created a village in Shropshire called Hope Christmas, which is loosely based on the town where my mother lives, and where I got married. Hope Christmas is both like and unlike my mother's town as I have picked and chosen the bits I like best. I spent a few days with me ma and the sprogs over half term, really trying to get the geography and location really fixed in my head. It was quite weird in a way as I have been visiting my mother's town for twenty years and there were some views I felt like I was looking at for the very very first time. I tried to keep a very strong picture of the places I visited in my head, so I can write them properly into the book, but I also took lots of photos as an aide memoire.

So here are a few of the locations for Hope Christmas, which I like so much now I want to live there...
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One of the locations I've made up in the environs of Hope Christmas is a place called Hopesay Manor. It doesn't look quite like this, but Stokesay Castle picture below was a great model.

Here's an outside view



Here's the mediaeval entrance, unchanged apparently since the 12th century. Fabulous.



And here's the Great Hall



I have also drawn huge inspiration from Walcott Hall which has a wonderful drive way and lake in front of it, for the outside of my manor.



Plowden Hall provided me with my initial inspiration, having as it does a mediaeval chapel, which I have used as the basis of the chapel in Hopesay Manor which is a vital part of the plot.



I also scoured the area to find various houses that my characters live in. Two of them live up a lane by a stream, which I found here, just outside my mother's town.

This is the track to my hero's house


And this is the track that leads from his house to the hills where he farms his sheep



And the stream near where he lives, which has a vital part to play in the story...


And finally, here is a valley which my heroine walks in constantly. It's also somewhere I have walked more times then I care to remember over the last 20 years, and for which I have an abiding passion. Every time I go there it looks different, depending on the season, the weather and whether the heather is in flower, or the gorse is going golden. It is the most wonderful magical place, and has had a hold on my imagination since I was a small child and first read Malcolm Saville's brilliant Lone Pine Adventures which are partially set in this area. My parents very conveniently chose to retire here so not only could I have my wedding in the most wonderful location,but also come and visit regularly and use it for my own inpsirational purposes. Thanks parents...


So now it's back to the grindstone. Doing a lot more research to make sure I have got things right. Trying to pull out the depth of emotion I'm after. Making sure my character's dilemmas feel real and true. Having actually the best time of my life, and best of all getting paid for it.

I can't wait.

A sliver of ice in the heart

Apparently this is a phrase that Graham Greene used when describing artists/novelists. (I know I have read the full quote before, but frustratingly can't seem to find it on the internet this morning). According to Greene the "true artist" possesses "a sliver of ice in the heart" which enables him/her to portray in some way/write about the human condition. It's that little bit of detachment (which to be honest we probably all have to a degree in moments of high stress) that enables the writer ( I think in the main he was thinking about writers) to bank experiences and draw on them later, even if it seems exploitative to do so.

Now I wouldn't claim to be anything as grand as an artist or a novelist,(though I am beginning to think I can call myself a writer now that I've had two books published. ) but I do completely get what Greene was talking about.

I'll give you an example. The day my father in law died was possibly one of the most stressful (and at times unintentionally hilarious) days of my life.I had a phone call from my mother in law to say he was ill while I was in the middle of icing no 4's birthday cake (it was her first birthday). I ran up the road with two small children and spent a very odd half an hour having tea with my mil while she wouldn't let me into see fil as she kept telling me he was resting. My first instinct had been that he'd died, but she covered it up so well I thought I must be imagining things. Suddenly she announced I could go and see him, and I walked into the room and immediately saw he was dead. Don't know how, as apart from seeing my dad's body in the funeral parlour (which was completely different) I'd never seen a dead body before. I was just panicking about wtf I did next when there was a ring on the doorbell. The District Nurse had come to visit him. "Thank god," I said, "I think my father in law's just died." Which was probably just what she wanted to hear...

Now obviously I was in a state of high stress with all this going on, but do you know, even at that moment, a bit of my brain had detached itself and was taking notes and turning it into a tale to be told later. I could even hear Fil's voice in my head, Saying "There was poor old Jules, with Mum, and the children and my dead body." To this day that makes me laugh. (I hasten to add Fil, to whom I was utterly devoted, would also have laughed, he was that kind of person). And I know I tapped right into that experience when writing a scene in Pastures New.

I mention all this because I am about to start a new book. I know it's going to be about weddings. And I have four characters forming in my head. Up until relatively recently though I had envisaged writing a bubbly frothy kind of book. But I am rapidly coming to the conclusion I can't write that kind of story. The more I've been thinking about it, the more I want this one to celebrate friendship - and specifically female friendship, of the sort I have been lucky enough to share with several people over the course of my life. The sort of friendship where you casually trade details of your boring domestic life, but underpinning the crappy boredom of your daily dross is a much deeper bond. I know I've been fortunate to have that kind of friendship at several different points in my life, even of sometimes the friendships haven't for whatever reason stood the test of time. I also know at the moment I have several friendships which are so rock solid I could probably just pitch up on the door at midnight in trouble and each one of the women I am thinking about would calmly put the kettle on and ask how they could help.

So that's what I want to write about. But since I've finished book 3 (well not finished properly -this is the lull before I get to do rewrites) and I've given it more thought, my subconscious appears to be playing havoc with my creative synapses (not sure that sentence makes sense, but I hope you understand what I mean) and I am finding myself drawn to a difficult period in my life which happened some time ago, which I never ever thought I'd write about. It was painful and sad and I don't particularly want to go back and revisit it, besides which there are other people who might be affected by what I write, which is something I'm also not sure I want to do. It's also the only time in my life when I couldn't have found the necessary detachment to write about it.

But suddenly the sliver of ice bit of me is taking hold to a quite alarming extent, and I am feeling quite compelled to write some of this stuff in a way I could never have imagined before. So now I am trying to find a way to harness all this emotion in a positive way, because whatever I may think I want to write, I feel the book will be a shadow of what it could be if I don't let some of this stuff out.

Interestingly, I also wrote the first rough scene yesterday, which actually I didn't write. It kind of wrote itself. It's a wedding day scene which seems a good way to start a book about weddings dontcha know, and features the bride tensely waiting with her father for the wedding car to arrive. I freely admit to plundering my own wedding day experience here, though my heroine's reasons for being tense with her dad are somewhat different to my own. I can't recall ever having felt so gripped with the need to write something down. It was most peculiar.

Then last night I had a very long complicated dream which featured long walks in the country in different locations, with various members of my family, and some of my children. I ended the dream in a house opposite where our walk had started, and I was worried that the rest of the family who were behind us wouldn't catch up. Then the door opened, and I went expecting to find the children. Instead I found my dad. Which was weird and unsettling because in all the years since he died I've only dreamt of him a handful of times, and never have I seen his face. But here he was facing me. It was him in the flesh. Something I've subconsciously wanted for the last thirteen years.

And yet.... my subconscious is unfortunately far too realistic. "You're not supposed to be here," I said. Which wasn't how the planned reunion was meant to go. I think I told him that twice and he crumpled and fell. So I felt a heel and went to hug him. Now, when my father was alive he gave the best bear hugs going, but here he was dead, in my dream, and the hug was completely insubstantial. And I knew as I hadn't noticed before that I was dreaming. And I felt a howl of anguish such as I haven't felt since he died, and I was fighting, fighting through layers of filmy water to reach the surface and wake up. And I knew. Absolutely, categorically that somehow somewhere, that experience is going to find its way into a story (my parallel universe one will do nicely thank you) - so it's as if for me the sliver of ice is still operating even when I'm asleep.

And in a funny kind of way it solved my dilemma about the current book. I am going to tap into the emotions that are calling me. And I'm just going to see where they take me. Because I have a feeling where I'll end up is somewhere a long way from where I started, but the story forming in my head just wants to be told.

The Downside...

...of the kids going to Stagecoach all week is that they are putting on a show this afternoon, and I have had to put up with them singing this every day...




Although I have to say I'd prefer listening to A Hard Knock Life then that bloody Tomorrow song...

And I don't mind this one. But then I'm a big fan of Oliver!



Although truth be known my favourite song is this one, which I find terribly affecting. It must be Mark Lester's cute little face...



No4 is also delighted to be singing this, as after having seen The Sound of Music she decided as the youngest in the family she is destined to play Gretl. Although, alas, not today...




They have also quite hilariously tried to demonstrate this one to me this morning no 4 dressed as a tiger and no 3 as a lion. No 1 refused to take part because she hates her off the shoulder leopardskin costume so much I am banned from videoing this afternoon's great performance. No2 sang the first bit then decided the whole thing was too embarrassing for words so marched off. I have a feeling Disney did it somewhat better...



There has been much excitement in the house about this great event - despite nos 1&2 inevitably bitching about the unfairness of not having major roles (that's showbusiness, kids, get used to it!). No 4 has been obsessing about her costumes since Monday. Most of it's provided (thank god), but I had to find some ripped shirts and rub them with coal (Coal???? who has coal in these centrally heated times?). I provided an old school shirt, but this wasn't good enough, so no 4 unilaterally decided to cut up another shirt which wasn't quite so old. Nos 2&3 spent yesterday afternoon sewing patches on their orphan dresses (I will no doubt be sitting on needles for months), and then no3 spent a happy time in the vegetable patch rolling hers in mud, while no 2 squeezed teabags over hers to get the desired raggedy look effect.

I could have done without the costume palaver, but they've had a blast.

And on the upside I've written 10 000 words this week, and am nearly at the 30 000 mark. I'm roughly a quarter of the way through, which means if I can keep doing little bits over the summer I won't be in such dire straits as I was at the start of last school year when I stopped writing for about six weeks, got stuck very heavily into no 1's startingsecondaryschool traumas which left me no emotional energy and severely dented my ability to write, and had a panicky time trying to meet my deadline.

On the other hand, knowing how my life works, I'm sure there'll be a new domestic crisis which will bite me on the backside just to make sure I end up racing to the end at breakneck speed.

Still, I probably couldn't do it all if I actually had TIME to...

Holly-olly-daze

I have I realise been a tad quiet of late. This is mainly because the school holidays started ridiculously early this year, as the school nos 2&3 go to decided most inconveniently they had to close six days early so they could get some building work done. (Yes I did say six days, and don't get me started on how annoying that is when they wouldn't let me have one piddling day's holiday last year to go to France, the one and only time I've ever asked for it). This was more then a tad inconvenient as not only do I have a novel to write by the end of October (gulp) I also had rather a lot of other work on. Thankfully a mum chum was in a similar position and we spent a few days swapping children in order that we both got a shot at working. Interestingly, for the first time EVER, I have discovered that so long as they all have a friend to play, my lot are now old enough that I can actually get some work done when they are in the house. Unfortunately that doesn't extend to writing which requires too much mental headspace, and I tend to find when the offspring are about they occupy all my mental headspace, so the two things clash a bit.

Which is why this week I've packed them all off to Stagecoach for a week's drama, singing and dancing. Who knows, one of them might turn out to be the next Keira Knightley. (Although given that no 1 is currently learning guitar, no 2 wants to learn the drums, no 3 is after playing the sax no 4 though undecided knows she wants to make NOISE, and there's a new rock school down the road, I think it's more likely they'll become The Williams Quartet. Hopefully more Corrslike then Nolans...)

Alot of mums I know complain about the holidays, as they don't know what to do with bored kids. This is one advantage of having four, because generally mine always have someone to play with. But the main reason I never complain is that it is SO BLOODY LOVELY not having to take them to school, and even better not having to take them to all their after school activities.

I have been utterly knackered since about January, and was beginning to think there was something seriously wrong with me. Not that I'm a hypochondriac or anything but anaemia, diabetes, cancer all went through my mind. Since the kids have stopped school, I feel like a new person. I am energetic. I am relaxed. I actually have time to do things. I've belatedly realised that this is because during term time I lose 2 hours a day to the school run, plus another 2-3 to hawking children from one activity to the next. So at the moment I'm 5 hours a day up on the deal and I don't have to go anywhere.

Thanks to all the exhaustion my bold plans to get a triathlon under my belt have come to nothing (again) and for the first time since I've started swimming properly I've missed a month's worth of training sessions. In fact, I've barely done anything since the Race for Life. I was getting a tad paranoid about this thinking I might go back to being a complete slouch in the pool, so when I finally got to swim last night I was more then a little nervous. I wasn't helped by the fact that I got in the pool, got going before everyone else in my lane, but turned out to be the slowest person there, so I was holding them all up so much that Lovely Trainer shoved me to the back (haven't had that humiliation for a while). But by the end of the session I'd caught up, and managed 66 lengths without too much difficulty. Not quite as fast or far as I swam a month ago, but considering everything not too bad at all...

So all things being equal I am planning to enjoy the rest of the summer, though I do have to stop blogging now to get on with writing a book (slightly inconveniently I have been trying to recall Christmas at the sunniest part of the year), and hope that when the sprogs eventually go back in September some of my newfound energy might last me until, ooh, at least October...