The Problem of Potential

As I was sitting in the coffee shop yesterday, knitting (which is the new writing, don’t you know), I couldn’t help but overhear two concerned mums talking about their children’s schooling. It was a long conversation, and a private one, but the gist was very much balancing the achievement of potential with happiness.

By the time I got home, I had a splitting headache that left me zoned out for the rest of the day. It was only this morning that I realised why – the conversation triggered my anxiety. Because it is the crux of everything, isn’t it?

We spend our lives balancing survival with living. Making a wage with enjoying our money. Trading wishes for shoulds and back again. Behind it all is this constant message that we have to be the best person we can be. The richest, thinnest, most successful, happiest, living in the most tasteful house, watching the right movies, reading the edifying books, eating healthy nutritional sugar-free meals.

No one can live with the pressure of that.

It certainly drives me loopy. I know I’m a talented artist, a creative knitter, a reasonable writer. I know I was a good Marketing Manager, clever with numbers, a quick grasp of strategy, calm in a crisis. But I excel at none of those things: none of them are a driving passion that make me want to be the best at them. I flit from one to the other like a distracted five-year-old. And the guilt of not fulfilling my potential in any of those areas, never mind all of them, leaves me exhausted and incapable of achieving anything.

If I paint a nice picture, the advice is that it should become my future: selling cards on Etsy, perhaps, or painting commissions. Except if I paint when it isn’t for someone I care about, it’s no fun. And there’s no money in it. Ditto knitting. Ditto anything that isn’t to make someone happy, or to receive praise (we won’t go into how wrong that is as a motivation).

I achieved at school. I had straight As pretty much across the board. A first class degree. A Masters. I aced exams. I worked hard. It was all I knew, and I enjoyed it. I wasn’t trying to reach a certain goal – the doing was enough. The grade in itself was the reward. I wasn’t aiming for a good university or a specific career. But my success set an expectation of fulfilling my potential (to the point where I nearly got suspended for a week the first and only time I got caught smoking on site, because I was ‘setting a bad example’.)

No one could tell me what that ‘potential’ was, though, or what it was for. Only that I had to fulfil it.

And now I clean poop for a living. I muck out the guinea pigs and the hamster, pick up after the dog, wipe the kids’ bums. I cook and clean. Iron. Moan and whinge about it. Not exactly fulfilling the potential of all those qualifications. But it’s the guilt and frustration of that, rather than the chores themselves, that makes me unhappy. I love my guinea pigs, hamster, dog, kids, husband. I love my messy house and free life. And I’m not sure I know what ‘more’ looks like.

I follow Matt Haig on Twitter and Facebook. If you haven’t come across him, he is a best-selling author who is honest about his struggle with anxiety. At New Year he tweeted a succession of messages that have stuck with me (see the image above). I love this one particularly (and the Russian Doll one).

His message is powerful, and came at a perfect time for me, when the New Year Resolutions were insisting on improvement. But we are not iPhones. We don’t need an upgrade every few months. We are not Russian dolls with better versions of ourselves hidden inside. We are ourselves. We don’t need to fulfil our potential, we need to live the lives we choose to live, without worrying what other people think of us. There is no test at the end of life. Assuming there are pearly gates, or whatever version of nirvana you believe in, no one is going to say, ‘You never achieved a size ten / perfect grades / ….’ If there is a test, it is going to be, ‘Were you nice to people? Were you happy? Do you have regrets?’

Of course, this post is the exact opposite of my last one, which ended with a desire for motivation, for ‘smashing every expectation’. Life is a dichotomy. It’s precisely that contradiction, both for me and the choices I make for my children, that gave me a twenty-four hour stress headache. To ensure we don’t coast through life without a sense of achievement, but are not pushed to achieve beyond the point of happiness. To make sure the children don’t struggle at school, but to know that exam results aren’t all that important in the grand opera of life. To know that I can run to feel better inside but I don’t have to have the discipline of Jessica Ennis-Hill. To know that I want to be a best-selling author, but I perhaps don’t have the drive or emotional fortitude to get rejected thirty times.

Sanity lies in finding the balance between motivation and the endless drive for perfection. Between fulfilling your potential for you, and doing what the world expects of you.

If you figure out where that path is, I would love to know! In the meantime, I’ll leave you with some final Matt  Haig advice:

“Be happy with your own self, minus upgrades. Stop dreaming of imaginary goals and finishing lines. Accept what marketing doesn’t want you to: you are fine. You lack nothing.”  Matt Haig

 

 

June Journals #8 ~ Hitting Targets & Hidden Terrors

Proofreading Symbols

Yesterday was a day spent working on targets.

We were saved by our routine in the morning. I spent the night on the sofa escaping hayfever snoring, and fell back asleep despite two alarms (alarm #1 – eldest child 6am, alarm #2 – FitBit 7am). Alarm #3 didn’t even go off (youngest child) and had to be woken at 8am. That’ll teach me to take him swimming on a school night.

But routine kicked in. Breakfast, tick, homework, tick, dressed, tick. Might have forgotten to brush teeth, but that’s okay! We made it out the door.

Having got the children to school on time, I was left to appreciate how supremely fortunate I am to not have a job to hurry off to. One of the things I learned in recent years, through depression, mindfulness, and reading great blog posts, is the importance of gratitude.

And mostly, every day, I am grateful.

Grateful for my family, my home, my safety, my country, my health, my choices, my ability to be at home and give my attention to my family. Grateful for summer sunshine and green fields and walking the dog. Oh yes I whinge about not earning a living, but I wouldn’t trade what I have for 9-5 and the self-worth which I (probably mistakenly) believe that would bring.

So today I worked on my targets. I did an hour of study and learned about the strange and bizarre secret world of editing symbols. I painted a chunk of fence, although I should have checked the forecast. It’s cricket practice Wednesday, of course it was going to rain.

At least the scary facepaint dolls might get clean.

By 7pm

Scary Facepaint Dolls

Lunchtime

I also had a lovely domestic day, as I decided to bake some treats for my friend who is studying to be a midwife. She’s almost there and I’m so proud of her. I made chocolate banana bread and a fresh loaf to ease the pain. The bread didn’t rise but it was still yummy (we had the round loaf for tea!)

Homemade Bread

Care Package

Choc Banana Loaf

Another thing that made me smile today was realising how even famous people have their hidden terrors. I follow one of my favourite authors – Matt Haig – on Facebook. Although I haven’t read it yet, his latest book Reasons to Stay Alive has been a huge success. He’s about to do an event with Ruby Wax , and he posted this on FB today:

This is the beginning of Ruby’s article:

It just goes to show you should never judge your inside by someone else’s outside, be they famous or not. Everyone has their own story. So I’ll carry on learning weird symbols, painting weathered wood, and being super grateful for it all.

 

 

 

The Rest Is Silence

*Trigger alert – talk of suicide and depression*

What terrible news to wake to, that Robin Williams lost his battle with depression. I write it like that on purpose, rather than ‘he took his own life.’ He didn’t. Depression and addiction took his life.

I have read so many heartfelt posts and social media statements this morning, saying ‘what a waste’ and ‘if only he’d sought help.’ And I can’t help but feel the need to defend his actions. He clearly did seek help, just as a cancer patient will seek the best care. But sometimes it isn’t enough.

My father died of pneumonia when he was 58, after battling cancer for several years. I believe part of him gave up the fight. But no one would say he took his own life, or blame him for refusing to live with the pain anymore. We think depression can always be treated but sometimes the drugs don’t work. Therapy doesn’t work. Knowing the world loves a version of you that maybe isn’t the complete you surely makes it worse. Knowing you bring joy to millions but not to yourself. I can only imagine how lonely and painful that might be.

So I will mourn his loss, and celebrate his greatness, and hope his suffering may cause others to seek help and live to celebrate another day. I hope people will recognise Depression for the debilitating illness it truly is, rather than a weakness of character.

Many speak of failed suicide attempts giving them new life and new purpose, and I am glad that is true. Matt Haig often writes of surviving suicide and I am grateful he lived to pour his pain and experience into The Humans. But how many more woke determined to try again? There should be no blame, only an attempt at understanding. Robin Williams battled an illness and lost.

Rest in eternal peace, Robin Williams, I hope you have defeated the dark dog within and can walk free.

The It’s-All-Shit Stage of Writing

I just want to sleeeeeep

I’m currently going through what I’m coming to recognise as the I’m-feeling-low-because-I’m-editing-my-book-and-it’s-shit phase.

Symptoms include sleeping or wanting to sleep all the time. Eating comfort food and then wondering why I have no energy and my wobbly bits are a bit wobblier. Feeling emotional, crying and wanting to hug my kids loads (look, someone loves me, look I created these amazing people, I did something right.) Checking my kindle sales figures and despairing that I haven’t sold a book in three days (damn you, new kindle sales graph). Checking Goodreads and Amazon for new reviews and seeing the new critical three-star review as confirmation that I can’t write, even though I have five star reviews and even the three star review isn’t that bad.

I know this will pass. I went through it with Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes (less so with Dragon Wraiths because I edited it for a competition deadline and the urgency pushed me through the pain).

I know the editor will come back with some great suggestions and, even if the novel is currently a steaming pile of poo, it can be fixed. I know I’m stressing because I’ve discovered paragraphs – okay even whole chapters – that need work. I’m stressed because Kristen Lamb recently wrote three posts on the evils of flashbacks and my novel has two and, try as I might, I can’t think how to write them out.

I know my book doesn’t have enough pace and conflict and humour. At 85k words (when my previous novels both came in at 110-115k words) I’m worried it doesn’t have enough of anything. Right now I’m 50% through final pre-editor line edits. I’m averaging more hours sleeping than working every day. (Today’s work day = 1 hour school assembly, 1 hour editing, 2 hours’ time wasting, 2 hours’ sleeping.) I want to abandon editing and get back to my children’s book, only that’s a steaming pile of poo too.

Flatlined sales chart

Even though I know this will pass, I do worry that the more books I write, the more craft advice I read, the more I work at this writing thing, the harder it is getting to come up with good ideas. The idea for Dragon Wraiths – my favourite (although flawed) book – came in a dream and the words flowed. Not without effort, but mostly without doubt. I wasn’t trying to write someone else’s book, I was writing my book. Now though, especially with the children’s book, I’m trying to recreate the brilliant middle grade fiction books I adore to read. And as a result I can’t seem to come up with a story and I don’t have faith in myself to just write and see what happens. Being stuck in the editing doldrums with Class Act is not helping!

As with my paintings, the more I try to be a professional the more I feel I’m losing the part that made it fresh and fun and exciting. I wonder if your third complete novel is a bit like the third year in a relationship, when the heady romantic days have settled into a comfortable routine and you have to work a bit harder at the compromises? Or maybe authors feel like this about every book. Certainly Matt Haig said The Humans is the book he is most proud of, the “one I will never be able to write again.” (Facebook) and he’s written LOADS of books! (I thought he also said it was the only one he enjoyed reading, but I can’t find that quote on Facebook…)

Writing, like parenting, is full of highs and lows, successes and doubts, and the best mantra you’ll ever hear, even though it doesn’t help at all at the time is, “This too shall pass.”

Let’s hope so.

Stuck and Sahara Dust

Under a dust cloud

I got stuck on my WIP today, despite flying along this week. Yesterday was a 6,000 word day – my first for a year or so I should think – and I managed 2,500 in 90 minutes this morning. And then stuck. Not from writer’s block but from world-building block.

I don’t have a particularly active imagination – a funny thing to admit for a writer. Or, I should say, I don’t have a world-building imagination. I can do characters and dialogue, but scene building is tougher. When I wrote Dragon Wraiths the details of the world and its history kept me puzzled for weeks. I would wander round the fields walking the dog trying to figure out how it all worked; what happened to the body, how did the mind transfer to Taycee and so on. I’m not entirely sure I figured it all out but, shhh, don’t tell anyone!

And now I’m having the same problems with my children’s book. The world is a mishmash of all the books I’ve read recently – not intentionally I hasten to add. I never set out to steal an idea – I’m a pantser, I very much make it up as I go. But when I review what I’ve written, I can see the influences coming through my subconsciousness. A world covered in cloud? That’ll come from The Curse of The Mistwraith (Janny Wurts). A world like ours but different, where the animals can speak? That’s The Divide (Elizabeth Kay). A missing father? That could be The Extincts (Veronica Cossanteli) or To Be A Cat (Matt Haig). A bunch of boys who mess around? That’s probably from Johnny and The Bomb (Terry Pratchett).

We live in the purple bit…

But now we get to the nitty gritty of my story – where my characters are themselves, not parodies or plagiarisms – and I’m stuck. Merula’s a fairy who goes through blending when she’s twelve (or younger, haven’t nailed down ages yet), but what is blending? And when she’s banished she visits the wild ones, but who the hell are they? A baddy called Vulpini has cast the spell to cover the sky in cloud, but whatever for? And why have all the parents disappeared and where are they?

I love pantsing – I write to find out what happens next (as my husband often says) – but sometimes the drive in the dark is along a nice straight road and sometimes you sense there are cliffs and chasms either side. It’s the same road but one is easy and the other terrifying, even though you’re equally blind.

I tried my usual trick of wandering round the field with the dog, asking and trying to answer questions, but we’re currently sitting under a cloud of Sahara dust and the view is as hazy as my mind. With eyes full of grit and a throat clogged with dust, I returned home defeated. Maybe there’s a reason I write Chick Lit. World building? Give me one that’s already made, please.

Watching The Winter Olympics: Reason to Celebrate or Racist Tribalism?

Vicarious Happiness

I spent today watching the Winter Olympics while doing armchair parenting (spinning the Twister wheel and supervising filling the trampoline with teddies).

It’s the first chance I’ve had to get engrossed in watching it – I’m not as big a fan as I am of the Summer Olympics because there are so few Brits competing (comparatively speaking) and it makes it easier to be a bystander rather than a participant. But, as I watched Elizabeth Yarnold win gold in the women’s skeleton – after throwing herself headfirst at 85mph down a hill on a tray – and listened to her interview afterwards, I finally got excited.

But I also remembered a Facebook post I’d read earlier in the week from the author Matt Haig. Now, I think Haig is brilliant – I love his books and his social media commentary is usually spot on, particularly his commentary on depression, which I find comforting. However, on Tuesday he said he didn’t understand supporting a sports person just because they “happened to be born on the same landmass.” He goes on to say “It seems tribal, to me, and tribalism is next to racism isn’t it?”

His comment made me uncomfortable because I suddenly worried that my flag-waving support of Andy Murray or the English Cricket Team (although not so much recently!) or the British Lions is somehow racist and bad. It’s hard for me to disagree with someone I respect and admire but I think in this instance I do.

For me, supporting sporting people, particularly at the Olympics, is no different to watching documentaries or reading biographies, devouring a book or following an author on social media: It’s a way of vicariously experiencing someone else’s life; a life that I will never live myself. It doesn’t matter who you follow or why. I supported USA in the hockey today, because I knew my American brother-in-law was doing the same, and it became exciting to watch, instead of background noise. It gave me a reason to care about my fellow man, rather than a reason to hate.

Thought-provoking Post

In terms of the tribalism aspect of nationalistic pride, I think it’s easier to follow someone from my own country because I can more easily understand their background, lifestyle and upbringing. Listening to Lizzy Yarnold speaking of growing up admiring Denise Lewis (and wanting muscles like hers!) – I could relate to that. I could picture her juggling studies with training, I could visualise her in Bath, or imagine her family smallholding in Kent. Listening to her was like listening to a friend.

The joy of watching sport, for me, mostly comes from buying into the stories and caring enough to will someone on to be the best they can be. Cheering for them, experiencing their highs and lows, pains and achievements, and – yes – crying a little as the national flag rises, the anthem plays and I feel connected to a wider world than my messy lounge in the Midlands.

It’s disingenuous to believe we live in a completely nihilistic society. Life does have meaning; being human has meaning. Forming connections with fellow humans, however we can, is intrinsic to being human. We ARE tribal, we’re a social breed. We replace neighbourhood community with nationalistic sport and social media. As our real world narrows to four walls, remote working, and 2.4 children, we reach out to experience life through other ways. To celebrate people’s successes and commiserate their failures. It’s the rise in reality TV and programs like X Factor. Give me the Olympics any day: I’d rather form an illusionary connection with an athlete who has worked tirelessly to be at the peak of physical fitness than someone looking for fame for fame’s sake.

When you break it down you could as easily support the underdog in every competition, or the one with the fanciest costume or best name (how I choose horses in the grand national.) Maybe national pride is a dangerous illusion, a foolish whim. Maybe it is racist, although I like to think I can support Lizzie Yarnold without suggesting all the other competitors are somehow inferior beings. Maybe there’s a difference between racist and racial discrimination. Or maybe it’s human nature to categorise ourselves and sport is a harmless, positive, enjoyable way to channel our basic instincts.

All I know is I would love my daughter to be inspired to work hard and achieve great things because a member of “our team” did well.

Start as You Mean to Go On

The final cover for Two-Hundred Steps Home The Complete Journey

There’s nothing like starting the year as you mean to go on! Publishing a book on Amazon on day four of the year, even if it is one I wrote last year, and one that probably should be proofread first, feels good. You can find it here: Two-Hundred Steps Home: The Complete Journey.

I have added the disclaimers and hopefully no one will buy it and trash me for finding the odd inconsistency or typo (of which I’m sure there are plenty). I am fixing the typos as they’re discovered (thank you hubbie, and anyone else letting me know about them) but a writing challenge is a writing challenge: I didn’t set out to write a Pulitzer Prize Winning Novel in 2013, just a novel that people might enjoy reading. Which, from the reviews I’ve had, it seems they did.

My only dilemma now is whether to take down the first volume from Amazon. It gets the occasional sale, but when you search for ‘Two-Hundred Steps Home’ it presents both books as versions of the same work, even though they have different ASIN numbers. Ah well. A small dilemma.

I’m also enjoying my new resolution to read more, both books and blogs, and write more comments (although I’m not sure I’m keeping up with that target quite as I should. I still feel jetlagged from holiday, illness and Claire!)

I’m reading The Radleys by Matt Haig at present and really enjoying it. I won’t divulge anything about the story, as I’ll write a review post when I’ve finished it. What I am enjoying is how Matt Haig breaks the rules in his writing: there is plenty of head-hopping and change of perspective. I think there’s even a change from writing in the past to the present tense, but I’m trying not to analyse, just get swept up in the story. It might be hard to write a review without spoilers, which I hate, so I’ll have to give that some thought. Maybe read some reviews on other blogs and see how it’s done. What’s your view on reviews? Spoilers or no spoilers? Where do you draw the line?

The Humans: 2013 365 Challenge #336

A very profound book

I finally started reading, and very quickly finished, The Humans by Matt Haig this weekend. If you haven’t come across the story (goodness knows how, as it flooded Twitter for a while during its release) it tells the story of an alien who comes to halt mathematical progress on Earth because Humans are deemed too violent to take the next step in technological evolution.

I was drawn to the book by its Twitter campaign and because I just happened to have read and enjoyed an early children’s book by the same author. The social media campaign was something truly incredible, with a lovely video trailer made by lots of different real people reciting lines from a part of the book called Advice for a Human (see picture below)

I started following Matt Haig’s blog, Twitter and Facebook, and found him to be a fascinating person, full of self-doubt and amazing insight, with a history of depression and attempted suicide. I couldn’t wait for the book to be released. I bought it in hardback (a thing I never do) and then bought the kindle version as well because I wanted to take it on holiday. That was in May of this year.

Since then I’ve tried to start it half a dozen times, but I just couldn’t get into it. The narrative voice is the alien, and the tone was so stilted and disinterestedly miserable, it put me off, even though I knew it was part of the story. Then, too, I started to feel pressure to love the book. Because the reviews were amazing, and because I liked the author as I came to know him through social media, I wanted to like the book, and felt bad that I didn’t. I had invested time and emotion into supporting its release and its author.

And then, worse of all, I started to disagree with some of what the author said on Facebook, and my faith took a wobble. It’s something I’ve been thinking about a great deal recently, and is probably a topic for another blog post – about how our perception of a piece of art or literature changes when we come to know more about the author and was it maybe better when the author was hidden in mystery and unknowable. Anyway, as I say, that’s another post.

Some of the great advice (better read in context)

As a result of the emotional (and financial!) investment, though, I couldn’t give up on the book. So I started again on Friday, and couldn’t put it down. I read it with my fingers in my ears, while the kids decorated the Christmas tree. I finished it at 2am last night, leaving me groggy and grumpy for today’s family lunch. No matter: it was worth it. This is my (rather short) Goodreads review:

“It took me a long time to get into this story, after wanting to read it for months. I’m glad I persisted, it was so worth it. This is a deeply profound, yet funny and entertaining book, full of pearls of wisdom you’ll be desperate to share with people.”

As I read the story, I kept reading bits out to hubbie, much to his bemusement (that never works, especially when the recipient is playing Candy Crush or similar). It’s full of Tweetable bits of goodness. I could feel the author, and what I knew of his history, in every line, and it added to the authenticity, although I suspect it wasn’t necessary. The story rings true by itself. I wanted to find a nugget to share here, but there are so many. Instead I would say, read it. Even if, like me, you can’t warm to the alien and you find him annoying in the extreme. He grows on you. And it’s a book that will stay with you long after you read the last page. As an author I always think you can’t ask for more than that.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Thank you for letting us stay, Nana.” Alex’s voice wobbled between child and adult, as he gave Claire’s mum a rather formal embrace.

His face still showed the pallor of expended emotion; pale and drawn despite the tan he’d gained during his time in the South West. Claire wanted to pull him into a proper hug, one with feeling. The greeting they’d got from her parents was lukewarm at best.

I guess I wouldn’t like it if someone turned up on my doorstep and asked me to take in house guests. She thought about it and her lips twisted into a wry smile. Mind you, it’s no more than both my siblings have done to me this year. Suddenly Auntie Claire is the only one with all the time in the world.

She pushed away the bitter feelings, and turned to make sure Jack was alright. He’d been less affected by their father’s announcement, chattering excitedly on the long journey from Cornwall to Cambridgeshire. As they had neared their destination, however, he had become more subdued and, since their arrival, he had hovered in the background.

A quick glance showed her he wasn’t in the room and she went in search of him, leaving Alex to forge a stilted conversation with his nana. Her father, Claire noted, had also disappeared and Claire felt disappointed at his cowardice.

She found them both, eventually, hidden in her father’s study.

“There you are!”

Her voice made them jump and their faces flushed with guilt. She concealed a smile at how like naughty schoolboys they both looked, despite a gap of half a century between them.

“What are you two up to? You’ve left Alex battling on with Nana.”

“He’ll be fine,” Jack said brightly, “he’s good at charming the old biddies.” Then he realised what he’d said, and blanched.

Claire’s dad laughed – a loud guffaw – as much at Jack’s stricken expression, it seemed, as at his words.

“Don’t worry, son, your secret is safe with me. Your nana can be a tough nut to crack, but she’s soft underneath.”

Claire privately wondered if that were true, but said nothing. “So, what are you two doing?” She perched on the edge of the desk and looked at them with one eyebrow raised, her arms folded across her chest in an expression of severity that was all act. Seeing Jack locked away with her father gave her a warm glow of satisfaction, but there was a game afoot and she was prepared to play her part.

“Pops was showing me his book. Did you know he’d written a novel, Auntie Claire?”

Claire switched her gaze from Jack’s eager excitement to the look of sheepish guilt on her Dad’s face. “Is it finished then? I thought it was a thriller? It doesn’t sound like something a young boy should be reading.”

“Oh, Claire, I’m not a baby. I’ve read James Herbert and Stephen King.”

“Really?” Claire was genuinely shocked. Even she didn’t have the stomach for some of the more gruesome horrors. She wondered if she should forbid Jack from reading books liable to give him nightmares. Then she looked at his face and had a flash of realisation. Whatever difficulties in Jack’s life, he had yet to experience real fear and horror and so the stories were just stories. They probably had less impact on him than on an adult who could read the truth behind the fabrication.

Suddenly she grinned. “That’s amazing, Dad. I’m so proud of you. Can I read it, too?”

Her dad’s grin was as wide as hers. “I thought you’d never ask.”

*

Back in the lounge, Claire saw that Alex was manfully trying to engage her mum in conversation, and her heart went out to him. Even she struggled to find a topic of interest when talking to her mum.

As she walked in, her mum looked up, and her expression was honey-laced venom. Startled, Claire took a moment to gather herself, then said,

“Jack and Pops are in the study, Alex. Why don’t you go and see if they’d like some tea and cake? It’s been a long time since lunch.” They had been offered nothing on arrival. If her mum wasn’t going to play host, then she would show her how it should be done.

Alex jumped up like a man given a reprieve on death row, and practically ran from the room.

“Okay, Mum, out with it,” Claire said, as she heard his footsteps retreating down the hall. Her words took the wind from her mum’s anger, and Claire had to swallow a laugh.

“I’m surprised you have to ask. You turn up, unannounced, with Robert’s boys in tow, and without so much as a by-your-leave tell me that they’re staying here for an undetermined length of time, because you saw fit to send their father home. I think you have some explaining to do, young lady.”

“I’m not a child, Mum, you don’t need to take that tone. Robert’s behaviour was unacceptable. He arrived two hours late, with a chit of a girl on his arm, and announced he was engaged to her. His treatment of the boys is disgusting and he’s so far up his own arse they have to ship in daylight.”

“Claire! Really!” Her mother’s face went pale. Then her expression changed and she became a frail old woman. When she spoke, her voice was querulous “I don’t know why you’re shouting at me; it isn’t my fault.”

For a moment Claire was almost fooled. But not quite. “Oh, give over, Mum. Quit playing games, I’ve had enough of that from Robert.” She wanted to add that yes, it probably was her fault, at least in part. If she’d taken time to teach Robert some manners he might not be a total git. Realising such a discussion with her mother was an exercise in futility, she took a deep breath and controlled her temper with effort.

“Jack and Alex are your grandsons. You should be proud of them; they are amazing boys. If I could, I would keep them with me longer, but I have trespassed on Conor’s goodwill enough already. I’m only asking you to let them stay for a week; take them to see Ruth and Sky. Poor Jack doesn’t remember his cousin at all. They won’t be any trouble. I have money to buy their tickets, and I’ll contact Francesca and ask her to meet them at Stansted.”

Her mother’s face remained petulant and Claire snapped. “For God’s sake, Mum, don’t be such a cow. I know you couldn’t give a monkeys about me or Robert, and I doubt Ruth gets a look in now she’s got her life back on track, but this is your chance to make amends and be a decent human being. Why don’t you give it a try, you might find you like it?”

Before her mum could answer, Claire stalked from the room.

***

Let it Go: 2013 365 Challenge #145

Preschool Chicks

Matt Haig, author of The Humans, recently ran a hashtag on Twitter asking people to give their best piece of advice to the human race. It’s worth a look at #thehumans, as there were some great nuggets of wisdom.

I liked, “Walk the wavy line between self control and abandon. Try not to fall over. Much.”

My advice was:

Learn to live life as dogs and children do: live in the moment, love openly, forgive willingly, laugh often

I really should learn to follow my own advice. Today I am struggling with one of my biggest faults, a severe inability to let it go. I hang on to mistakes, especially my own mistakes, forever. Particularly if it is something I feel I should have done and didn’t (like not buying my dad a heater, when he then died of pneumonia.)

Today’s gut-twisting mistake is not putting my children into a certain preschool when I had a chance two years ago (I know, get a grip, right?). We visited it, my daughter didn’t like the woman running it, and we never went back. Even though I heard good things about it. I did consider it, I even contacted them a few months ago, when we couldn’t afford our current childcare after hubbie was made redundant and we had to reduce our days. A lot of family stress came from that reduction in childcare, and some of it might have been avoided if I had moved the kids to the new (cheaper) preschool.

Blowing Bubbles at Nursery

I lie awake at night all the time worrying about childcare, because I have so much choice. It doesn’t matter when I write. I don’t work shifts or have a boss to fit around. I need two or three days a week to keep on top of housework and work on my blog/novels/marketing. And to stay sane, away from the endless chatter and squabbling of a house of preschoolers. And there are lots of options, although none are cheap. When you’re not earning, that’s definitely a factor! I churn the options round and round until my head aches and I’m no nearer to a solution.

Anyway, it’s an old discussion. Today we visited preschools to choose one for my son, when my daughter goes to primary school in September. Nursery is not only very expensive, it is quite a small environment. I want space for Aaron to run and run, preferably outdoors.

We visited two preschools, the first near the primary school, so uber convenient, the other the one mentioned above. It’s in a village hall, surrounded by a large lawn and playground. It’s perfect. But, being me, I didn’t think, “Hurrah, we’ve chosen a great preschool for September and the kids want to start straight away, and they have a forest school and so much quiet space, it’s wonderful.” Instead of all that positivity, I’m mostly thinking, “why didn’t I try harder to get Amber in two years ago. It’s cheaper, nicer, there’s more space, etc etc.” (Not helped by Amber telling me she wants to go to forest school, which isn’t possible!)

I hope my Learning Happiness as a Second Language book will also help me learn the art of Letting Go. Live in the moment, love openly, forgive willingly (especially myself), laugh often.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire ran her eye down the list of links on the website and sighed. This is wearing thin. Go Ape – done that; country parks – done that; Spa Day – not allowed even if it is tempting; narrow-gage railway – done that though worth mentioning on the blog; country house – done that. Looks like I’m going to have to wait for Julia’s email after all. The only thing on the list that could be considered a high-adrenalin activity was karting, and Claire decided she’d sooner resign.

There must be something new to do in Sherwood Forest. Her mind filled with images of men in tights hiding in the trees and the words of the song “Robin Hood” began to play in her head.

Right, so what is Robin Hood famous for? Archery? That’s a possibility. Or what about horse riding? A nice gentle hack through the trees might be nice. A quick search on the internet threw up several possibilities and Claire was soon booked up.

There we go, Julia, no need for you to lower yourself to the task at all. It’s all in hand. Though I don’t think plodding through the trees on a pony is going to humiliate me quite enough for you. Tough.

*

Claire stared between the horse’s ears at the rump of the pony in front, and tried not to cry. Her legs hurt, her bum hurt and, thanks to a moment’s inattention, her head hurt where she’d ridden into a low-slung branch. So much for a relaxing hack through the woods. The worst part was being the eldest in the group by more than a decade. Claire hadn’t enquired what group she’d be joining and it turned out to be a bunch of teenagers on some Outward Bound expedition.

Head low, Claire let the horse find its own path through the forest and tried to enjoy the sound of bird song and the occasional sight of snow drops deep beneath the trees. After an hour even the teenage chatter began to diminish. Through the foliage around her, Claire could sense the sky darkening and the humidity rising.

It’s going to rain. Bugger. I really must get in the habit of checking the forecast. She pulled up the collar of her coat and wished she’d thought to put the hood up underneath her hard hat.

Well, Julia, is this miserable enough for you? Hunching her shoulders, Claire was reminded of a character in one of Sky’s story books about a sulking vulture called Boris. The thought made her smile briefly, but the feeling didn’t last long.

The temperature plummeted as the sun disappeared behind a charcoal grey cloud, hovering it seemed only metres above the trees. There was a pause, then heavy rain drops began to splatter through the leaves.

Claire felt as if she’d fallen into the percussion section of the orchestra pit. The rain splashing on her hard hat syncopated with the clopping of the hooves on the path and the whistle of the wind through the trees.

The horse in front of her stopped and Claire craned her neck to see the problem. Horses had gathered in a group at the front and she wondered if someone had fallen off or been injured. I can’t imagine any of these plod-a-longs bucking. More likely someone fell asleep from boredom and slid off.

A whisper came back along the line to Claire. The teenager on the pony in front didn’t turn and share it with her, but she got the general gist. We’re lost.

Claire gave a quick kick to the ribs of her beast and on the third attempt it shuffled forwards, past the gaggle of teenagers. Eventually she drew alongside the guide, a woman no older than Claire, who was staring at a tatty piece of now-soggy paper, turning it this way and that.

“Are we lost?”

Claire didn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but cold and fatigue sharpened her voice. The girl looked up, her face woebegone. She nodded slightly without making eye contact.

“How can we be lost? Surely you know the route like the back of your hand? We’re not in the Amazon rainforest.”

“I’m new. This is the first time I’ve taken a group out on my own. I’m used to riding on the downs, these trees make me claustrophobic.”

Claire swore under her breath. I feel a hundred years old. There clearly wasn’t any point bothering with the sodden map. She pulled out her phone and prayed for signal. Luck was on her side. Frowning over the screen, trying to shield it from the rain, she fathomed the general direction of the stables.

“We need to head that way.” She pointed through the trees, but the rain had reduced visibility to almost zero. Shouting over the gathering wind, Claire added, “Though I don’t know how we find a path through this.”

The guide shouted back, her facing losing some of its gloom.

“Sorry?” Claire yelled.

“I said the ponies will find their way home, if we point them the right way.”

Claire nodded, then signalled for the guide to lead on. She let the teenagers past, and took up position at the rear again – this time to watch for stragglers rather than to mope.

Only I could come on a pony trek with the clueless newbie. Thank you evil genie Carl and your handmaiden Julia. I don’t know how you arranged it, but you managed to inject adrenalin even into this.

***

EBooks – A Retraction: 2013 365 Challenge #136

My long-awaited copy of The Humans

A while ago I wrote a post about how I would always choose the paper book over an e-reader (such as a tablet, nook or kindle). I was wrong. I bought an iPad two weeks ago and since then have read several books, more than I would have managed otherwise.

My long-awaited copy of The Humans has just arrived – a great big chunk of hardback – and I’m wondering why I didn’t buy the kindle edition. I just don’t know when I’m going to manage to read it. It’s too big to fit in my handbag, I can’t read it at bedtime because the bedside light is broken, and, well, it’s too beautiful to besmirch with toast crumbs and crayon.

We are going on holiday to Scotland next week and I know that The Humans will stay behind, even though I’m desperate to read it. It isn’t merely about packing room – although with two kids that’s pretty tight – it’s the fact that I won’t be able to read it discreetly while the kids are playing, or during the seven-hour trip in the car (for some reason I find I can read the iPad in the car, but not a paper book).

So, in all fairness, I thought I ought to confess my conversion and explain the reasons I love my iPad for reading:

• I can read while still cuddling both children (with the occasional wriggle to turn the page)
• I never ever have to find my place because the kids have removed the bookmark or it has fallen out. I turn it on and there it is – hours of reading time saved.
• I can take it everywhere and read a bit while I’m waiting for a website to load or when the kids are asleep
• The kids don’t notice me reading so much and so are less likely to bring one of their own books over to read (I didn’t say this was about good parenting, did I?)
• I’ve already read at least one free book I would never have heard of otherwise. And it was lovely – not earth shattering or award winning but a lovely thought-provoking story
• I can show people the books I’ve written when I tell them I’m an author, instead of explaining they’re not available in print
• I can finally read all the ebooks I’ve downloaded over the last year
• I can read at nighttime without waking my husband.

The Humans Kindle Version

I also love the iPad too – for checking emails, taking pictures for the blog, entertaining the children (we’re busily downloading from bbc iplayer for the long trip north) – but that’s a different story!

I still find it hard to buy the kindle version when the paperback isn’t much more expensive. If I want to lend a book it has to be a hard copy. I continue to love borrowing books from the library and seeing books around me on the shelves. They are beautiful. But, here and now, the iPad rules! (Sorry)

And to prove how much I love my iPad, I’ve spashed some cash to buy the ebook version of The Humans. Problem solved. Matt Haig’s lovely book is coming to Scotland after all! Hurrah!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire was conscious of nerves as she waited on the doorstep. Things had been strained between her and Ruth since the revelations about Chris and the ballet teacher. Even so, it hurt to be saying goodbye to her sister and her niece. The week in the hospital, reading on the bed next to Ruth, entertaining Sky in the canteen or taking her to the park, had been strangely restful.

The week was spent encased in a cocoon of waiting: Ruth had responded well to treatment and the days were merely marking time until the doctors said she was strong enough to return home. Claire had enjoyed helping Sky complete the remainder of her homework. They had even written a letter to Sky’s father, although Claire had felt a stab of guilt, knowing she wasn’t brave enough to tell her sister about it.

Claire stood waiting for her mother or Sky to open the door. Even though she had stayed with Sky at her house for the week, now Ruth was home it felt impolite simply to walk in.

In the back of her mind she remembered the last time she had waited in the same spot, when she had come to look after Sky, the day of the hospital tests. Blimey that was nearly two months ago. In some ways it felt like only days before. In others ways, a lifetime had passed. She had experienced so much, travelling with Josh and looking after Sky. That morning’s conversation with her father still echoed in her mind.

How little we really know our family. Look at what I’ve discovered in a few weeks, that I hadn’t realised in nearly three decades: My brother and his perfect wife aren’t so perfect, Ruth’s ex isn’t a bastard but actually a doting dad, my father is writing a novel – a thriller for goodness sake – and hiding it from his wife. He hates golf. And Mum spends her time keeping up with the Jones’s to forget she used to be her husband’s secretary. You couldn’t make it up. We’re living an episode of Days of Our Lives.

Hearing footsteps thundering down the corridor, Claire braced herself for a whirlwind of blonde hair and beads. At least Sky hasn’t changed.

Claire held her sister tightly, aware only now of how awful it would be to lose her. She knew, too, that when Ruth was better they would never be quite as close as they were at this moment. Even the betrayal of introducing Sky to her half-sister was forgotten.

“Stay well, sis. Be strong. If you need anything, call me.” Claire spoke deep into her sister’s shoulder, where her hair would once have been. All that tickled her neck was the floral scarf tied tightly round Ruth’s head. Words that couldn’t be said face to face could be whispered cheek to cheek.

“You have an amazing daughter. Thank you for letting me get to know her better.” She stood back, tears blurring her vision. “I promise I’ll call more often, and I’ll stop by when I head south again. It won’t take long to get through the hostels on the east coast I didn’t get to with Sky.”

Ruth squeezed Claire’s arms, then let them drop as she reached for a tissue. “Thank you for everything, sis. Sorry I got upset about the whole Chris thing. I know you were in an impossible situation. And, well, if the worst does happen.” She stopped, unable to say the unthinkable words.

Claire was glad they remained unspoken. In the whole week she had spent in the hospital with Ruth, they had never talked about what might happen. While Ruth was responding to treatment it seemed like tempting fate to discuss the future.

“Try and enjoy your travels. I know it isn’t what you wanted, but you seem…” Ruth searched for a word. “You’re more alive, since you started the trip. When you looked after Sky in February you looked tight and tired and, I don’t know, somehow bitter at life. Now, well actually now you still look tired.” She laughed. They both knew what looking after Sky was like. “But it’s different. It’s a lack of sleep because my niece was up all night tired.”

The words seemed to run out and Ruth let them trail away. Even though the doctors had sent her home, she still looked exhausted. Claire gave her another hug, then turned to where Sky was snuggled up with Nana in the armchair, her face wet and blotchy.

“Come here, Sky, give Auntie Claire a cuddle.”

The girl hesitated, them scrambled down and ran across the room, sobbing.

“Don’t go, Auntie Claire. Please.”

“I have to poppet. I’m not ready to be fired just yet, and my mean old boss won’t let me take any more holiday.”

Sky clung tightly to Claire’s neck, and she was conscious of a warm sensation deep in her heart. She no longer wanted to shake her off.

“I’ll be back soon. You take care of your Mummy, okay, and do what Nana tells you. I’ll call and find out what your teacher thought of your story.”

Pulling the thin arms away from her neck as gently as she could, Claire took Sky’s hand and led her back to sit with Nana. Then with a quick wave and no more words, she hurried from the room, swallowing down the lump stuck deep in her throat.

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