So.. this year I have decided to give up drinking (and more importantly smoking which I stupidly started doing again last year) for the month of October. The smoking is intended to be permanent. I did it before for ELEVEN years (I know, I know. I am the classic, can't just have one girl, the fact of which I forgot to remind myself last year when I had one the night before my mother's funeral.) so I know I can do it again.
The reason I'm doing this is not just for health reasons however, though of course that's a jolly good thing and my liver will be grateful.
Unfortunately a very dear friend of ours has recently been diagnosed with throat cancer and is currently undergoing radiotherapy at the Royal Marsden. We've known Ash since we got married, and we all (kids included) regard him as part of the family, so we're obviously trying to support him in any way we can at a particularly rubbish time for him. (And it is rubbish. I had really no idea quite how brutal radiotherapy can be. I know it is for the greater good in the end, but it's almost a case of the cure being worse than the disease.)
Before Ash started the radiotherapy, he was planning to drink milk when he was out as alcohol was likely to burn his throat (as it happens that's not been the case as he struggled even with milk) and I jokingly said I'd keep him company and not drink for October. But when I thought about it, I decided if I wasn't going to drink I may as well try and raise money for the Royal Marsden where Ashley is being treated.
So that's what I'm doing. Since Ash has been ill I've spent alot of time at the Marsden with him and I cannot praise the staff there enough for their exemplary kindness and care of all their patients. Everyone from the senior consultants to the cleaners seem to have an extra layer of empathy and understanding than is normal in an NHS hospital. There is a calmness and hopefulness about the place, despite the reasons why people are there. I've witnessed a little bald headed girl in a wheelchair in the canteen joyfully accepting a treat of a muffin just like any normal kid her age, and seen people in agony laughing and joking with the nurses. The atmosphere on the wards is calm and unhurried, the staff at the reception desk are kind and informative, and seem to know the majority of patients by name. In short, it's the kind of place if the worst were to happen to you or yours, that you would absolutely want to be treated.
I know there are alot of claims on people's purses, which is why I deliberately haven't set a target on this, but if you could spare anything, however small, please do support my fundraising efforts, if you can. For all the Ashleys of the world. Sadly there are far too many.
https://www.justgiving.com/JuliaWilliamsboozefreemonth
Sunday, October 11, 2015
Sunday, June 07, 2015
Nanny McPhee
It is June and I realise I have not blogged at all in 2015. Which is shameful. All I can say in my defence is that it has been a very busy year.
Anyway. Here I am, with a very overdue post about my amazing mum, Ann Moffatt, who died after a very short and sudden illness last May.
What can I say about my mum? So very very much, and yet I don't think I have enough or adequate words to explain what and how much she meant to me. Or how much I miss her a year on. However old I get to be, I don't think I will ever be done missing her.
However as a start I'll say my mum was like Nanny McPhee , always there when you needed her, though unlike Nanny McPhee always always wanted as well. I am one of eight children and my mother pulled off the extraordinary trick of always being there for each of her children whenever any of us had a problem. So twenty odd years ago, after I'd had minor surgery the first face I saw when I came round was my mum's. Never mind that my dad had been very poorly and she was undoubtedly worried sick (not that she'd have let me know that) she squeezed out a few hours in a very stressful period to dash across London so she could be with me when I woke up. Looking back now I am astounded by her generosity and nonchalance about what it must have cost her. As the years rolled on, and particularly after my dad died, she made it a point of honour to be there for the births of all of our children. I remember talking to women in my antenatal class about how they were all dreading their mums being around. And all I could think was I can't imagine having a baby without my mum being there.
Because Mother was just extraordinary. She would arrive at the later stages of my pregnancy, make me sit down, cook us meals, and quietly and competently take over the running of the household without ever appearing interfering. At every point in every pregnancy when Mama turned up I would breathe a sigh of relief and welcome her arrival and the chance for me to take a break. She was also brilliantly clear about what she would and wouldn't do - she was there to help, but wasn't up for night duty. Fair enough, these were my babies. She also was deeply restrained about not jumping in and taking over the baby. She regarded her role as looking after me so I could have time with the new arrival. An unusual and I think rare generosity in a grandmother.
And yet when she did look after the babies, she did it with such aplomb and ease I was in awe. We had a family holiday when our second daughter was two months old. She was a colicky baby and difficult to settle. Five minutes under my mother's capable ministrations and said baby was burped swaddled and sleeping happily. Can't say I ever managed to do that as well as she did.
As the children grew, my mother came into her own as a doting loving grandmother, whose house in Shropshire was a haven for us all. My children have the happiest childhood memories of weekends spent scrabbling up hillsides, playing pooh sticks in the brook and trying (and failing) to beat Gamma at scrabble. ( I think I beat her once in my entire life).
As time went on I was increasingly tied up with not only my children but my in laws. My father in law had a massive stroke just after our eldest was born and needed constant care thereafter. So long before the term was invented Spouse and I were sandwich carers to two elderly parents and four small children. When my lovely father in law died in 2003, we took on the role of unofficial carers to my mother in law. Throughout this period my mother was a constant support. We didn't live close to one another, but I rang her every week (a habit started when I first left home which I never lost. I was heartbroken last year when her illness meant those phone calls came to an abrupt and sudden end). And every week. Mother would patiently listen to my gripes and groans, and be there with good practical advice.
Because that was another thing about my mum. She was and amazingly practical person. Devoutly religious, she always related to Martha rather than Mary. She found it hard to express feelings in words, but boy did she express them in actions. Nearly four years ago when my mil developed leukaemia and was dying, we made the decision to have her living with us. After a single phone call when Mother picked up how stressed I was (empathy another quality) she rang me and said , "I've cleared my diary, I'll be on the next train." And next thing I knew at a point in my life when I was utterly at my wits end, there was my mum in the background doing her thing. Again. It was the same routine as when I was pregnant. She never interfered or judged us, she simply made us dinner, picked the youngest up from school, did laundry, ironing and housework, and quite frankly kept me sane. As a ex nurse her skills came in useful when I didn't know what to do, teaching me how to roll mil in bed and how to lift her out of a chair without breaking my back (towel under the arms and pull. You're welcome. Of course modern health and safety says that's a no no, but like a lot of Ma's old fashioned remedies it damned well worked. She was just incredible . At 81 showing no sign of slowing down at all.
And yet... Maybe the signs were there. As soon as mil got so I'll she needed to go into the hospice, Mother was booking her train home. I remember feeling slightly miffed at the time, I wanted to spend some relaxed time with her, and she as pushing off. But looking back I can see she must have been knackered, but being my mum she could never have admitted it. But still tired or not, when I rang to tell her on 23 December that mil had died and we wouldn't be coming to her at Christmas as planned, she didn't show me any of the disappointment I know she would have been feeling but just let me cry down the phone. And the after the funeral was over insisted I spent a few days with her alone in Shropshire for some much needed r and r. That was my mum all over. Seeing what you needed, even when you couldn't yourself.
She was always a force of nature:energetic, capable, and positive. We all thought she'd go on for ever. I'd always had visions of her dying in her 90s, possibly in her sleep after climbing care caradoc for the last time. So it was a massive shock to discover in February last year that she was suffering from an inoperable brain tumour. I cried very day for six weeks when I found out. How could my stalwart reliable amazing mother be dying. It didn't seem possible, but it was happening and there was nothing I could do.
We were initially told she might have till the summer, but as it happened, the illness took its toll faster than that. I suspect she knew there was something wrong and ignored it, she was ever an optimist. I am immensely grateful she was able to spend her last Christmas in Africa visiting my brothers, and that she got to go to the hospital she nursed in in Kenya in 1957. I am also pleased I was able to pick her up from that trip and had the privilege of driving her home and hearing her outpouring of joy at what she had witnessed.
Her attitude to dying was typical. She wrote to us all and told us not to be sad, she'd had a wonderful life and was grateful. She spent her last weeks welcoming her family's: children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces and nephews and her friends, refusing to be sad, and telling everyone she was having a lovely time.
Pending those last few weeks with her as much as I could, given the distance involved was one of the greatest privileges of ,y life. As was the moment when(knowing how much she hated emotional outpouring so) I told her I loved her, and she said "well this is the time to say it, I love you too." Words I had never before heard her utter. The night before she died, I spent a few hours alone with her and a hospice nurse, holding her hand, and talking though I have no idea whether she could hear or not. It was one of the most profound and meaningful times in my life, and I am so grateful I could be there. I guess she was listening though, because at 6am I to,d her my brother's plane had touched down from South Africa. Some time afterwards, the nurse told me to rouse everyone as this was the end. Only it wasn't. She hung on long enough for my brother (and sister who had done an insane midnight drive to pick him up) to arrive.
She died about an hour later, surrounded by her children, exactly as she would have wanted.
A year on, and I am still coming to terms with her loss. But I feel immensely lucky that she was my mum. She was my rock and,y anchor throughout life till now. I miss her more than I can say. But I'm lucky. Not everyone can saytheirmum was Nanny McPhee. I
Anyway. Here I am, with a very overdue post about my amazing mum, Ann Moffatt, who died after a very short and sudden illness last May.
What can I say about my mum? So very very much, and yet I don't think I have enough or adequate words to explain what and how much she meant to me. Or how much I miss her a year on. However old I get to be, I don't think I will ever be done missing her.
However as a start I'll say my mum was like Nanny McPhee , always there when you needed her, though unlike Nanny McPhee always always wanted as well. I am one of eight children and my mother pulled off the extraordinary trick of always being there for each of her children whenever any of us had a problem. So twenty odd years ago, after I'd had minor surgery the first face I saw when I came round was my mum's. Never mind that my dad had been very poorly and she was undoubtedly worried sick (not that she'd have let me know that) she squeezed out a few hours in a very stressful period to dash across London so she could be with me when I woke up. Looking back now I am astounded by her generosity and nonchalance about what it must have cost her. As the years rolled on, and particularly after my dad died, she made it a point of honour to be there for the births of all of our children. I remember talking to women in my antenatal class about how they were all dreading their mums being around. And all I could think was I can't imagine having a baby without my mum being there.
Because Mother was just extraordinary. She would arrive at the later stages of my pregnancy, make me sit down, cook us meals, and quietly and competently take over the running of the household without ever appearing interfering. At every point in every pregnancy when Mama turned up I would breathe a sigh of relief and welcome her arrival and the chance for me to take a break. She was also brilliantly clear about what she would and wouldn't do - she was there to help, but wasn't up for night duty. Fair enough, these were my babies. She also was deeply restrained about not jumping in and taking over the baby. She regarded her role as looking after me so I could have time with the new arrival. An unusual and I think rare generosity in a grandmother.
And yet when she did look after the babies, she did it with such aplomb and ease I was in awe. We had a family holiday when our second daughter was two months old. She was a colicky baby and difficult to settle. Five minutes under my mother's capable ministrations and said baby was burped swaddled and sleeping happily. Can't say I ever managed to do that as well as she did.
As the children grew, my mother came into her own as a doting loving grandmother, whose house in Shropshire was a haven for us all. My children have the happiest childhood memories of weekends spent scrabbling up hillsides, playing pooh sticks in the brook and trying (and failing) to beat Gamma at scrabble. ( I think I beat her once in my entire life).
As time went on I was increasingly tied up with not only my children but my in laws. My father in law had a massive stroke just after our eldest was born and needed constant care thereafter. So long before the term was invented Spouse and I were sandwich carers to two elderly parents and four small children. When my lovely father in law died in 2003, we took on the role of unofficial carers to my mother in law. Throughout this period my mother was a constant support. We didn't live close to one another, but I rang her every week (a habit started when I first left home which I never lost. I was heartbroken last year when her illness meant those phone calls came to an abrupt and sudden end). And every week. Mother would patiently listen to my gripes and groans, and be there with good practical advice.
Because that was another thing about my mum. She was and amazingly practical person. Devoutly religious, she always related to Martha rather than Mary. She found it hard to express feelings in words, but boy did she express them in actions. Nearly four years ago when my mil developed leukaemia and was dying, we made the decision to have her living with us. After a single phone call when Mother picked up how stressed I was (empathy another quality) she rang me and said , "I've cleared my diary, I'll be on the next train." And next thing I knew at a point in my life when I was utterly at my wits end, there was my mum in the background doing her thing. Again. It was the same routine as when I was pregnant. She never interfered or judged us, she simply made us dinner, picked the youngest up from school, did laundry, ironing and housework, and quite frankly kept me sane. As a ex nurse her skills came in useful when I didn't know what to do, teaching me how to roll mil in bed and how to lift her out of a chair without breaking my back (towel under the arms and pull. You're welcome. Of course modern health and safety says that's a no no, but like a lot of Ma's old fashioned remedies it damned well worked. She was just incredible . At 81 showing no sign of slowing down at all.
And yet... Maybe the signs were there. As soon as mil got so I'll she needed to go into the hospice, Mother was booking her train home. I remember feeling slightly miffed at the time, I wanted to spend some relaxed time with her, and she as pushing off. But looking back I can see she must have been knackered, but being my mum she could never have admitted it. But still tired or not, when I rang to tell her on 23 December that mil had died and we wouldn't be coming to her at Christmas as planned, she didn't show me any of the disappointment I know she would have been feeling but just let me cry down the phone. And the after the funeral was over insisted I spent a few days with her alone in Shropshire for some much needed r and r. That was my mum all over. Seeing what you needed, even when you couldn't yourself.
She was always a force of nature:energetic, capable, and positive. We all thought she'd go on for ever. I'd always had visions of her dying in her 90s, possibly in her sleep after climbing care caradoc for the last time. So it was a massive shock to discover in February last year that she was suffering from an inoperable brain tumour. I cried very day for six weeks when I found out. How could my stalwart reliable amazing mother be dying. It didn't seem possible, but it was happening and there was nothing I could do.
We were initially told she might have till the summer, but as it happened, the illness took its toll faster than that. I suspect she knew there was something wrong and ignored it, she was ever an optimist. I am immensely grateful she was able to spend her last Christmas in Africa visiting my brothers, and that she got to go to the hospital she nursed in in Kenya in 1957. I am also pleased I was able to pick her up from that trip and had the privilege of driving her home and hearing her outpouring of joy at what she had witnessed.
Her attitude to dying was typical. She wrote to us all and told us not to be sad, she'd had a wonderful life and was grateful. She spent her last weeks welcoming her family's: children, grandchildren, siblings, nieces and nephews and her friends, refusing to be sad, and telling everyone she was having a lovely time.
Pending those last few weeks with her as much as I could, given the distance involved was one of the greatest privileges of ,y life. As was the moment when(knowing how much she hated emotional outpouring so) I told her I loved her, and she said "well this is the time to say it, I love you too." Words I had never before heard her utter. The night before she died, I spent a few hours alone with her and a hospice nurse, holding her hand, and talking though I have no idea whether she could hear or not. It was one of the most profound and meaningful times in my life, and I am so grateful I could be there. I guess she was listening though, because at 6am I to,d her my brother's plane had touched down from South Africa. Some time afterwards, the nurse told me to rouse everyone as this was the end. Only it wasn't. She hung on long enough for my brother (and sister who had done an insane midnight drive to pick him up) to arrive.
She died about an hour later, surrounded by her children, exactly as she would have wanted.
A year on, and I am still coming to terms with her loss. But I feel immensely lucky that she was my mum. She was my rock and,y anchor throughout life till now. I miss her more than I can say. But I'm lucky. Not everyone can saytheirmum was Nanny McPhee. I
Tuesday, December 02, 2014
Feeling hot, hot, hot...
(To those of sensitive disposition, look away, now).
It is a truth universally acknowledged by my family that if I sit there, and say "Anyone else hot, or is it just me?" I will get a chorus of "Just you" in response. This has been going on for a few years, so I've got quite used to it.
However of late, my hot flushes, because indeed dear reader, that's what they are, have accelerated up a gear. Where I used to get them once in a while, in the last six weeks I've been getting them every day, several times a day, sometimes several times an hour. It's difficult to know how they rate to other people (nearly everyone I know my age seems to be similarly suffering), but they are becoming noticeable enough to be a nuisance. I have suspected I was heading menopause-wards for sometime, but now, quite frankly, I seem to be hurtling towards it. I did one of those Are You Menopausal tests online, and suddenly realised I had the majority of the symptoms. Some things, like horrendous periods have been going on FOREVER (quite frankly if they stopped tomorrow, it wouldn't be a day too soon. 38 years is quite long enough, thank you.). But others, like blinding headaches (and even a migraine, which I've never experienced before), and a scary level of forgetfulness are new. And as for lack of libido, I thought that was down to general tiredness, until it dawned on me, that I used to at least like the idea of it, whereas now, quite frankly I'd rather have a nice cup of tea. I am most definitely NOT feeling hot in that department. And there are other, more personal issues, that I had noticed, but seem to have crept up on me unawares.
So yesterday, I took myself to the docs, who confirmed, that yes, I am in the perimenopause stage. And after an examination it turns out I may also have fibroids, and possibly need surgery for another delicate female problem at some stage (I could gross you out, but I won't). Oh deep deep joy. It is so bloody wonderful being a woman sometimes.
Having said that, it was a great sense of relief to discover my symptoms aren't the product of a fevered imagination, but this is actually happening to me. I had visions of being told (in the way that I was every time I went into labour) that it wasn't quite happening.
Having read a lot of this online, apparently for a lot of women, there is a mourning period as they realise the reproductive stage of their life is over. I can honestly say I don't feel like that at all. I am of course immensely fortunate that I have children, so I might feel differently if I didn't, but for me, though there are the inevitable thoughts about aging etc (and I do hit 50 next year, which feels qutie a milestone), it feels a bit like a liberation. For the first time in my working life my reproductive abilities won't be an issue AT ALL. I think that's something to celebrate, personally. I've also had stonking support from people on Facebook - some of whom I don't even know. And everyone has such good advice. Plus I've realised that so many people I know are either going through it, or have been through it, it's just another part of life's rich pattern.
At the moment my GP feels it's too soon for HRT, and I honestly don't think my symptoms are such that I need it anyway. (I might feel differently in a few months of course.) And citalopram which I take for anxiety, is apparently very helpful (I suspect that being on it has held at bay some of the palpitation/anxiety issues that some women go through..) I also feel much calmer then I have done in years, which is another bonus, as I have suffered quite badly fromhormonal lows, and it's nice to resort to a less stressful modus operandi.
It seems to me, that (so long as I continue to be lucky and things don't get worse), this is potentially a good time in my life. My children are getting older, I don't have a lot of the responsibilities I used to have, and soon I will be free of the monthly torment that every woman has to endure. What's not to like?
I appreciate this might not be the way other people feel about it. But apart from maybe getting the heat away from my face and back in the bedroom, I'd say, so far, being perimenopausal actually feels quite empowering. I could do with more energy (maybe that will come back? she says hopefully), but in the main (which might be weird of me, as I'd always thought it would seem a negative thing), I feel quite positive about it. So... exhaustion aside, I'd say it can't happen a day too soon. In fact... bring it on, menopause, I'm ready and waiting for you.
(With HUGE gratitude to all the lovely FB friends who've offered support and advice. It is great to tap into the fount of female knowledge.)
It is a truth universally acknowledged by my family that if I sit there, and say "Anyone else hot, or is it just me?" I will get a chorus of "Just you" in response. This has been going on for a few years, so I've got quite used to it.
However of late, my hot flushes, because indeed dear reader, that's what they are, have accelerated up a gear. Where I used to get them once in a while, in the last six weeks I've been getting them every day, several times a day, sometimes several times an hour. It's difficult to know how they rate to other people (nearly everyone I know my age seems to be similarly suffering), but they are becoming noticeable enough to be a nuisance. I have suspected I was heading menopause-wards for sometime, but now, quite frankly, I seem to be hurtling towards it. I did one of those Are You Menopausal tests online, and suddenly realised I had the majority of the symptoms. Some things, like horrendous periods have been going on FOREVER (quite frankly if they stopped tomorrow, it wouldn't be a day too soon. 38 years is quite long enough, thank you.). But others, like blinding headaches (and even a migraine, which I've never experienced before), and a scary level of forgetfulness are new. And as for lack of libido, I thought that was down to general tiredness, until it dawned on me, that I used to at least like the idea of it, whereas now, quite frankly I'd rather have a nice cup of tea. I am most definitely NOT feeling hot in that department. And there are other, more personal issues, that I had noticed, but seem to have crept up on me unawares.
So yesterday, I took myself to the docs, who confirmed, that yes, I am in the perimenopause stage. And after an examination it turns out I may also have fibroids, and possibly need surgery for another delicate female problem at some stage (I could gross you out, but I won't). Oh deep deep joy. It is so bloody wonderful being a woman sometimes.
Having said that, it was a great sense of relief to discover my symptoms aren't the product of a fevered imagination, but this is actually happening to me. I had visions of being told (in the way that I was every time I went into labour) that it wasn't quite happening.
Having read a lot of this online, apparently for a lot of women, there is a mourning period as they realise the reproductive stage of their life is over. I can honestly say I don't feel like that at all. I am of course immensely fortunate that I have children, so I might feel differently if I didn't, but for me, though there are the inevitable thoughts about aging etc (and I do hit 50 next year, which feels qutie a milestone), it feels a bit like a liberation. For the first time in my working life my reproductive abilities won't be an issue AT ALL. I think that's something to celebrate, personally. I've also had stonking support from people on Facebook - some of whom I don't even know. And everyone has such good advice. Plus I've realised that so many people I know are either going through it, or have been through it, it's just another part of life's rich pattern.
At the moment my GP feels it's too soon for HRT, and I honestly don't think my symptoms are such that I need it anyway. (I might feel differently in a few months of course.) And citalopram which I take for anxiety, is apparently very helpful (I suspect that being on it has held at bay some of the palpitation/anxiety issues that some women go through..) I also feel much calmer then I have done in years, which is another bonus, as I have suffered quite badly fromhormonal lows, and it's nice to resort to a less stressful modus operandi.
It seems to me, that (so long as I continue to be lucky and things don't get worse), this is potentially a good time in my life. My children are getting older, I don't have a lot of the responsibilities I used to have, and soon I will be free of the monthly torment that every woman has to endure. What's not to like?
I appreciate this might not be the way other people feel about it. But apart from maybe getting the heat away from my face and back in the bedroom, I'd say, so far, being perimenopausal actually feels quite empowering. I could do with more energy (maybe that will come back? she says hopefully), but in the main (which might be weird of me, as I'd always thought it would seem a negative thing), I feel quite positive about it. So... exhaustion aside, I'd say it can't happen a day too soon. In fact... bring it on, menopause, I'm ready and waiting for you.
(With HUGE gratitude to all the lovely FB friends who've offered support and advice. It is great to tap into the fount of female knowledge.)
Wednesday, November 05, 2014
Coming Home For Christmas
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So tomorrow is a very exciting day. The third and final part of my Hope Christmas trilogy is published. Thanks to very lovely people on the internet, it seems to be doing rather well in the Kindle chart, which is very pleasing and wonderful.
I thought I'd mark the moment by talking a little about where the inspirations for this series have come from. Of all the eight books I've written, these ones are closest to my heart, featuring an ongoing theme of motherhood, and what it means to be both a mother and daughter.
When I first started writing Last Christmas in 2008 (Yup, scarily, it has been that long), I was a very frantic mother of four children ranging from 6 to 12. Plus I was taking on an increasing level of responsibility with my mother in law. To say my life was busy, is putting a bit mildly. So an obvious inspiration for the book, came very directly from my own experience. I had the idea of a character who wrote a blog like I do, but unlike mine, hers was totally fictional. Cat Tinsall (who ISN'T me, but I understand her very well) created an online persona called The Happy Housewife who dispensed helpful advice to stressed mums, while ironically her own domestic life was somewhat more chaotic then that. This being a Christmas book, I also drew heavily on many years of experience sitting through nativities for Marianne's thread of the story, which was putting on a nativity in Hope Christmas, my fictional town/village in Shropshire.
Hope Christmas is based on a real place: Church Stretton, a town you'll find off the A49 between Ludlow and Shrewsbury, nestling between the Long Mynd on one side, and Caer Caradoc, Ragleth and other hills on the other. My parents moved there in 1988, and I married there in 1989. Throughout my adult life it has been my go to place for R&R, and when the children came along, it's a place they've grown up in which allowed them more freedom then they could ever have here. All the walks I have sent Marianne on, are based on walks we've done, and particularly, in this the last book, I have included personal touches from our favourite walks.
Hopesay Manor, the home of Ralph and Michael Nicholas is based in part on Plowden Hall in Lydbury North. Although I stole the peacocks and the lawn from Walcott Manor.
I had only intended to write one book about Hope Christmas, and I genuinely thought that when I got to the end, that was going to be it for Marianne and Gabriel and Cat and Noel. But I found myself drawn back to their stories, and I also wanted to tell Pippa's story. I know many people who have children with special needs, and I know how hard the struggle can be to get the required help and support a family needs to cope. (Never more so in these days of austerity measures). I wanted to tell such a story, and show that a special needs child can be a joy too. So I wrote about Pippa's struggles to get respite care for her daughter, Lucy, who has cerebral palsy. I loved writing Lucy, her character shone through, and she is a pivotal and vital part of her family.
Along with Pippa's story, I returned in A Merry Little Christmas to Cat's ongoing struggles as her mother, Louise develops further into alzheimers, and Marianne and Gabriel still have to contend with the ongoing problems created by Eve, Gabriel's ex wife, which also spills over into Coming Home for Christmas.
It was at this point in the writing, my personal life became rather embroiled in this series. As Last Christmas came out in 2009, we were having a really tough time with mil, who ended up in hospital for several months, including over the Christmas period. Real life was imitating life rather too well, as she was often very confused and it was a deeply distressing period. As it happened, Rosemarie didn't have alzheimer's, but her health declined steeply after that, and she ended up having carers four times a day. By the time I came to write A Merry Little Christmas three years ago, she had been diagnosed with leukaemia, and alot of that book was written sitting by her side, in hospital, while she dozed. Needless to say my delivery dates got shot to pieces when she died just before Christmas 2011. With a massive amount of support and understanding, somehow that book got finished, and I dedicated it to Rosemarie's memory. Like my own mother, she was a great supporter of my writing, and I am only sorry she never got to see the last two books.
When I came to write Coming Home for Christmas, I rather thought things would be ok. And they were for the first draft, written this time last year. I got through the first draft pretty quickly for me. And I thoroughly enjoyed reintroducing Ralph and Luke back into the narrative. I also had alot of fun with the local protestors who are trying to stop Luke's company building a luxury spa in the woods. I channeled alot of my favourite film, Local Hero, into that storyline, and it was great fun to write, particularly the protest scenes.
However, at the point when I came to do the rewrites, my beloved mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer out of the blue. I spent several weeks trekking up and down to Shropshire, trying and failing to find moments to tackle the rewrites on the train. Church Stretton has never looked more beautiful to me, then it did this Spring, and I wove as much of that as I could into the story, when I finally got my head together to write it.
Once again, my editor at Avon offered me stonking support - though she must have been tearing her hair out at moments when I sailed very close to the wind in deadline terms.
And here it is, as much a love letter to a place that has been in my heart and soul for 26 years, as a homage to the two wonderful women I was privileged to have as my ma and ma in law.
I don't know yet whether there will be any more Hope Christmas books, but I think for the time being, I am done with Cat, Noel, Marianne, Gabriel, Pippa and Dan. Like them, my children are growing up, but while that is a change that sometimes makes me sad, I will enjoy their journey into adulthood. And who knows, maybe when I have grandchildren (not too soon I hope!), so will Cat, Marianne and Pippa.
In the meantime, I have a short enovella telling Mel's story coming out soon, and you never know, if I fancy it, a few more Hope Christmas characters may get to take centre stage for a change...
And I am also delighted to announce that these very lovely bookbloggers are hosting a blog tour of Coming Home For Christmas.
Thanks for coming with me on this journey, it's been a bit more epic then I imagined six years ago, but I hope you'll think it's been worth the ride.
Saturday, October 04, 2014
Slipping through my fingers...
Thirty years ago this weekend, I left home (not actually for the first time, as I had had a previous four month foray doing voluntary work), but this was the more permanent departure as I was off to uni. At the time I can remember being very ambivalent about the whole thing. I wasn't sure I was doing the right course, I was keen to leave home, but also anxious to stay, and my nerves weren't helped by my having the one and only proper row I ever had with my dad the night before. It was a long drive to Liverpool from North London, and when we got there (after I had spectacularly got us lost, causing much paternal melting down in the car), my parents didn't hang around long. I can still remember that feeling of dread, as I walked back down the corridor to see every door closed, and it suddenly dawned on me I KNEW NOBODY, and I didn't have the nerve to knock on anyone's door to say hi. As it happened, several of us did the same thing and kept popping our heads out of our rooms, till we managed to open doors simultaneously. This resulted in me going for an exploratory walk with four people whom I don't think I spoke to again for the next three years. When we got back to our rooms we stupidly didn't arrange to meet to go into dinner together, meaning I had to brave the dining hall alone. I can remember the horror of standing nervously clutching my food tray, in a room of 300 or so people ALL OF WHOM SEEMED TO HAVE MADE FRIENDS ALREADY, and wondering what to do. To my relief I walked past the table of the brother of a school friend, who kindly took pity on me and asked me to sit down with his group. I didn't speak to them much afterwards either, but I was grateful at the time. My time at Liverpool could have been horrendous if that start had been the way it continued, but fortunately for me, I somehow managed to meet the girl who not only became one of my best friends and flatmates, but was the means of introducing me to my husband. And thereafter (despite a very homesick first term) it was all plain sailing.
I mention this as tomorrow it's no 1's turn. I am quite baffled as to a) how it can possibly be thirty years since I set off on my own adventure when I am still only in my twenties and b) how my baby can possibly be old enough to leave me. Mixed up with that of course is all those maternal feelings of sadness at losing her - she's great company and since the summer, has been around all the time. Suddenly not to have her to drink tea or watch Game of Thrones with on my days off is going to be very strange. But at the same time I am so thrilled for her too. She's worked so hard, and done so well, and Cambridge quite frankly are lucky to get her. She's excited about going, just as I was, and it's churlish for selfish maternal reasons to want to keep her by my side.
Because the thing about motherhood, which struck me very early into my experience of it, is that from the very beginning we are letting our children go. For that first nine months it's just us and the baby, before we have to share our precious bundle with anyone. And when they're born, though they might start off by our side, it is really not too long before they've moved from the bed, to a moses basket, from the moses basket to a cot, from there to a separate bedroom. Every part of their growing up means they leave us a little more: they go to nursery for a few hours, to school for a whole day, to secondary school where they take themselves. And inevitably comes the day they leave us for good. I remember my mother saying very clearly to me at the same period in my life: You need to spread your wings. She and my father were exceptionally good at letting us go and as a consequence I never looked back. But I always came back, because though I'd left, the older I got, the more I cherished what I'd left behind.
So I know that though my job is nearly done, it's not completely over. It's a new beginning, and chapter in our lives. Aside from the fact I shall probably be kicking her out of the door again in her twenties, it's time for me to let go and for us both to go on another new and very different adventure.
And I really can't wait to see where it takes us.
I mention this as tomorrow it's no 1's turn. I am quite baffled as to a) how it can possibly be thirty years since I set off on my own adventure when I am still only in my twenties and b) how my baby can possibly be old enough to leave me. Mixed up with that of course is all those maternal feelings of sadness at losing her - she's great company and since the summer, has been around all the time. Suddenly not to have her to drink tea or watch Game of Thrones with on my days off is going to be very strange. But at the same time I am so thrilled for her too. She's worked so hard, and done so well, and Cambridge quite frankly are lucky to get her. She's excited about going, just as I was, and it's churlish for selfish maternal reasons to want to keep her by my side.
Because the thing about motherhood, which struck me very early into my experience of it, is that from the very beginning we are letting our children go. For that first nine months it's just us and the baby, before we have to share our precious bundle with anyone. And when they're born, though they might start off by our side, it is really not too long before they've moved from the bed, to a moses basket, from the moses basket to a cot, from there to a separate bedroom. Every part of their growing up means they leave us a little more: they go to nursery for a few hours, to school for a whole day, to secondary school where they take themselves. And inevitably comes the day they leave us for good. I remember my mother saying very clearly to me at the same period in my life: You need to spread your wings. She and my father were exceptionally good at letting us go and as a consequence I never looked back. But I always came back, because though I'd left, the older I got, the more I cherished what I'd left behind.
So I know that though my job is nearly done, it's not completely over. It's a new beginning, and chapter in our lives. Aside from the fact I shall probably be kicking her out of the door again in her twenties, it's time for me to let go and for us both to go on another new and very different adventure.
And I really can't wait to see where it takes us.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
And I would walk 500 miles...
A very very important thing is happening to our country this week. Or if you like to our kingdom. Though it feels old fashioned to call it that. So maybe better to say the islands we live on.
Whatever side of the Yes/No Scottish debate you're on, and whether you're north or south of the border, after Thursday I suspect nothing will ever be the same, even if the status quo remains unchanged.
As it happens I have shamefully never been to Scotland, though my maiden name of Moffatt is Scottish through and through, but such a long way back I have no family there, to my knowledge. A bunch of them went out to Ireland in the 19th century and settled there for a bit, before finding there way here. Therefore like the majority of the people in the British Isles, though I consider myself English, I also boast Irish/Scottish and probably some Welsh heritage. I think it's what makes us so great that we all come from such a ragbag of different ethnicities. Throughout our long history new peoples have come and conquered and usually moved west, and so most of us can claim a reasonable diversity of culture.
Which is why, though none of us in England have a say in the matter (though quite why ex pats can't vote I don't know, they can in normal elections, so why not in this, extraordinary one?),we all feel inextricably linked to what is going on up in Scotland. Until relatively recently, though I feel very strongly that actually the union is better together (sorry crap phrase, the No campaign has been woefully inadequate),I don't feel it was my place to voice those feelings, as it was up to the Scots to decide. Except, if they decide yes, it will impact on all of us south of the border, and nothing will ever be the same again. I really really don't want to think of a nation that I consider kin to become foreigners overnight.
Now I don't want to get into the politics of this, because it is by all accounts quite rough and ready on both sides (one aspect of the campaign that I have found deeply depressing is how far both Yes and No campaigners will go to bribe the electorate to vote their way), but what I do want to do is send Scotland a love letter. And say this...
We don't always see eye to eye, but we've been united as a kingdom since 1603 when James VI of Scotland also became James I of England. That's a very very long time. Ok, it took us till 1707 to become politically united, but that still means we've had a joint parliament for over three hundred years. Three hundred years in which we've really benefitted from having you on side.
In literature you've given us Robbie Burns, Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson. We would have neither the television,( John Logie Baird)or penicillin (Alexander Fleming) without you. Scotsmen and women have gone out in the world and made their name in engineering, politics, business. For a small country you've always punched well above your weight.
More recently in sporting events Andy Murray has made up for years of personal disappointment by winning Wimbledon, both as a Scot and a Briton (unlike our dumb media, to me he's Scottish/British whether he wins or loses), and Chris Hoy is just inspirational. I'd have been sad to lose him from the British team in the Olympics in 2012.
On top of all that my favourite TV show has had not one but two Scottish actors playing the Doctor, but also it's head writer shares my surname. I like to think we must be somehow related in the distant past.
There is something about Scotland and the Scottish that is part of our national identity, and we will all be the poorer if you go.
Scotland the Brave, it's your decision, but I'd walk 500 miles to stay by your side and really really hope on Thursday you say no.
Whatever side of the Yes/No Scottish debate you're on, and whether you're north or south of the border, after Thursday I suspect nothing will ever be the same, even if the status quo remains unchanged.
As it happens I have shamefully never been to Scotland, though my maiden name of Moffatt is Scottish through and through, but such a long way back I have no family there, to my knowledge. A bunch of them went out to Ireland in the 19th century and settled there for a bit, before finding there way here. Therefore like the majority of the people in the British Isles, though I consider myself English, I also boast Irish/Scottish and probably some Welsh heritage. I think it's what makes us so great that we all come from such a ragbag of different ethnicities. Throughout our long history new peoples have come and conquered and usually moved west, and so most of us can claim a reasonable diversity of culture.
Which is why, though none of us in England have a say in the matter (though quite why ex pats can't vote I don't know, they can in normal elections, so why not in this, extraordinary one?),we all feel inextricably linked to what is going on up in Scotland. Until relatively recently, though I feel very strongly that actually the union is better together (sorry crap phrase, the No campaign has been woefully inadequate),I don't feel it was my place to voice those feelings, as it was up to the Scots to decide. Except, if they decide yes, it will impact on all of us south of the border, and nothing will ever be the same again. I really really don't want to think of a nation that I consider kin to become foreigners overnight.
Now I don't want to get into the politics of this, because it is by all accounts quite rough and ready on both sides (one aspect of the campaign that I have found deeply depressing is how far both Yes and No campaigners will go to bribe the electorate to vote their way), but what I do want to do is send Scotland a love letter. And say this...
We don't always see eye to eye, but we've been united as a kingdom since 1603 when James VI of Scotland also became James I of England. That's a very very long time. Ok, it took us till 1707 to become politically united, but that still means we've had a joint parliament for over three hundred years. Three hundred years in which we've really benefitted from having you on side.
In literature you've given us Robbie Burns, Walter Scott and Robert Louis Stevenson. We would have neither the television,( John Logie Baird)or penicillin (Alexander Fleming) without you. Scotsmen and women have gone out in the world and made their name in engineering, politics, business. For a small country you've always punched well above your weight.
More recently in sporting events Andy Murray has made up for years of personal disappointment by winning Wimbledon, both as a Scot and a Briton (unlike our dumb media, to me he's Scottish/British whether he wins or loses), and Chris Hoy is just inspirational. I'd have been sad to lose him from the British team in the Olympics in 2012.
On top of all that my favourite TV show has had not one but two Scottish actors playing the Doctor, but also it's head writer shares my surname. I like to think we must be somehow related in the distant past.
There is something about Scotland and the Scottish that is part of our national identity, and we will all be the poorer if you go.
Scotland the Brave, it's your decision, but I'd walk 500 miles to stay by your side and really really hope on Thursday you say no.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Well, THAT didn't go according to plan...
Oh dear. I have now been back at work for over five months, and haven't blogged at all.
There are a lot of reasons for this.
Firstly the complications I referred to in my life in April were that my beloved mother was dying. She was diagnosed with terminal brain tumours in February, and though we thought she might get to the summer, she went downhill very fast, and died at the beginning of May. Subsequently, my first few weeks at work involved trekking back and forth to Shropshire on my days off, pretty much abandoning my family for weeks (although actually they all seemed to cope pretty well without me). Then we went straight into exams. I'm very very proud of my daughters who both did extremely well in incredibly difficult circumstances.
So it's been a funny old time. And I also had to do the rewrites on my new book, Coming Home for Christmas, the last in my Hope Christmas stories. This was particularly poignant for me, as I had written the whole series with motherhood very much in mind, and the first two books were affected by my lovely mother in law being ill and subsequently dying, and this time it was my mother's turn. Hope Christmas is based on the town of Church Stretton where she lived, so this last book I have invested with love, and put in tiny little details about places we walked as a family as my tribute to her.
I will be writing about my mum at some time, but still assimilating my thoughts, and need to check that my family don't mind.
But in the meantime, here's the cover of the new book. I hope as life starts to calm down a little, I'll be able to blog again sooner.
And if you're interested, the book is out on November 6th.
There are a lot of reasons for this.
Firstly the complications I referred to in my life in April were that my beloved mother was dying. She was diagnosed with terminal brain tumours in February, and though we thought she might get to the summer, she went downhill very fast, and died at the beginning of May. Subsequently, my first few weeks at work involved trekking back and forth to Shropshire on my days off, pretty much abandoning my family for weeks (although actually they all seemed to cope pretty well without me). Then we went straight into exams. I'm very very proud of my daughters who both did extremely well in incredibly difficult circumstances.
So it's been a funny old time. And I also had to do the rewrites on my new book, Coming Home for Christmas, the last in my Hope Christmas stories. This was particularly poignant for me, as I had written the whole series with motherhood very much in mind, and the first two books were affected by my lovely mother in law being ill and subsequently dying, and this time it was my mother's turn. Hope Christmas is based on the town of Church Stretton where she lived, so this last book I have invested with love, and put in tiny little details about places we walked as a family as my tribute to her.
I will be writing about my mum at some time, but still assimilating my thoughts, and need to check that my family don't mind.
But in the meantime, here's the cover of the new book. I hope as life starts to calm down a little, I'll be able to blog again sooner.
And if you're interested, the book is out on November 6th.
Tuesday, April 01, 2014
A Very Big Change
I haven't blogged for a while, because quite frankly there is an awful lot going on in my life at the moment, but I wanted to write today, because the times they are a changing for Maniac Mum... For a while now I don't think this blog fits my life anymore. My children are getting older and are active online. They certainly neither want or need me to blog about their doings in the way I once did. And since no 4 went to secondary school in September, I have found myself rather at a loose end (well not completely, I have written two books since then!), in the sense that I have very little structure or purpose to my day anymore. For fourteen years I had to get out of the house in the mornings to do the school run, and now, I don't really have to leave the house AT ALL if I don't want to. Which might sound idyllic, but really it's not.
So I decided in the autumn I needed a part time job. Part time jobs not being very readily available usually in publishing (which is all I really know apart from writing), I scrabbled around trying to see if I could get into teaching on a creative writing course as a regular gig. Needless to say, I failed dismally in that regard, (one university I applied to a) told me I couldn't teach for them because I don't have an MA, b) offered me the chance to take their MA (the course I was suggesting I teach on!) and c) I realised they wouldn't let me on their MA anyway because I don't have a 2.1) so I signed on with a job agency. To my amazement a part time job came up immediately. I didn't get that one, but after a bit of faffing about, I did get the next part time job that came up.
I have to admit to freaking out totally when I was offered the job. My life is pretty complicated right now, and I have two children about to sit vital exams, and I feel I am deserting them a little in their hour of need. Plus I haven't been out to work in an office for SIXTEEN years. I'm not sure I know how to talk to people anymore.
And of course, there's my writing. I will now only have two days a week to fit that in. Getting a job right now might be completely insane.
But on the other hand, I have always squeezed the writing in around family life anyway. I don't write every day, and I am totally undisciplined about it. Going back to a nine to five job, I hope will inject some much needed order into my working life.
Plus, I am a gregarious person by nature and since losing the school run, I have been going slowly demented as I have so few people to talk to in the day (apart from the lovely people on Twitter and Facebook, who do keep my sane). I am looking forward to engaging with real people in real time again.
And then of course, for the writer, this is an absolute gift. When I left work in 1998, we didn't even have email. No, really, we didn't. They were talking about getting it. In my first year of freelance I corresponded entirely by fax and snail mail. Unthinkable now. I've just had to sign a long declaration of Dos and Don'ts about use of the internet in office time, which made my head spin.
Everything is so different now in the workplace, and I think that will be quite fascinating to discover. So I'm going to start blogging about that, as and when I can fit it in, and I might just find myself writing a going back to work as a middle aged mum kind of story.
Whatever happens next, it's a new chapter, a big change and with some trepidation, I am looking forward to it immensely.
So I decided in the autumn I needed a part time job. Part time jobs not being very readily available usually in publishing (which is all I really know apart from writing), I scrabbled around trying to see if I could get into teaching on a creative writing course as a regular gig. Needless to say, I failed dismally in that regard, (one university I applied to a) told me I couldn't teach for them because I don't have an MA, b) offered me the chance to take their MA (the course I was suggesting I teach on!) and c) I realised they wouldn't let me on their MA anyway because I don't have a 2.1) so I signed on with a job agency. To my amazement a part time job came up immediately. I didn't get that one, but after a bit of faffing about, I did get the next part time job that came up.
I have to admit to freaking out totally when I was offered the job. My life is pretty complicated right now, and I have two children about to sit vital exams, and I feel I am deserting them a little in their hour of need. Plus I haven't been out to work in an office for SIXTEEN years. I'm not sure I know how to talk to people anymore.
And of course, there's my writing. I will now only have two days a week to fit that in. Getting a job right now might be completely insane.
But on the other hand, I have always squeezed the writing in around family life anyway. I don't write every day, and I am totally undisciplined about it. Going back to a nine to five job, I hope will inject some much needed order into my working life.
Plus, I am a gregarious person by nature and since losing the school run, I have been going slowly demented as I have so few people to talk to in the day (apart from the lovely people on Twitter and Facebook, who do keep my sane). I am looking forward to engaging with real people in real time again.
And then of course, for the writer, this is an absolute gift. When I left work in 1998, we didn't even have email. No, really, we didn't. They were talking about getting it. In my first year of freelance I corresponded entirely by fax and snail mail. Unthinkable now. I've just had to sign a long declaration of Dos and Don'ts about use of the internet in office time, which made my head spin.
Everything is so different now in the workplace, and I think that will be quite fascinating to discover. So I'm going to start blogging about that, as and when I can fit it in, and I might just find myself writing a going back to work as a middle aged mum kind of story.
Whatever happens next, it's a new chapter, a big change and with some trepidation, I am looking forward to it immensely.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
My Writing Process Blog Tour
Ooh er, it's ages since I've blogged and it's also ages since I've done something like this. But my lovely twin Virgina Moffatt (http://giniamoffatt.blogspot.co.uk/) has tagged me for this, so here goes...
What am I working on?
At the moment I have two projects on the go. The first is the third and final book in my Hope Christmas trilogy. It picks up the story a year after the end of A Merry Little Christmas, and we find out what's happening to Cat, Marianne and Pippa, who become embroiled in a campaign to stop a new hotel complex being built on the farmland near Pippa and Marianne's homes. I have taken a lot of inspiration from my favourite film, Local Hero, and have finished the first draft, so am currently waiting on the edits. As usual for my first drafts, the story is there, but I need to do a lot of infilling and pulling strands together to make it suitable for public consumption. That's what editors are for, thankfully.
The second book I'm working on is completely different - a teen fantasy about dragons, which was suggested to me by my late lovely agent, Dot. So it will mean the world to me if it gets to see the light of day. Also I'm having a blast writing it, and it's planned as a trilogy, so I really want to write the next two books. The first draft is nearly complete, so fingers crossed...
How does my work differ from others in the genre?
Oh blimey. I'm not really sure. Though I would class myself as a romantic novelist, I think my adult stuff tends to have as much about family life/relationships in it as the romance element.. So maybe it differs from the norm that way. I also find it impossible to write fluffy light stuff (and really wish I could), so it probably tackles a few more serious issues then some books in the genre, but then all my favourite writers (Marian Keyes, Kate Harrison, Jo Jo Moyes, Rowan Coleman ) tend to do that too, so maybe I'm not that different, though clearly not in their league!
With the fantasy, I have tried to write the fantasy story I would like to read. I have always loved the genre and have really enjoyed the freedom of letting my imagination rip. I'd like to think it owes something to alot of my favourite fantasy writers (Tamora Pierce in particular) but that it has my own stamp on it.
Why do I write what I do?
For fun mainly. I love making stories up, and enjoy reading both the genres I am currently writing in. Particularly when real life is tough, I enjoy throwing myself into my imagined worlds. In fact, there is always a story going on in my head pretty much,and would be even if I wasn't published. Which is the way I like it.
How does your writing process work?
Oh I am hopelessly disorganised. I spend weeks and weeks faffing about before I actually get down to writing anything. But usually there is something bubbling away in the back of my brain, which means when I do start writing I have something to say. I do try and work out a loose structural plan, which I follow roughly, but not exactly. Ifind that easier then just launching into the story. Though with my dragons book I wrote the whole thing using a programme called Write or Die, when you give yourself a word target to a complete in a deadline. It is immensely good for a procrastinator like me, but quite scary too, because the computer screen starts going red if you fall behind. On the highest setting (which I was far too chicken to use) it actually starts eating your words, but that seemed a tad too masochistic for me!
Generally though, I write my first drafts out by hand, as I find it easier filling a notebook then looking at a blank screen. I then type it up, making revisions as I go, print it off, read through it, make further revisions, and then reread and revise a final time before sending it into my editor. So in fact, my first draft is really my fourth! And that's the point when I dare show it to people. NO ONE but no one sees my first scribbles! My editor will then send it back with the first round of edits, which tend to be the structural things, and making the plot work better. I usually go through the book at least twice before sending it back, and then I get line edits, which are about adding in detail, avoiding repetition, making sure the words flow etc. Finally I see copyedits, which are insuring my facts are right, that the spelling, grammar etc are correct and things are consistent. The very last stage for me (but not my publisher) is checking page proofs, which in theory should be perfect, but which in practise tend not to be). I find it immensely easy to miss stuff at page proofs, hence my two biggest booboos:in Last Christmas, Cat makes meringues with egg yolks not whites and in A Merry Little Christmas, I gave Lucy cystic fibrosis instead of cerebral palsy. And yes, people did write to let me know....
What am I working on?
At the moment I have two projects on the go. The first is the third and final book in my Hope Christmas trilogy. It picks up the story a year after the end of A Merry Little Christmas, and we find out what's happening to Cat, Marianne and Pippa, who become embroiled in a campaign to stop a new hotel complex being built on the farmland near Pippa and Marianne's homes. I have taken a lot of inspiration from my favourite film, Local Hero, and have finished the first draft, so am currently waiting on the edits. As usual for my first drafts, the story is there, but I need to do a lot of infilling and pulling strands together to make it suitable for public consumption. That's what editors are for, thankfully.
The second book I'm working on is completely different - a teen fantasy about dragons, which was suggested to me by my late lovely agent, Dot. So it will mean the world to me if it gets to see the light of day. Also I'm having a blast writing it, and it's planned as a trilogy, so I really want to write the next two books. The first draft is nearly complete, so fingers crossed...
How does my work differ from others in the genre?
Oh blimey. I'm not really sure. Though I would class myself as a romantic novelist, I think my adult stuff tends to have as much about family life/relationships in it as the romance element.. So maybe it differs from the norm that way. I also find it impossible to write fluffy light stuff (and really wish I could), so it probably tackles a few more serious issues then some books in the genre, but then all my favourite writers (Marian Keyes, Kate Harrison, Jo Jo Moyes, Rowan Coleman ) tend to do that too, so maybe I'm not that different, though clearly not in their league!
With the fantasy, I have tried to write the fantasy story I would like to read. I have always loved the genre and have really enjoyed the freedom of letting my imagination rip. I'd like to think it owes something to alot of my favourite fantasy writers (Tamora Pierce in particular) but that it has my own stamp on it.
Why do I write what I do?
For fun mainly. I love making stories up, and enjoy reading both the genres I am currently writing in. Particularly when real life is tough, I enjoy throwing myself into my imagined worlds. In fact, there is always a story going on in my head pretty much,and would be even if I wasn't published. Which is the way I like it.
How does your writing process work?
Oh I am hopelessly disorganised. I spend weeks and weeks faffing about before I actually get down to writing anything. But usually there is something bubbling away in the back of my brain, which means when I do start writing I have something to say. I do try and work out a loose structural plan, which I follow roughly, but not exactly. Ifind that easier then just launching into the story. Though with my dragons book I wrote the whole thing using a programme called Write or Die, when you give yourself a word target to a complete in a deadline. It is immensely good for a procrastinator like me, but quite scary too, because the computer screen starts going red if you fall behind. On the highest setting (which I was far too chicken to use) it actually starts eating your words, but that seemed a tad too masochistic for me!
Generally though, I write my first drafts out by hand, as I find it easier filling a notebook then looking at a blank screen. I then type it up, making revisions as I go, print it off, read through it, make further revisions, and then reread and revise a final time before sending it into my editor. So in fact, my first draft is really my fourth! And that's the point when I dare show it to people. NO ONE but no one sees my first scribbles! My editor will then send it back with the first round of edits, which tend to be the structural things, and making the plot work better. I usually go through the book at least twice before sending it back, and then I get line edits, which are about adding in detail, avoiding repetition, making sure the words flow etc. Finally I see copyedits, which are insuring my facts are right, that the spelling, grammar etc are correct and things are consistent. The very last stage for me (but not my publisher) is checking page proofs, which in theory should be perfect, but which in practise tend not to be). I find it immensely easy to miss stuff at page proofs, hence my two biggest booboos:in Last Christmas, Cat makes meringues with egg yolks not whites and in A Merry Little Christmas, I gave Lucy cystic fibrosis instead of cerebral palsy. And yes, people did write to let me know....
Wednesday, December 04, 2013
Dot Lumley, agent and friend
This is a very very long overdue blog, partly because I have been thinking about the best way to write it, and haven't known where to begin...
The beginning I suppose would be good.
Dot Lumley was my agent for 13 years, and we always got along so well, I couldn't imagine not being with her. Sadly she became ill last year, and in January this year, she told me the unwelcome news that she was terminally ill. She faced her illness with fortitude, bravery, calm and humour, but unfortunately in October she lost her battle, and I lost my wonderful agent and friend.
I first heard of Dot, when I was looking for an agent. I had had more rejections then hot dinners, from people who loved my writing, but didn't love it enough to take it on, and a very good publishing friend suggested Dot. I was pretty much on the verge of giving up (I had ambitiously, and foolishly decided that two years was the longest I should attempt this writing lark, not realising quite what a long haul it was going to be), and I tentatively sent off three chapters and a synopsis of the first manuscript I had written. I should say the first ms I wrote was pretty rubbish. It was a real, How Not To Do It kind of experience. I started to write it when I went freelance in 1998, and wrote in between editing projects. I had no focus, and my personal life was in some array, so the first draft was VERY gloomy. Thanks to some huge amounts of help from Hilary Johnson, I was able to knock it into an okish shape after nearly two years, but though I had lots of people telling me I could write, like I say, none of them loved what I was writing.
Then along came Dot.
I got a fax (yes it was that long ago!), to say she loved White Wedding, and would I like to be represented by her. Would I? Would I, hell! (I still have that fax...)
The only slight drawback was that I was very heavily pregnant. In fact, no 3 was due the following week. So I wrote a delighted email back, and said if she could bear with me, I would be back in the writing saddle the following year. As it turned out, Dot had to bear with me for rather a long time. She sent White Wedding out to lots of different people, and got a lot more thanks, but no thanks rejections. In the meantime I had a go at a few other things, but lacking time, didn't finish anything. Then, I fell pregnant again. So there was a hiatus of a whole year, when I didn't write a thing (though I did manage to work out the plot of what was to be my first published novel, Pastures New), and Dot patiently stuck with me, giving me encouragement, telling me it would all come good in the end.
After nearly four years without a deal, I decided the time must come for me to tackle another full length novel, so I sat down and wrote my second book, called Coming Full Circle about young mums and their family dilemmas - a kind of prototype for the sort of book I write now, I guess. This one got a bite. Someone was interested, and I went and had a very enjoyable lunch, sadly no contract, but the request to cut all but a third of the book and rewrite. Which I did, and Dot rang me and said, "Fingers crossed, I think we're 90% there!" I was as you can imagine, rather excited. But Dot, being steady, kept me on an even keel, which is just as well, as book no 2 fell on the final hurdle.
At this point, I really felt like giving up. There were many good friends in the RNA who kept me going, and encouraged me, but without Dot's faith in me, I don't think it would have been enough. She always thought I could do it, and finally after six years, her persistence and patience paid off and I had my book deal.
During all that time, we'd only met a couple of times - the first time bonding over a shared love of Carrie (which I'd read as a teenager) and which she'd pulled out of the US box at the publisher's she was working at in the 70s, fantasy and genre fiction in general. She got me as a writer, and understood what I was trying to do. She gave me space to do my own thing, and generally had faith in me that I would eventually get it right.
As the years went on, we would meet regularly - usually at the London Book Fair, often at publishing parties, and once a year or so in London for lunch. Our meetings were always full of publishing chat, wine, and generally way too short. Until last year, I foolishly imagined those meetings would carry on indefinitely. It was with great sadness I attended LBF this year, and didn't get to meet Dot, as she was too ill, but I'm pleased she made it to the Harper Collins Summer Party, where we were able to sit and chew the fat, and I got the chance to tell her how grateful I was for the faith she'd always had in me.
Publishing can be a fickle business, but Dot was one of those people to whom loyalty is paramount, and it is tantamount of the high regard that she was held in, that none of her thirty authors left her when they found out she was ill. Not only that, but I have so many friends throughout the publishing world who've told me of her kindness and encouragement, even when she didn't take them on.
Dot passed away in early October, and I went to her funeral in Torquay. She had a low key non religious ceremony, as befitted her nature, and is buried in a green cemetery in a wood overlooking Torquay. A lovely peaceful spot, which seemed entirely in keeping with her life and beliefs.
Life moves on, and I am in the process of doing so too, but I will always miss Dot, and be grateful that she had faith in me, before anyone else did.
I simply couldn't have done it without her, and I shall miss her wise counsel very much.
.
Dot Lumley
16th September 1949-5th October 2013
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The beginning I suppose would be good.
Dot Lumley was my agent for 13 years, and we always got along so well, I couldn't imagine not being with her. Sadly she became ill last year, and in January this year, she told me the unwelcome news that she was terminally ill. She faced her illness with fortitude, bravery, calm and humour, but unfortunately in October she lost her battle, and I lost my wonderful agent and friend.
I first heard of Dot, when I was looking for an agent. I had had more rejections then hot dinners, from people who loved my writing, but didn't love it enough to take it on, and a very good publishing friend suggested Dot. I was pretty much on the verge of giving up (I had ambitiously, and foolishly decided that two years was the longest I should attempt this writing lark, not realising quite what a long haul it was going to be), and I tentatively sent off three chapters and a synopsis of the first manuscript I had written. I should say the first ms I wrote was pretty rubbish. It was a real, How Not To Do It kind of experience. I started to write it when I went freelance in 1998, and wrote in between editing projects. I had no focus, and my personal life was in some array, so the first draft was VERY gloomy. Thanks to some huge amounts of help from Hilary Johnson, I was able to knock it into an okish shape after nearly two years, but though I had lots of people telling me I could write, like I say, none of them loved what I was writing.
Then along came Dot.
I got a fax (yes it was that long ago!), to say she loved White Wedding, and would I like to be represented by her. Would I? Would I, hell! (I still have that fax...)
The only slight drawback was that I was very heavily pregnant. In fact, no 3 was due the following week. So I wrote a delighted email back, and said if she could bear with me, I would be back in the writing saddle the following year. As it turned out, Dot had to bear with me for rather a long time. She sent White Wedding out to lots of different people, and got a lot more thanks, but no thanks rejections. In the meantime I had a go at a few other things, but lacking time, didn't finish anything. Then, I fell pregnant again. So there was a hiatus of a whole year, when I didn't write a thing (though I did manage to work out the plot of what was to be my first published novel, Pastures New), and Dot patiently stuck with me, giving me encouragement, telling me it would all come good in the end.
After nearly four years without a deal, I decided the time must come for me to tackle another full length novel, so I sat down and wrote my second book, called Coming Full Circle about young mums and their family dilemmas - a kind of prototype for the sort of book I write now, I guess. This one got a bite. Someone was interested, and I went and had a very enjoyable lunch, sadly no contract, but the request to cut all but a third of the book and rewrite. Which I did, and Dot rang me and said, "Fingers crossed, I think we're 90% there!" I was as you can imagine, rather excited. But Dot, being steady, kept me on an even keel, which is just as well, as book no 2 fell on the final hurdle.
At this point, I really felt like giving up. There were many good friends in the RNA who kept me going, and encouraged me, but without Dot's faith in me, I don't think it would have been enough. She always thought I could do it, and finally after six years, her persistence and patience paid off and I had my book deal.
During all that time, we'd only met a couple of times - the first time bonding over a shared love of Carrie (which I'd read as a teenager) and which she'd pulled out of the US box at the publisher's she was working at in the 70s, fantasy and genre fiction in general. She got me as a writer, and understood what I was trying to do. She gave me space to do my own thing, and generally had faith in me that I would eventually get it right.
As the years went on, we would meet regularly - usually at the London Book Fair, often at publishing parties, and once a year or so in London for lunch. Our meetings were always full of publishing chat, wine, and generally way too short. Until last year, I foolishly imagined those meetings would carry on indefinitely. It was with great sadness I attended LBF this year, and didn't get to meet Dot, as she was too ill, but I'm pleased she made it to the Harper Collins Summer Party, where we were able to sit and chew the fat, and I got the chance to tell her how grateful I was for the faith she'd always had in me.
Publishing can be a fickle business, but Dot was one of those people to whom loyalty is paramount, and it is tantamount of the high regard that she was held in, that none of her thirty authors left her when they found out she was ill. Not only that, but I have so many friends throughout the publishing world who've told me of her kindness and encouragement, even when she didn't take them on.
Dot passed away in early October, and I went to her funeral in Torquay. She had a low key non religious ceremony, as befitted her nature, and is buried in a green cemetery in a wood overlooking Torquay. A lovely peaceful spot, which seemed entirely in keeping with her life and beliefs.
Life moves on, and I am in the process of doing so too, but I will always miss Dot, and be grateful that she had faith in me, before anyone else did.
I simply couldn't have done it without her, and I shall miss her wise counsel very much.
.
Dot Lumley
16th September 1949-5th October 2013
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Tuesday, September 03, 2013
New dawn, new day, new LIFE...
No 4 on her first day at school
First day back 2006, no 4 starting school
Back when no 1 started, we didn't even have no 4, and the first term was a blur of putting tights on small children (I remember that bit with grim horror), struggling out of the door in time, loading two small children in the double buggy and speed walking as fast as poor no 1's little four year old legs could take her, while envying other less encumbered mothers then I. It also rained constantly that term, and I remember just keeping my head down and holding out for things to improve. Which they did. Namely in the form of new friends, some of whom are now very dear old friends, who have supported me through thick and thin over the last few years.
And by the summer term, when I had ditched the double buggy, with no 2 and no1 squabbling over the buggy board, life did seem to be getting a bit easier. Then I got pregnant again, and for the next few years the school run was an awful lot of hard work. And it was back to the double buggy again. A friend dubbed me the Monkey Mother once, when he saw me pushing said buggy, with no 2 perched on the handlebars and her arms wrapped round my neck, and no 1 trotting dutifully by my side. My buggies had such a hard life, none of them survived long, and I probably got through three or four doubles plus numerous singles before I finally consigned the last buggy to the dustbin.
By that time eldest two oldest two were well capable of strolling the mile to school but were bored with it. So we used to play traffic lights to and fro from school (green for go, orange for slow down, red for stop), which worked a treat. We had also got into numerous after school activities (when no 1 started it was straight home after school), so I frequently struggled to tennis or swimming lessons weighed down with extra bags. And of course on sunny days, when they came out of school I'd be dumped with coats, jumpers, bags, you name it. To the point at which I started to refer to myself as packhorse mummy...
I had one year when no4 went to nursery full time round the corner from the others' school, which necessitated a longer walking route, plus THREE lots of newsletters, info, sports days, Christmas fairs etc, and then one year when they were all in the same location (though the two little ones were in the infants and oldest in the juniors), and then it was as though things were going backwards.
Six years ago, no 1 started secondary school. Protesting much more loudly about it then her youngest sister it had to be said. A trauma I still haven't quite recovered from. But I still had three on the school run. Life didn't feel like it had changed that much. Two years later, she was followed by no 2. Half and half. And then no 3 left and suddenly I was down to one on the school run, and I was one of the unencumbered mums I'd envied so much that first year.
Over the last year, there's been a slow withdrawal as no 4 has wanted more independence and started to walk home on her own. So I've gradually got used to not being at the school gate every day (a bonus, no school yard gossip, which I always hated, but also I barely see friends anymore) I had expected tears on her last day, but because we had to rush off to get a plane, and because suddenly it dawned on me how much freer I was going to be, I didn't actually shed a tear, though I had a lump in my throat. The school run has been part of my life for so long now, I'm not quite sure how I'm going to manage without it.
My children are growing up and doing what children do, preparing to leave me. (No 1 horribly soon now). I shall miss the chats we had, and the funny stories they told me on the way home from school, but I've grown up too. I'm no longer a young mum with babies and toddlers, I'm a (shall we say mature?) mum with 3 gorgeous teens and one pre teen, who provide me with much entertainment about the doings of their school day round the dinner table. It's time for all of us to move on. And scarily, time for me to find myself again, after seventeen years of being wrapped up in their lives (I am still wrapped up in them, but increasingly less so.)
And as for no 4, she is thrilled to pieces. After years of listening to stories about big school, she's finally joined her sisters there. She has the kudos of knowing people in the sixth form, Year 11 and Year 9 (unlike my big sisters who didn't acknowledge me at school, hers seem quite happy to), and she made a promise to her big sister today which should stand her in good stead. "It's all right," she said. "I won't behave like a Year 7. My skirt's rolled up, I don't have a back pack, and I won't go round in packs."
I think she'll be just fine.
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Summer holidays
We've just come back from possibly our last family holiday. No 1 turns 18 next year, and I'm not sure quite how long we're going to keep her onside (though she did say, free holidays still appeal...). Family holidays can be tricky affairs. There is always the problem of, as no 1 succinctly put it, Undiluted Family, an issue that last year had me wanting to run away from home. (That being somewhat impractical, I am instead turning my desire into a story about a woman who runs away from domesticity into a fantasy circus in her head.) When the children were young, holidays were often more exhausting then staying at home, and then as they got a bit bigger we had the worry of mil at home while we were away, which wasn't exactly conducive to relaxation. Added to which the fact that we spend most of the year not in each other's pockets (me and Spouse included) means it takes time to adjust to the rhythm of living together 24/7. In years gone by that has caused some tension to say the least, and on one or two holidays we've returned lucky not to be divorced (the most memorable being our disastrous camping trip round Europe, where it rained constantly, no 2 broke her arm in Switzerland, we got burgled in France, Spouse had tonsilitis, and the weather eventually defeated us so we came home three days early.) And then of course there was the excitement caused four years ago when a panic attack the day before sent me to A&E for several hours, which is something that still lingers in my mind as I prepare to go away again. Being ill on holiday is no fun at all.So... a family holiday is always a bit of an unknown, and I'm never quite sure if I'm going to enjoy it or not.And they all seem a far far cry from the relaxed affairs Spouse and I enjoyed before we had children.
This year we chose to go to Side in Turkey, a place Spouse on our visited 18 years ago on a backpacking holiday prior to having children. We'd already made the momentous decision to have a baby, but as far as I was concerned, nothing much was happening. I was overdue when we went away, but I'd taken a test and it was negative, so I assumed I wasn't pregnant. My cycle being incredibly erratic at the time, being 2 weeks late wasn't really a big deal, and I remember feeling very disappointed that I was so late, because I had the romantic notion of conceiving on holiday. Of course, it turned out by the time I got home that I was already 9 weeks pregnant and the pregnancy test had lied. In the meantime, I'd climbed up mountains, nearly scuba dived, just missed climbing up a cliff and jumping into the sea on a boat trip (Spouse had had the wit to see what was happening as the rest of the mugs from the boat were led off on an adventure), felt so sick I was sure I had Turkey tummy but luckily hadn't taken any medicine for it, all completely unaware that my desired outcome had already happened. I'm glad I didn't know, as I would have been worried sick on my last childfree holiday, and having spent the last 17 years being worried sick on most of our family holidays, I'm relieved I have those happy memories of relaxation.
The good news though, is that those days look set to return. While I had my usual holiday anxieties - I hate flying and it really doesn't get any better, even with a little help from diazepam, I'm always slightly spooked by the thought of child snatching (though not quite as scared of that as I was), and now having teenage daughters in Turkey I got an extra layer of worry about one of them being persuaded to run off with a Turkish waiter, and I don't sleep well away from home, but...this year I really did manage to relax. The kids are now old enough that we can leave them and go off for a wander, as most of the time they just want to laze around by the pool, and there was so much to see and do in Side it felt much more like the holidays we used to take.
We had a very tight window for the holiday this year, as no 1 is currently doing an engineering work placement, and no 4 didn't finish school till 23 July. So we did something we've never done before and went away the day term finished (not to be recommended) - I managed not to blub my way through her leaving assembly and we dashed home, she got changed and we were in a taxi to Gatwick ten minutes later. The disadvantage of this was that our flight didn't land till 9.30 Turkish time. We'd booked a car the other end, but due to (my) cock up, the people we were renting the villa off also sent us a taxi to take us there. We saw a man with a sign saying Williams and naturally followed him, thinking he was taking us to an out of town hire car company. It was only when we'd been in the cab for about ten minutes, that we realised our mistake. Cue lots of very expensive phone calls to sort it out, and luckily the car hire people sent someone over the next day. It turned out to be just as well we'd cocked up, as I doubt we'd have found the place on our own, as it appears in the part of Side we were staying in there are no road names, only numbers.
We didn't get to the apartment till about 11pm, by which time everyone was starving and Spouse and I were concerned about whether we could actually find anywhere to eat (on our last Turkish trip we stayed in a one eyed resort which had one restaurant). Fortunately, Mete, the guy who looked after the apartment pointed us in the direction of a local place called Hawaii, which turned out to be good value and a really fun place to go. So that was easy.
Side itself didn't disappoint. The old town is literally built on the ruins of the Roman town, and when Spouse and I were last there, we stayed in an apartment in the old town, which to our delight was still there. It is more built up either side of the old town (particularly on the west side - if you ever go there, stay on the east side), but it does look as if they are trying hard to preserve what they have. The only disappointment with that is, last time we were there, we had dinner in a restaurant which was in the ruins of the ancient basilica, but now they're (quite rightly!) excavating the area properly, and the restaurant has gone. Though we did find a neat place which had it's back wall on the other side of the basilica facing out to sea, and was a lovely relaxed place, with unpushy staff, cheap (if limited) food, and a great view.
When we were there last, the amphitheatre was surrounded by rubble, and you couldn't get into it, though Spouse and I did have a go, risking life and limb scrabbling up the outside of it (which I certainly wouldn't have done had I known I was pregnant!), but now it's open to the public, and was well worth a visit. In the evening as you walk into town,down the ruins of what I presume was the ancient market, or certainly where there were colonnaded shops, you can get a fabulous view of the sun setting over the amphitheatre and it is absolutely magical. To add to the magic, there was a family of camels living opposite our apartment, who spent the day taking people for rides round the ruins. The kids had a go, while we followed them, with the baby camel which accompanied the adults everywhere. The baby took it upon itself to go a different way, and Spouse ended up camel man for the day as he took it home. Actually... I suspect if he'd played his cards right, Spouse might have ended up as camel man for life, as Mr Camel Man gave us drinks afterwards, and seemed very keen to pair his three sons up with our daughters, and I suspect would have taken me into the job lot if Spouse had shown an interest:-)
Other highlights of the holiday included a trip to the Duden Falls, where you can walk behind the waterfall. Again an absolutely magical experience, and something that really fired my imagination - I now have a picture of where my dragon can live in the teen fantasy that I have been writing for a thousand years - ; a boat trip to the Manavgat Falls which included seeing turtles; a trip to Alanya (a place we also stayed in) where we walked among the ruins of an old castle, and found a seal in the shipyard; and a scary trip to the mountains looking for a placed called Selge which ended up with us being chased by Turkish women who wanted to take us on a tour of the ruins. It was a bit like Deliverance, Turkey style, particularly as Spouse kept driving up a road that was not only overrun with cows on the way home, but had a road which got progressively stonier and higher, until we decided to cut our losses and turn round and go home, braving the scary Turkish ladies on the way back.
However, the best bit for me was having a Turkish bath. Something I've always wanted to do but never had the nerve to try on my own. Another blessing of the children being older was they could come with me, result! Our day started with quite the funniest thing I have ever done, which was to have a mud bath. We went into an outside pool which was knee deep in clayey water, with about twenty strangers, none of whomspoke English. Tentatively, people started applying the clay to their skin. Then a mud shower started, and soon everyone was standing underneath it getting liberally hosed down with clay. Which is one way to break the ice. We were soon resembling mud statues, and as we dried, we all started to look like something out of Dr Who. The funniest sight was a very large elderly German gentleman, who kept slapping mud on his tummy and saying "Sehr Komisch!", which he was, particularly.
After ten minutes it was time to shower off, again, hilarious as the mud got everywhere, in our ears, eyes, hair, bikinis...and of course the water was freezing cold, which led to more guffaws of laughter from our German friend. I don't think I've ever seen anyone enjoy themselves so much, and I think I shall laugh about it forever.
Mud finally dispensed with, we trooped off to the sauna, which the children loved, though ironically in England none of them would be old enough to have one, followed by the salt and steam rooms. No 4 found the steam room so exciting, she kept standing up and down to see if she could see us through the steam. "She's such a child," her big sisters said wearily.
The best bit was undoubtedly the Turkish bath. You lie on big slabs of marble, and get liberally washed over, before having a body scrub, followed by a bubble wash. I have never seen so much foam, and I was amused to see our German friend getting a big smack on the arse with the loofah. It didn't dent his enthusiasm, "Super!" he said to us as he left, giving us the thumbs up. And he was right. I've never felt so clean and fresh in my life.
We then spent twenty minutes in the relaxation room, where I was persuaded to let the girls have their feet nibbled by fish (at extra cost, natch), and then it was time for our 20 minute massage. Or in my case, a hard sell attempt to get me to have a full body, medical massage, because apparently my back is in such a terrible state my circulation is poor, and I am probably going to die if I don't do something about it. This is not a good thing to tell a hypochondriac who has a slight phobia about being ill on holiday... I had also run out of money, but the man kept saying, "no problem, we go to your hotel." Much as I hate being bullied, it is quite difficult to resist such a hard sell when you are half naked, so I agreed in the end, trying not to fret about the fact that my massage alone cost nearly as much as the rest of the day. However, I suddenly remembered that Spouse had promised me a spa day for my birthday, and it was still cheaper then in England so...
The massage itself was fabulous and we all felt happy and glowing as we left - me running out of money turned out not to be a problem as they simply took me to the apartment and I ran in and got some more dosh, which seemed very trusting...
All in all it was a fabulous experience, and if we ever go to Turkey again, one I will definitely repeat. The kids loved it too, so I've ended up promising them a spa day for their 21st birthdays. Better get saving now...
The rest of the holiday was spent doing the usual swimming, relaxing and reading, which was just what the doctor ordered as we'd all been running around like mad things before we went. I got through about 13 books this year, including the JK Rowling/Robert Galbraith book, which I'd thoroughly recommend, a Jo Nesbo, a Peter James - both of which authors I'll, now go back to -, Ben Hatch's very funny Road to Rouen, Caroline Smailes' and Nik Perring's brilliant Freaks, to name but a few. But my overall favourite had to be Neil Gaiman's fabulous The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which was beautiful, mysterious, terrifying, magical, witty and wise, and I will be blogging about it later.
I didn't get any writing done, but I did manage a lot of thinking. I am having to get up early for the rest of the holiday to drop no 1 at the station, so while the others sleep, the plan is, I get cracking on the next Hope Christmas book, and finish my dragons, and work on my runaway mum story...
It's nice to go away, but you know, the sign of a really good holiday is that it's even nicer to be back...
This year we chose to go to Side in Turkey, a place Spouse on our visited 18 years ago on a backpacking holiday prior to having children. We'd already made the momentous decision to have a baby, but as far as I was concerned, nothing much was happening. I was overdue when we went away, but I'd taken a test and it was negative, so I assumed I wasn't pregnant. My cycle being incredibly erratic at the time, being 2 weeks late wasn't really a big deal, and I remember feeling very disappointed that I was so late, because I had the romantic notion of conceiving on holiday. Of course, it turned out by the time I got home that I was already 9 weeks pregnant and the pregnancy test had lied. In the meantime, I'd climbed up mountains, nearly scuba dived, just missed climbing up a cliff and jumping into the sea on a boat trip (Spouse had had the wit to see what was happening as the rest of the mugs from the boat were led off on an adventure), felt so sick I was sure I had Turkey tummy but luckily hadn't taken any medicine for it, all completely unaware that my desired outcome had already happened. I'm glad I didn't know, as I would have been worried sick on my last childfree holiday, and having spent the last 17 years being worried sick on most of our family holidays, I'm relieved I have those happy memories of relaxation.
The good news though, is that those days look set to return. While I had my usual holiday anxieties - I hate flying and it really doesn't get any better, even with a little help from diazepam, I'm always slightly spooked by the thought of child snatching (though not quite as scared of that as I was), and now having teenage daughters in Turkey I got an extra layer of worry about one of them being persuaded to run off with a Turkish waiter, and I don't sleep well away from home, but...this year I really did manage to relax. The kids are now old enough that we can leave them and go off for a wander, as most of the time they just want to laze around by the pool, and there was so much to see and do in Side it felt much more like the holidays we used to take.
We had a very tight window for the holiday this year, as no 1 is currently doing an engineering work placement, and no 4 didn't finish school till 23 July. So we did something we've never done before and went away the day term finished (not to be recommended) - I managed not to blub my way through her leaving assembly and we dashed home, she got changed and we were in a taxi to Gatwick ten minutes later. The disadvantage of this was that our flight didn't land till 9.30 Turkish time. We'd booked a car the other end, but due to (my) cock up, the people we were renting the villa off also sent us a taxi to take us there. We saw a man with a sign saying Williams and naturally followed him, thinking he was taking us to an out of town hire car company. It was only when we'd been in the cab for about ten minutes, that we realised our mistake. Cue lots of very expensive phone calls to sort it out, and luckily the car hire people sent someone over the next day. It turned out to be just as well we'd cocked up, as I doubt we'd have found the place on our own, as it appears in the part of Side we were staying in there are no road names, only numbers.
We didn't get to the apartment till about 11pm, by which time everyone was starving and Spouse and I were concerned about whether we could actually find anywhere to eat (on our last Turkish trip we stayed in a one eyed resort which had one restaurant). Fortunately, Mete, the guy who looked after the apartment pointed us in the direction of a local place called Hawaii, which turned out to be good value and a really fun place to go. So that was easy.
Side itself didn't disappoint. The old town is literally built on the ruins of the Roman town, and when Spouse and I were last there, we stayed in an apartment in the old town, which to our delight was still there. It is more built up either side of the old town (particularly on the west side - if you ever go there, stay on the east side), but it does look as if they are trying hard to preserve what they have. The only disappointment with that is, last time we were there, we had dinner in a restaurant which was in the ruins of the ancient basilica, but now they're (quite rightly!) excavating the area properly, and the restaurant has gone. Though we did find a neat place which had it's back wall on the other side of the basilica facing out to sea, and was a lovely relaxed place, with unpushy staff, cheap (if limited) food, and a great view.
When we were there last, the amphitheatre was surrounded by rubble, and you couldn't get into it, though Spouse and I did have a go, risking life and limb scrabbling up the outside of it (which I certainly wouldn't have done had I known I was pregnant!), but now it's open to the public, and was well worth a visit. In the evening as you walk into town,down the ruins of what I presume was the ancient market, or certainly where there were colonnaded shops, you can get a fabulous view of the sun setting over the amphitheatre and it is absolutely magical. To add to the magic, there was a family of camels living opposite our apartment, who spent the day taking people for rides round the ruins. The kids had a go, while we followed them, with the baby camel which accompanied the adults everywhere. The baby took it upon itself to go a different way, and Spouse ended up camel man for the day as he took it home. Actually... I suspect if he'd played his cards right, Spouse might have ended up as camel man for life, as Mr Camel Man gave us drinks afterwards, and seemed very keen to pair his three sons up with our daughters, and I suspect would have taken me into the job lot if Spouse had shown an interest:-)
Other highlights of the holiday included a trip to the Duden Falls, where you can walk behind the waterfall. Again an absolutely magical experience, and something that really fired my imagination - I now have a picture of where my dragon can live in the teen fantasy that I have been writing for a thousand years - ; a boat trip to the Manavgat Falls which included seeing turtles; a trip to Alanya (a place we also stayed in) where we walked among the ruins of an old castle, and found a seal in the shipyard; and a scary trip to the mountains looking for a placed called Selge which ended up with us being chased by Turkish women who wanted to take us on a tour of the ruins. It was a bit like Deliverance, Turkey style, particularly as Spouse kept driving up a road that was not only overrun with cows on the way home, but had a road which got progressively stonier and higher, until we decided to cut our losses and turn round and go home, braving the scary Turkish ladies on the way back.
However, the best bit for me was having a Turkish bath. Something I've always wanted to do but never had the nerve to try on my own. Another blessing of the children being older was they could come with me, result! Our day started with quite the funniest thing I have ever done, which was to have a mud bath. We went into an outside pool which was knee deep in clayey water, with about twenty strangers, none of whomspoke English. Tentatively, people started applying the clay to their skin. Then a mud shower started, and soon everyone was standing underneath it getting liberally hosed down with clay. Which is one way to break the ice. We were soon resembling mud statues, and as we dried, we all started to look like something out of Dr Who. The funniest sight was a very large elderly German gentleman, who kept slapping mud on his tummy and saying "Sehr Komisch!", which he was, particularly.
After ten minutes it was time to shower off, again, hilarious as the mud got everywhere, in our ears, eyes, hair, bikinis...and of course the water was freezing cold, which led to more guffaws of laughter from our German friend. I don't think I've ever seen anyone enjoy themselves so much, and I think I shall laugh about it forever.
Mud finally dispensed with, we trooped off to the sauna, which the children loved, though ironically in England none of them would be old enough to have one, followed by the salt and steam rooms. No 4 found the steam room so exciting, she kept standing up and down to see if she could see us through the steam. "She's such a child," her big sisters said wearily.
The best bit was undoubtedly the Turkish bath. You lie on big slabs of marble, and get liberally washed over, before having a body scrub, followed by a bubble wash. I have never seen so much foam, and I was amused to see our German friend getting a big smack on the arse with the loofah. It didn't dent his enthusiasm, "Super!" he said to us as he left, giving us the thumbs up. And he was right. I've never felt so clean and fresh in my life.
We then spent twenty minutes in the relaxation room, where I was persuaded to let the girls have their feet nibbled by fish (at extra cost, natch), and then it was time for our 20 minute massage. Or in my case, a hard sell attempt to get me to have a full body, medical massage, because apparently my back is in such a terrible state my circulation is poor, and I am probably going to die if I don't do something about it. This is not a good thing to tell a hypochondriac who has a slight phobia about being ill on holiday... I had also run out of money, but the man kept saying, "no problem, we go to your hotel." Much as I hate being bullied, it is quite difficult to resist such a hard sell when you are half naked, so I agreed in the end, trying not to fret about the fact that my massage alone cost nearly as much as the rest of the day. However, I suddenly remembered that Spouse had promised me a spa day for my birthday, and it was still cheaper then in England so...
The massage itself was fabulous and we all felt happy and glowing as we left - me running out of money turned out not to be a problem as they simply took me to the apartment and I ran in and got some more dosh, which seemed very trusting...
All in all it was a fabulous experience, and if we ever go to Turkey again, one I will definitely repeat. The kids loved it too, so I've ended up promising them a spa day for their 21st birthdays. Better get saving now...
The rest of the holiday was spent doing the usual swimming, relaxing and reading, which was just what the doctor ordered as we'd all been running around like mad things before we went. I got through about 13 books this year, including the JK Rowling/Robert Galbraith book, which I'd thoroughly recommend, a Jo Nesbo, a Peter James - both of which authors I'll, now go back to -, Ben Hatch's very funny Road to Rouen, Caroline Smailes' and Nik Perring's brilliant Freaks, to name but a few. But my overall favourite had to be Neil Gaiman's fabulous The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which was beautiful, mysterious, terrifying, magical, witty and wise, and I will be blogging about it later.
I didn't get any writing done, but I did manage a lot of thinking. I am having to get up early for the rest of the holiday to drop no 1 at the station, so while the others sleep, the plan is, I get cracking on the next Hope Christmas book, and finish my dragons, and work on my runaway mum story...
It's nice to go away, but you know, the sign of a really good holiday is that it's even nicer to be back...
Thursday, July 04, 2013
How I wrote Midsummer Magic: A post to celebrate publication day
As with a lot of my books, the kernel of the idea for Midsummer Magic came from this fab song by the Pierces, which I fell in love with the first time I heard it. I knew I wanted to write a summery book, and I also wanted it to feel a little magical, and this song made me think of long, enchanted summer evenings. I love the video too, it feels quite mystical and earthy, which was also what I was after.
I mulled around ideas in my head and as I had to come up with something for my lovely editor, so I came up with this very rough synopis.
Recently engaged Josie and Harry are visiting Josie’s parents in the country to make plans for the wedding, together with her best friend Diana, and his best friend, Ant. Unbeknownst to Josie and Harry, Ant and Diana have met previously and don’t get on. Sparks fly from the minute they meet, and one thing is certain, come the big day this is one Best Man who won’t be making eyes at the Chief Bridesmaid…
The weekend away takes place during the Summer Solstice, and as a dare, the four friends decide to stay out all night on the hills by the local Standing Stones, where local mythology says, a young married couple will find happiness, wealth and fertility if they can last a whole night there on Midsummer’s Eve...
In the village itself, Tatiana Okeby, an aging soap star is making preparations for her role in the local summer outdoor production of A Midsummer Night Dream. A night in the pub with Anthony Slowbotham, the rather unlikely local lothario, to wind up her agent and one time lover, Auberon Fanshawe, turns out not quite how she expects, thanks to the intervention of Auberon’s assistant, one Freddie Puck, who manages to persuade her a walk in the hills is just what she needs to be doing right now…
But as night time falls, a summer mist comes down, and the world seems somehow changed. Not all is at it seems, and not everyone seems to have remembered the boundaries of love…
If you are kind enough to read the book, you'll see that quite a few details have changed from this - not least Anthony Slowbotham's name, as I realised I had three male characters whose name began with A! At this stage I was also seeing Harry and Josie's stories running parallel with Tatiana's and Auberon's, but as the story progressed in my head, I started weaving them together. As you might have guessed from the giveaway names, I had also already started to look at A Midsummer Night's Dream for inspiration. Initially I was going to have Puck enchant my lovers with a magical potion as he does in the play, but when I came to read the text more closely (the funny thing about Shakespeare is you think it's all so familiar, then you reread and realise .. it's not), I came to see that wouldn't quite work, without making him seem like some kind of weird drug pusher. I also realised on closer inspection that the whole reason Oberon and Titania fall out (over a little boy in her entourage she won't give up), would look very wierd in a modern book, so I dropped that bit entirely and created a story for Tatiana and Auberon based on a relationship that had gone badly wrong. I also decided that hypnotising my characters would be a great way to get them into all sorts of trouble.I then wrote my longer, more detailed synopsis, which I won't share here as it will give too much away. Though I can tell you it too changed hugely in the writing!
The next bit, was of course getting down to writing. Oh dear reader, I am sure I've mentioned before, but procrastination is my middle name. So I let the summer slip through my fingers, before finally getting down to business in September. It was only the impending senses of doom brought on by a deadline at the end of November that kicked my butt into gear, and I started to get going.
All my first drafts are written by hand. (And did I mention, I write with Uniball pens, and yes, the lovely people at Uniball did sponsor me to say that!) I find for me it's the best way to get the story out. For some reason I am more scared by a blank computer screen then by a blank page, and a sort of stream of consciousness thing takes over and I find the writing flows more freely. The downside is, terrible hand cramp, and then I have to type it up, but I do like working this way. This is how some of that first draft looked:
I filled three notebooks in the end. I use Pukka Pads. (They haven't sponsored me to say that!) After I've scrawled out my first draft (my handwriting is terrible), I type it up and realise that it is waaaayyy too short, as I haven't added what my first editor, Maxine, used to call colour. So then I do some more thinking and plotting, and write scribbled notes like this to help me, and after usually two more rewrites, it's ready to send to my editor, which I did with this, in early December.
Claire, my editor is not only very nice, but really thorough, and brilliant at picking up the bits that don't work. The first official draft of Midsummer Magic had alot of pointless running around in the dark, where I fell in love with the idea of creating mayhem for my characters, but didn't execute it well enough. So then it was back to the drawing board. Claire sent me these notes, we had some conversations about them, and you can see from my scribbles on the manuscript, her thoughts got my ideas going again. For me, I see being edited as a collaborative process, and I am always open to suggestion, and ways to make the book better. It's my baby, and this time I literally couldn't see the wood for the trees, and I needed Claire's clear insights into what wasn't working and what was.
During this stage of rewriting, I started to layer things more, trying to weave in Tatiana and Auberon's story more into the main narrative, adding in detail about the Cornish landscape in June, searching for Shakespeare connections to use as best I could. I watched/read A Midsummer Night's Dream obssessively, and deciding it was all getting a bit samey, worked harder to give my characters more misunderstandings. This is the version I sent to Claire, together with my research notes (alot were about wild flowers!), together with a map I drew of my fictional village of Tresgothen, so I could work out where I was sending my characters too.
I then had a combined line edit/copyedit to work on, which looked like this. Using the track change facility on Word, Claire highlights specific parts of the narrative, where I'm being too wordy or repetitive, and where things can be cut for pace. As well as Claire's comments, I also have the copyeditor's ( lovely Keshini, who worked at Avon when I was first published by them) comments. These are all about making things consistent, checking grammar, spelling, and factual content, and making me aware when I've been an idiot and made silly mistakes. Kesh is very good at it picking up silly things I've missed, and I find her input invaluable.
I think that stage probably took us to mid April, and then the page proofs came in. This is where my story starts looking like a proper book. And even though I have been doing this for YEARS, and worked on hundreds of proofs in my time, I still get a buzz out of seeing that title page with my name on it! I usually read through the proofs once, and then check it more thoroughly against the copyedited version. Nowadays things are done digitally (in the dark ages when I was first in publishing page proofs would be typeset from scratch so there were more mistakes), so the proofs are usually quite clean, but sometimes changing computer programmes does wierd things to the font, typesize etc. And there are always things that you've missed which suddenly look glaringly obvious at proof stage. Having said that, it's still always possible to miss stuff, as I discovered to my chagrin in Last Christmas when I had Cat make meringue with egg yolks, and in A Merry Little Christmas, when I forgot to change Lucy's condition from cystic fibrosis to cerebal palsy. In case you are thinking How Did She POSSIBLY Miss That? My defence is that after so many times of reading a manuscript you go word blind, and your brain automatically corrects things, so you read it as you intended to write it, not as it actually is. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it!
The deadlines for writing Midsummer Magic where tight all the way through, so I didn't send my comments on the proofs back till May (luckily just before my op!). It is a huge testament to the dedication and hard work of the brilliant Avon team that the books were ready in time for today's publication. I know how tight the turnarounds were and I salute them. So here it is: the final book, and very beautiful it looks too.
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Monday, June 24, 2013
Feminism and the modern world
When I was very young - say 6/7ish - my mother who isn't prone to taking to the streets to protest, became very angry in our local sweetshop. I dimly understood why at the time. It was something to do with magazines she didn't like. Around the same time I also remember her shooing away teenagers who congegrated in the bush at the park which backed onto the bottom of our garden, to snog and smoke, as teenagers do. 6 year old me was fascinated to see a girl in a bra and skirt, and a little puzzled as to what was making my mum so cross.
As I grew up, I came to understand what had made my mother so angry, and as a young woman, dealing with the casual sexism of page 3, having my bum pinched by boys, or being aggressively chatted up by men in bars, I became angry too. And a feminist. I remember many arguments while I was a student with guys my own age, who simply didn't get where I was coming from. Well you wouldn't would you, if you've never been discriminated against. I was determined that I was going to be independent, combine a career with a family and never rely on a man...
Then real life intervened, as it is wont to do. I didn't stop being a feminist, as such, but quite frankly it went on the back burner in the years when my children were small. Daily life was such a struggle, I didn't have the energy for gender politics. And to be honest, I don't think it was much easier for Spouse. While I was firefighting at home, the onus was (and still is to a large extent) on him to bring the bacon in.
However, I have four daughters, and I want them to learn from my mistakes (have a career that pays you enough to make it worthwhile carrying on working, would be one lesson I'd teach them), and I also want them to feel the world is their oyster, and being a girl shouldn't be a reason for them to ever think they can't do anything. To an extent, I think that's worked. They've grown up in a world which expects equality, and they are so sure that it exists, they think at the moment feminism is irrelevant. The gender war is over, it's all done and dealt with. My eldest daughter is planning on a career in engineering, and sees her sex as no barrier (I can remember there was one girl on the civil engineering course when I was a student) - hurrah for her. The second, however has no idea what she wants to do bar being a wife and mother. Which I find dispiriting to say the least. She not only thinks feminism is irrelevant, but for her, it's almost as if it hasn't happened.
Because in the time when I had my head down and wasn't paying attention, I feel that we've gone backwards. Sure I had a lot of teasing from boys about feminism in my student days, but they respected my opinion, and on occasion I won some of them round. I was immensely depressed to read this article the other day about a bunch of teenage girls who started a feminist society at their school and got this foul and vicious reaction to it.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/mortarboard/2013/jun/20/why-i-started-a-feminist-society
Have things really got so bad? Why are boys behaving in such a vile manner because girls are calling for more equality? The guys I knew when I was young might have been sexist, but they knew they were, and they also on the whole have grown into men who've tried at least to take an equal share in domestic tasks, and bringing up families. We've a long way to go still, but I genuinely thought things had got better. But in fact, I think it's got worse, and my daughters face a far harder time then I did.
One of the problems I think is that this generation has been much more exposed to sex from a young age then we were. I can remember being horrified watching Britney Spears on Blue Peter doing a routine which was totally inappropriate when my kids were under 10. Trying to buy clothes that didn't make them look tarty has also been a huge issue. And currently I am battling with my lot about the underwear they buy. They get it from places like Primark, and think it's pretty - a lot of it looks like it should belong in a brothel. They watch Waterloo Road and Eastenders where people casually hop in and out of bed, with very little discussion about the emotional impact. I know I'm beginning to sound like a prude (I'm really not!), but it seems to me, the pendulum has swung too far the other way from, sex being taboo, to it almost being something you do as recreational activity.
Added to that mix, there's the hideous modern day fact of online porn, which any savvy teen can access with a click of a mouse. So what? You might say, porn isn't new. Teenagers having sex too young isn't new. And yet, there is something new, pernicious and very worrying about the situation we are currently in, as this article makes clear:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/internet/10135701/Mutating-power-of-porn-is-a-curse-upon-the-young.html
As a mum of teenagers it doesn't surprise me at all. Granted, I did have a fairly sheltered teenage life (being a catholic, kept the boys I knew in check, thank god), but these are some of the stories I've heard from my kids:
- a 14 yo girl who got drunk for the first time, was filmed by a boy as she was being felt up by another boy. He was only stopped from putting the video up on YouTube by her sister threatening to go to the police
- a 13 yo girl was bullied after naively talking openly to a boy she knew about masturbation. Their conversation went viral and everyone got to know, and she was labelled a slut
- a 13yo boy made it his mission to ask every girl he knew to let him finger her
- a 14yo girl was asked to give head to a boy who had an STD. She refused only because he had an infection.
- 15yo girls regularly give head to boys in the loos.
Maybe all that went on 30 years ago, but it certainly wasn't my experience. I wasn't asked to have sex on a regular basis as my 15 year old has been. The latest coming from a boy she barely knew, who asked her if she was up for it now he was "legal", conveniently ignoring the fact that she isn't.
On top of that because of the false image of sex the boys have witnessed, girls now regularly feel pressurized to shave all their hair off to match the expectations of what goes on in porn films. I know that happens because my daughter has succumbed to that one. She's also been sent pictures of erect penises, which she finds funny, fortunately, I suppose, but I don't. I think the pressure on her and her peer group is intolerable. And it's not that great for the boys either, many of whom must struggle with the disconnect between what they see and what they should be doing with girls. And what makes it worse is, thanks to the advent of technology, it's always there, a click away, something they cannot escape from easily.
So what's the answer? In an ideal world parents would simply police it. We'd get savvy, and pull internet connections and block phones, and make sure that we knew what our kids were up to. But it really isn't as easy as that. You can do all that at home if you like (we try to, with patchy results), but as soon as they've left the house, they can do as they please. Plus keeping up with the technology is a real challenge - I was ahead of the game with no 1 being on Facebook before she was, but no s 2&3 have blackberries and I don't have BBM. Nor do I have an ipod and use snapchat - an innocentish app which kids use to send pictures to each other, which could easily be used for sexting purposes. And it's the sheer proliferation of this stuff, that makes it so hard to deal with. It's not something we parents can tackle alone, and most of us aren't equipped for it, quite frankly.
I think education is one approach, and I thoroughly applaud Sarra Manning for writing about teenage sex in a messy and realistic way. I'd rather my kids read books like that, then learnt about sex via the internet.
http://www.sarramanning.co.uk/index.php/2013/06/sex-and-the-teenage-girl/
And I think being open and honest about this stuff with your kids is also vital. Again something I try to do with varying results - you get a lot of "Ew! That's gross, Don't want to talk about it" kind of reactions. And teenagers are notoriously secretive, so they won't always talk to you about it even if you try. I think schools need to be proactive - making boys aware that what they are viewing is totally unrealistic, and that they need to respect girls, and making girls aware that No, really does mean no, and empowering them to be able to say it. That's vital more then ever today I think.
I've also subscribed to these two campaigns:
http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/public/article1274103.ece
https://www.facebook.com/ChildEyes?fref=ts
I think it's vital we make both the government and internet providers see that the current situation is unacceptable and we should all be doing everything we can to protect our children. I get there's a freedom of speech issue here, and have no issue with consenting adults having access to whatever porn they want. But children shouldn't be being exposed to this stuff, at an age when they're impressionable and learning to become sexual beings. They need to do that in a safe environment, one that they can retreat from if necessary. Otherwise, things are only going to get a lot worse.
Feminism irrelevant? My daughters have got is so wrong. Today it's more important then ever.
As I grew up, I came to understand what had made my mother so angry, and as a young woman, dealing with the casual sexism of page 3, having my bum pinched by boys, or being aggressively chatted up by men in bars, I became angry too. And a feminist. I remember many arguments while I was a student with guys my own age, who simply didn't get where I was coming from. Well you wouldn't would you, if you've never been discriminated against. I was determined that I was going to be independent, combine a career with a family and never rely on a man...
Then real life intervened, as it is wont to do. I didn't stop being a feminist, as such, but quite frankly it went on the back burner in the years when my children were small. Daily life was such a struggle, I didn't have the energy for gender politics. And to be honest, I don't think it was much easier for Spouse. While I was firefighting at home, the onus was (and still is to a large extent) on him to bring the bacon in.
However, I have four daughters, and I want them to learn from my mistakes (have a career that pays you enough to make it worthwhile carrying on working, would be one lesson I'd teach them), and I also want them to feel the world is their oyster, and being a girl shouldn't be a reason for them to ever think they can't do anything. To an extent, I think that's worked. They've grown up in a world which expects equality, and they are so sure that it exists, they think at the moment feminism is irrelevant. The gender war is over, it's all done and dealt with. My eldest daughter is planning on a career in engineering, and sees her sex as no barrier (I can remember there was one girl on the civil engineering course when I was a student) - hurrah for her. The second, however has no idea what she wants to do bar being a wife and mother. Which I find dispiriting to say the least. She not only thinks feminism is irrelevant, but for her, it's almost as if it hasn't happened.
Because in the time when I had my head down and wasn't paying attention, I feel that we've gone backwards. Sure I had a lot of teasing from boys about feminism in my student days, but they respected my opinion, and on occasion I won some of them round. I was immensely depressed to read this article the other day about a bunch of teenage girls who started a feminist society at their school and got this foul and vicious reaction to it.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/education/mortarboard/2013/jun/20/why-i-started-a-feminist-society
Have things really got so bad? Why are boys behaving in such a vile manner because girls are calling for more equality? The guys I knew when I was young might have been sexist, but they knew they were, and they also on the whole have grown into men who've tried at least to take an equal share in domestic tasks, and bringing up families. We've a long way to go still, but I genuinely thought things had got better. But in fact, I think it's got worse, and my daughters face a far harder time then I did.
One of the problems I think is that this generation has been much more exposed to sex from a young age then we were. I can remember being horrified watching Britney Spears on Blue Peter doing a routine which was totally inappropriate when my kids were under 10. Trying to buy clothes that didn't make them look tarty has also been a huge issue. And currently I am battling with my lot about the underwear they buy. They get it from places like Primark, and think it's pretty - a lot of it looks like it should belong in a brothel. They watch Waterloo Road and Eastenders where people casually hop in and out of bed, with very little discussion about the emotional impact. I know I'm beginning to sound like a prude (I'm really not!), but it seems to me, the pendulum has swung too far the other way from, sex being taboo, to it almost being something you do as recreational activity.
Added to that mix, there's the hideous modern day fact of online porn, which any savvy teen can access with a click of a mouse. So what? You might say, porn isn't new. Teenagers having sex too young isn't new. And yet, there is something new, pernicious and very worrying about the situation we are currently in, as this article makes clear:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/technology/internet/10135701/Mutating-power-of-porn-is-a-curse-upon-the-young.html
As a mum of teenagers it doesn't surprise me at all. Granted, I did have a fairly sheltered teenage life (being a catholic, kept the boys I knew in check, thank god), but these are some of the stories I've heard from my kids:
- a 14 yo girl who got drunk for the first time, was filmed by a boy as she was being felt up by another boy. He was only stopped from putting the video up on YouTube by her sister threatening to go to the police
- a 13 yo girl was bullied after naively talking openly to a boy she knew about masturbation. Their conversation went viral and everyone got to know, and she was labelled a slut
- a 13yo boy made it his mission to ask every girl he knew to let him finger her
- a 14yo girl was asked to give head to a boy who had an STD. She refused only because he had an infection.
- 15yo girls regularly give head to boys in the loos.
Maybe all that went on 30 years ago, but it certainly wasn't my experience. I wasn't asked to have sex on a regular basis as my 15 year old has been. The latest coming from a boy she barely knew, who asked her if she was up for it now he was "legal", conveniently ignoring the fact that she isn't.
On top of that because of the false image of sex the boys have witnessed, girls now regularly feel pressurized to shave all their hair off to match the expectations of what goes on in porn films. I know that happens because my daughter has succumbed to that one. She's also been sent pictures of erect penises, which she finds funny, fortunately, I suppose, but I don't. I think the pressure on her and her peer group is intolerable. And it's not that great for the boys either, many of whom must struggle with the disconnect between what they see and what they should be doing with girls. And what makes it worse is, thanks to the advent of technology, it's always there, a click away, something they cannot escape from easily.
So what's the answer? In an ideal world parents would simply police it. We'd get savvy, and pull internet connections and block phones, and make sure that we knew what our kids were up to. But it really isn't as easy as that. You can do all that at home if you like (we try to, with patchy results), but as soon as they've left the house, they can do as they please. Plus keeping up with the technology is a real challenge - I was ahead of the game with no 1 being on Facebook before she was, but no s 2&3 have blackberries and I don't have BBM. Nor do I have an ipod and use snapchat - an innocentish app which kids use to send pictures to each other, which could easily be used for sexting purposes. And it's the sheer proliferation of this stuff, that makes it so hard to deal with. It's not something we parents can tackle alone, and most of us aren't equipped for it, quite frankly.
I think education is one approach, and I thoroughly applaud Sarra Manning for writing about teenage sex in a messy and realistic way. I'd rather my kids read books like that, then learnt about sex via the internet.
http://www.sarramanning.co.uk/index.php/2013/06/sex-and-the-teenage-girl/
And I think being open and honest about this stuff with your kids is also vital. Again something I try to do with varying results - you get a lot of "Ew! That's gross, Don't want to talk about it" kind of reactions. And teenagers are notoriously secretive, so they won't always talk to you about it even if you try. I think schools need to be proactive - making boys aware that what they are viewing is totally unrealistic, and that they need to respect girls, and making girls aware that No, really does mean no, and empowering them to be able to say it. That's vital more then ever today I think.
I've also subscribed to these two campaigns:
http://www.thesundaytimes.co.uk/sto/public/article1274103.ece
https://www.facebook.com/ChildEyes?fref=ts
I think it's vital we make both the government and internet providers see that the current situation is unacceptable and we should all be doing everything we can to protect our children. I get there's a freedom of speech issue here, and have no issue with consenting adults having access to whatever porn they want. But children shouldn't be being exposed to this stuff, at an age when they're impressionable and learning to become sexual beings. They need to do that in a safe environment, one that they can retreat from if necessary. Otherwise, things are only going to get a lot worse.
Feminism irrelevant? My daughters have got is so wrong. Today it's more important then ever.
Monday, June 10, 2013
Fair, Fat and Forty...
Lordy, lord. Here I go again... nearly two months since my last blogpost. (I feel momentarily like I am in the confessional).
I do actually have a reasonably good reason this time. Which is, dear reader, that I have recently had an operation to remove my gall bladder. When I blogged in January, I mentioned that I had had an horrendous hangover in January. What I didn't mention was that though I gave up alcohol for the month and stopped having hangovers, I realised at the end of it I still wasn't quite feeling right. Not only that, but I had two or three episodes of acute pain in the middle of the night. And when I say acute, I mean ACUTE... the sort of pain that leaves you curled up in a ball moaning slightly hysterically as nothing, but nothing makes it stop. Not only that I was having acid heartburn that Gaviscon just wasn't reaching, and I had the faint feeling of nausea a lot of the time. When I gave it some thought, I realised I had been feeling like that this (without the acute bouts of pain) pretty much forever. I had put up with it, as I thought the acid burning etc was a result of the stress I'd been under when mil was ill, but after the first time I had pain, I looked up my symptoms online (I know I know, fatal) and in between scary things like cancer and heart attacks, gallstones screamed right out at me. Particularly as the first bad attack I had was after making a chicken pie (gallstones don't like fat you see. They really don't like it at all.).
It took a bit of to and froing from the doctor to make sure what was going on before he referred me for an utlrasound and an endoscopy (where they stick a camera down your throat. Lovely.). By now I was convinced it was gallstones (except in the stilly watches of the night when my imagination tends to run riot), as my mother suffered from them some time ago and it as as they say familial. Added to which according to the medical mythology of my ma (an ex nurse), being fair, fat and forty means I am a prime candidate (my GP helpfully added fertile to the mix. Man, gallstones could have been made for me).
I was incredibly lucky in that I didn't have to wait too long for my tests, and the ultrasound revealed in seconds that I had a bag full of gallstones, or "one sick gallbladder" as the cheerful chap doing the ultrasound told me. I was so relieved to hear the words, "normal" repeated as he scanned my liver, pancreas, kidneys etc, I failed to take on the import of what this meant, until when I said cheerfully, "I'm so relieved," he replied, "It's not that great you have to have an operation." Which was true, but quite frankly, considering what the alternatives could have been (part of the symptoms I've been having including pains in my chest, eek, heart attack alert!), I was hugely relieved. I was not so happy the next day, when I had to have my endoscopy without realising I should have told them I wanted to be sedated first (does ANYONE in their right minds actually want a tube shoved down their throat while being wide awake?), but I got through that too, to discover there was nothing more the matter with me, then having a bunch of gallstones.
As is the way of these things, as soon as I started to mention it, turns out dozens of people I know have had their gall bladder out, it's really common etc etc, and amazingly you can function pretty well without it. Hurrah for that (apart from the fact it squeezes bile on to your food as it goes through into your stomach, I'm not entirely sure why we need one, and the pain it was causing me was enough for me to want to get rid of it as soon as I could.) I started to eat a sensible low fat diet, avoiding fatty foods as much as possible (one spectacularly bad attack came after I'd made Beef Wellington for Spouse's birthday meal.), giving up on things I really really love, like pate and soft cheeses - my one moment of weakness at a wedding had dire consequences - and waited to see the specialist.
Again, I was really lucky, as I got to see a lovely consultant pretty quickly too, and he too said straight away that the pesky thing had to come out pronto. I had been imagining I was going to have to wait until the summer, which would have been a pain, but possibly more practical in terms of organising the family, but I was initially given a date early in May. Not wanting to turn it down, we said yes straight away and then I started to fret about the children. I wasn't going to be able to drive for a week, how would the housework get done, no 1 had AS levels coming up, no 4 had her Sats, I didn't want either of them worried. Mind you, what do I know? No 1 cheerfully told me she was in a little exam bubble and didn't care. That'll teach me...
The first date turned out to be on a Bank Holiday so they moved me to the next week, the start of exams, and also no 1's birthday week (quite frankly, she was more worried about whether I was going to be ok for that, and I was trying to work out how I could make a cake that wouldn't go off before hand), but luckily as it turned out that got cancelled too. Spouse had arranged to take two days off, and it was too late to book patients in, so we had a pre op holiday, the two of us instead, which was much nicer.
Finally I was given a date of the 17th May first thing in the morning, and then panic started to set in. I've only ever had one operation, a long time ago, and I felt lousy after the anaesthetic. I also hated the feeling of being not asleep exactly, but in a kind of dark space of nothingness - as Spouse so eloquently described it, it's like a little slice of death. Besides, though it's not common, what if I DIDN'T wake up??? (Luckily the research about Friday operations being the most dangerous was published after my op). So cometh the hour, I was a gibbering wreck. So much so that when lovely Mr Consultant came to see me before the op, he said, "You look terrified." - because I was. Who in their right mind wouldn't be?
However, hats off to the medical staff. It's all so routine for them, it makes it feel more routine for you, the patient. The anaesthetists were particularly cheering, one kept me chatting while the other slickly got a line in and injected me with something sleep inducing. I can just remember asking if everyone is as scared as me (the answer was pretty much yes), before drifting off. This time, I am pleased to report, I didn't get a sense of black nothingness. I just shut my eyes at 8.30am, and opened them to discover it was ten past ten, and I was being looked after by a very lovely nurse, who it turned out had trained with my sister. Small world...
Then I was brought back into the side room I had come into in the morning, where Spouse and I sat and had several cups of tea and I attempted to eat biscuits, before the anaesthetist arrived to tell me everything had gone well, and the nurse eventually told me I could get dressed and go home. Yes. GO HOME.... As I'd had key hole surgery, I was up and out before you knew it. To my amazement, though I felt sore, I was able to walk to the car, and didn't feel the need for any pain relief till I went to bed. (Though big sis, who has just gone back to nursing full time, told me off big time. The thing is, I don't think I was being especially brave, but after the pain of gallstones, which literally doesn't ease up for hours, a bit of soreness felt like nothing.)
I had been advised to take at least a week off (eek! how was I going to manage that), but thanks to Spouse who did literally mountains of washing and organised the kids to help far better then I could, my lovely twin for popping over to help for a couple of days, and no 1 organising me while she took study leave, everything happened that had to happen. The second week was half term, and nos 3 and 4 were away for some of it, so that meant less to organise, and so I was able to take it easy. And for the first time in years, I literally stopped. Which has been a revelation, quite frankly. The world didn't end, life went on, the house hasn't fallen apart, the kids have got to school. I could get used to this.
Three weeks in, and the pain is abating, though I notice more twinges if I overdo things, the house is starting to look a little rough around the edges, and work is building up so my period of enforced idleness has to sadly come to an end. But... the good news is my stitches are healing up, I'm beginning to feel better, and I can eat pate again... Bliss.
With grateful thanks to all the amazing staff at Ashtead Hospital who looked after me so well.
I do actually have a reasonably good reason this time. Which is, dear reader, that I have recently had an operation to remove my gall bladder. When I blogged in January, I mentioned that I had had an horrendous hangover in January. What I didn't mention was that though I gave up alcohol for the month and stopped having hangovers, I realised at the end of it I still wasn't quite feeling right. Not only that, but I had two or three episodes of acute pain in the middle of the night. And when I say acute, I mean ACUTE... the sort of pain that leaves you curled up in a ball moaning slightly hysterically as nothing, but nothing makes it stop. Not only that I was having acid heartburn that Gaviscon just wasn't reaching, and I had the faint feeling of nausea a lot of the time. When I gave it some thought, I realised I had been feeling like that this (without the acute bouts of pain) pretty much forever. I had put up with it, as I thought the acid burning etc was a result of the stress I'd been under when mil was ill, but after the first time I had pain, I looked up my symptoms online (I know I know, fatal) and in between scary things like cancer and heart attacks, gallstones screamed right out at me. Particularly as the first bad attack I had was after making a chicken pie (gallstones don't like fat you see. They really don't like it at all.).
It took a bit of to and froing from the doctor to make sure what was going on before he referred me for an utlrasound and an endoscopy (where they stick a camera down your throat. Lovely.). By now I was convinced it was gallstones (except in the stilly watches of the night when my imagination tends to run riot), as my mother suffered from them some time ago and it as as they say familial. Added to which according to the medical mythology of my ma (an ex nurse), being fair, fat and forty means I am a prime candidate (my GP helpfully added fertile to the mix. Man, gallstones could have been made for me).
I was incredibly lucky in that I didn't have to wait too long for my tests, and the ultrasound revealed in seconds that I had a bag full of gallstones, or "one sick gallbladder" as the cheerful chap doing the ultrasound told me. I was so relieved to hear the words, "normal" repeated as he scanned my liver, pancreas, kidneys etc, I failed to take on the import of what this meant, until when I said cheerfully, "I'm so relieved," he replied, "It's not that great you have to have an operation." Which was true, but quite frankly, considering what the alternatives could have been (part of the symptoms I've been having including pains in my chest, eek, heart attack alert!), I was hugely relieved. I was not so happy the next day, when I had to have my endoscopy without realising I should have told them I wanted to be sedated first (does ANYONE in their right minds actually want a tube shoved down their throat while being wide awake?), but I got through that too, to discover there was nothing more the matter with me, then having a bunch of gallstones.
As is the way of these things, as soon as I started to mention it, turns out dozens of people I know have had their gall bladder out, it's really common etc etc, and amazingly you can function pretty well without it. Hurrah for that (apart from the fact it squeezes bile on to your food as it goes through into your stomach, I'm not entirely sure why we need one, and the pain it was causing me was enough for me to want to get rid of it as soon as I could.) I started to eat a sensible low fat diet, avoiding fatty foods as much as possible (one spectacularly bad attack came after I'd made Beef Wellington for Spouse's birthday meal.), giving up on things I really really love, like pate and soft cheeses - my one moment of weakness at a wedding had dire consequences - and waited to see the specialist.
Again, I was really lucky, as I got to see a lovely consultant pretty quickly too, and he too said straight away that the pesky thing had to come out pronto. I had been imagining I was going to have to wait until the summer, which would have been a pain, but possibly more practical in terms of organising the family, but I was initially given a date early in May. Not wanting to turn it down, we said yes straight away and then I started to fret about the children. I wasn't going to be able to drive for a week, how would the housework get done, no 1 had AS levels coming up, no 4 had her Sats, I didn't want either of them worried. Mind you, what do I know? No 1 cheerfully told me she was in a little exam bubble and didn't care. That'll teach me...
The first date turned out to be on a Bank Holiday so they moved me to the next week, the start of exams, and also no 1's birthday week (quite frankly, she was more worried about whether I was going to be ok for that, and I was trying to work out how I could make a cake that wouldn't go off before hand), but luckily as it turned out that got cancelled too. Spouse had arranged to take two days off, and it was too late to book patients in, so we had a pre op holiday, the two of us instead, which was much nicer.
Finally I was given a date of the 17th May first thing in the morning, and then panic started to set in. I've only ever had one operation, a long time ago, and I felt lousy after the anaesthetic. I also hated the feeling of being not asleep exactly, but in a kind of dark space of nothingness - as Spouse so eloquently described it, it's like a little slice of death. Besides, though it's not common, what if I DIDN'T wake up??? (Luckily the research about Friday operations being the most dangerous was published after my op). So cometh the hour, I was a gibbering wreck. So much so that when lovely Mr Consultant came to see me before the op, he said, "You look terrified." - because I was. Who in their right mind wouldn't be?
However, hats off to the medical staff. It's all so routine for them, it makes it feel more routine for you, the patient. The anaesthetists were particularly cheering, one kept me chatting while the other slickly got a line in and injected me with something sleep inducing. I can just remember asking if everyone is as scared as me (the answer was pretty much yes), before drifting off. This time, I am pleased to report, I didn't get a sense of black nothingness. I just shut my eyes at 8.30am, and opened them to discover it was ten past ten, and I was being looked after by a very lovely nurse, who it turned out had trained with my sister. Small world...
Then I was brought back into the side room I had come into in the morning, where Spouse and I sat and had several cups of tea and I attempted to eat biscuits, before the anaesthetist arrived to tell me everything had gone well, and the nurse eventually told me I could get dressed and go home. Yes. GO HOME.... As I'd had key hole surgery, I was up and out before you knew it. To my amazement, though I felt sore, I was able to walk to the car, and didn't feel the need for any pain relief till I went to bed. (Though big sis, who has just gone back to nursing full time, told me off big time. The thing is, I don't think I was being especially brave, but after the pain of gallstones, which literally doesn't ease up for hours, a bit of soreness felt like nothing.)
I had been advised to take at least a week off (eek! how was I going to manage that), but thanks to Spouse who did literally mountains of washing and organised the kids to help far better then I could, my lovely twin for popping over to help for a couple of days, and no 1 organising me while she took study leave, everything happened that had to happen. The second week was half term, and nos 3 and 4 were away for some of it, so that meant less to organise, and so I was able to take it easy. And for the first time in years, I literally stopped. Which has been a revelation, quite frankly. The world didn't end, life went on, the house hasn't fallen apart, the kids have got to school. I could get used to this.
Three weeks in, and the pain is abating, though I notice more twinges if I overdo things, the house is starting to look a little rough around the edges, and work is building up so my period of enforced idleness has to sadly come to an end. But... the good news is my stitches are healing up, I'm beginning to feel better, and I can eat pate again... Bliss.
With grateful thanks to all the amazing staff at Ashtead Hospital who looked after me so well.
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