Apples

Rosey pulled on her rubber gloves and plunged her hands into the sud-filled sink of hot water.  As she began the mammoth task of this evening’s dishes, she absentmindedly stared through the kitchen window, her glazed expression finally falling into focus on the far right corner of the lawn, where several bruised and battered apples lay.  It was apple carnage.  Although commonplace for this time of year, Rosey’s eye twitched as her OCD-like inner clean-freak snapped to attention.  She silently self-scolded – one job at a time.

Three clean plates later, Rosey’s mind returned to the stray, fallen apples. As she glanced down at the slightly emptier sink, she wished she was less like her busy, fussy, irritating mother and more like her laid-back, placid father.  She just knew he would long outlive his highly-strung wife, defying the odds and Rosey had a horrid, niggling feeling he may well also outlive his only daughter.  Thoughts banished, washing-up resumed, dead apples to-do.

Fifteen minutes later, as Rosey made her way across the perfectly manicured lawn, something was off.  The apples were gone, someone had beaten her to it.  Slightly confused, Rosey heard the familiar, ‘Yoo-hoo’ from over the right-hand fence.

“I just nipped over and did a spot of tidying for you, darling” said her mother.  Her father lounged in his hammock, idly leafing through the latest paperback.  “Knew you wouldn’t mind!”

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, thought Rosey.

I’ve been battling with a few mini-demons in recent months – nothing major in the grand scheme, but enough to ensure my complete inability to keep those infernal juggling balls aloft.  I like to BE organised and therein lies the problem… I’m just not very good at it.  At least, not without breaking out in a heavy sweat and appearing frazzled to cinders.

Anyway, I’ve had a mental note for some time to wave farewell to 2011 with a blog post to quash the worst offender – the furore that followed my darling little boy’s 4th birthday party, ruining the memory forever for his mummy, thankfully not him.  I felt compelled to write a kind of open letter, highlighting a few of the actual, known facts about what happened (or didn’t happen!) to somehow rid myself of these niggling evils.  Yes, it ought to be long forgotten, but sadly, the ‘enemy’ have seen to it that a large number of other mummies/teachers at school know ALL about it, before, in fact, they’d even met us – despite being repeatedly assured that nothing had been said to anyone.  That alone makes me so cross.  I reassure myself on almost a weekly basis that should these people choose to form a heavily biased opinion of either me or my son, based on a web of hatred and untruths, then they’re not even worth acknowledging each morning and afternoon on the school run.  Ergo, no blog post dedicated to such a negative event.

So… a lot of folk like to remind us that, just because the date is changing significantly, this doesn’t indicate our lives following suit.  This is, of course, the sad truth of welcoming in a new year.  I do, however, believe that a few little resolutions don’t hurt.  Even if the only person you share them with is yourself.  It’s healthy to create achievable goals and promotes a more positive state of mind for ALL of us.  I’ve never kept any of mine, apart from one.  And quitting smoking was indeed one of my better moments.  But that was 12 years ago and I haven’t kept a single resolution since – because they’ve all been unrealistic or unachievable for me at the time.

I feel bogged down most of the time.  I know I’m close to stuck-in-rut proportions on the basis that I have little desire to get stuck into anything else.  I work hard to stay afloat and remain semi-organised but at the same time, I feel lazy and uninspired.  I eat badly and I don’t care.  Well, I DO care, but not right now… if that makes sense?  I have consequently weighed up the things that would allow me to feel like I’m leisurely doing backstroke instead of treading water, making the most of each day.  These things are:

(a) Keeping on top of the steady flow of portrait photography.

(b) Reading my ever-increasing pile of ‘books pending’.

(c) Embarking on a spot of painting (acrylics on canvas, not walls).

(d) Keeping up with small writing projects.

Yes, that’s right my friends – 2012 will NOT see me making regular blog posts or submitting further pieces of short fiction… or long fiction, for that matter.  I won’t be pitching for snippets of copywriting work and I certainly won’t be applying for writing jobs.  I’m simply not feeling the love.

Now, don’t get me wrong – I obviously LOVE writing and words and they’ll always remain a passion of mine.  But this year, I want to take down the pressure a notch or four.  I want to focus my creativity elsewhere and channel it into pictures, art, absorption.  I want to put more stuff in, in order to get better stuff out. And along the way, if a few words sneak out then so be it.  But they likely won’t and that’s perfectly OK.

In 2012, I am an aspiring artist once more.  I will wear what I like, I will experiment more – with colours, food, music.  And I will worry less, apologise a lot less.  Because I’m not ashamed to be me, dagnammit!

So… may all your tomorrows be better than your yesterdays.  And yes, may you all be inspired to achieve the little things in 2012.  Happy New Thingy and all that jazz.  With bells on.

Life seems frenetic.  My brain seems overloaded.  I’m slowly coming to the conclusion that my ability to cope is lesser than most.  Yes, the Second Born is hard work, but the straw on this occasion is small, furry, black and white and has a disproportionately long tail.  Often to his detriment, as he does enjoy getting under my feet when I’m in a rush.  And frankly, I DO feel like a camel with a broken back.

Medication is proving useful.  Instead of tizzying and reaching blind panic state, I’m a bit ‘meh’ about the majority of situations.  It’s novel not to feel stressy most of the time.  It’s not really improved the driving, which is a shame, but still… baby steps.

I like to feel organised.  In reality, I’m not that good at it, but the drowning sensation stems from attempting to get ahead of the game.  Because, life IS a game, isn’t it?  I’ve muddled through for so long that it’s now proving quite a hefty challenge for this inherent lazybones.  But I can relax and sleep better at night when I’m on top of things.

I’m enjoying the burgeoning opportunity that Wyldshots brings to our family.  Photographing people is something I’ve always loved and during every shoot, I strive towards that money shot.  The problem is, something has to give.  And I’m afraid any shred of writing has fallen by the wayside.

I received a beautifully-written, personal rejection from a recent entry into a short story anthology.  I was appreciative of the constructive feedback, but something else happened alongside of that.  I took it badly.  It was a really big deal to me, as he hadn’t slated my writing technique – quite the opposite, in fact.  But it had been lacking in something which I can only liken to one of those bland contestants on the X-Factor.  Yes, they can hold a tune and they scrub up pretty well, but they’re just a bit blah.  They’re the stereotypical B Student… a label I adorned myself, many moons ago.  Destined to go about as far as the end of the road.  And as a result, I’ve become somewhat resigned.

I don’t feel bad about this revelation… I’m not entirely sure I have the mental capacity to feel anything much, ha.  And I ought to reiterate that I’m not giving up.  Because writing is something I do enjoy – somewhere deep within all the regular drudgery.  And I’ve decided that it’s fine to concentrate on one project at a time.  One of my friends said as much on a recent Facebook status.

It goes without saying that I consistently feel like the B Student, but people genuinely seem to like my little photos and I still enjoy what I’m doing.  I live in hope that one day, one of my passions* turns into an obvious natural ability and replaces this constant feeling that I’m muddling through in a distinctly average way.  Perhaps my standards are just silly/high.  But I’m not sure that’s always a bad thing… is it?

*I rarely feel ‘passionate’ about anything.  But ‘hobbies’ seems a bit of an insult.

I’m always harping on about being 37.  Not because it’s in any way a significant age, but on the basis that things and people never cease to amaze me and I feel that, as a responsible grown-up, I ought to be less surprised with what I experience.  They say that every day’s a lesson and I do believe that, the older we get, the more capable we become of actually taking heed of the important bits of life and using them to our advantage.  Or, in other words, preventing our hardening selves from repeatedly getting hurt.  I’m encouraged by this and really hope that by the time I’m about 63, I will have the benefit of foresight.  Because, as we all know, hindsight is such an infuriating gift and I’d rather be bereft of the hurt in the first place.

I’m writing this because I feel OK.  I’m on the upside of a bitter period of time in my life.  Some of you know all the ins and outs of the deeply unfortunate chain of recent events, but for those of you who don’t, you can relax… you don’t need to know and you’re not missing out.  It would all be wrapped in a trinket box, tied with a little cerise bow and shelved in some high corner for most of you, I’m sure.  But as we know, I’m an over-thinker and an inherently sensitive soul.  And as it turned out, what could otherwise be considered a minor event in one’s existence became the straw that broke the camel’s back in regard to my own state of mind.  I wasn’t ready, I never saw it coming and I am so full of regret.  Mainly that I’m not more of a hard-nosed bitch who doesn’t bend over so readily and get shafted from behind.  But hey.

I firmly believe that one of the keys to a stress-free life is the ability to forgive.  Easy, you might say.  But I’m not wholly sure that those who say they can readily forgive, but never forget, aren’t just admitting to a lack of such ability.  The key to forgiveness is to dissolve the part that hurts the most and confidently, happily move on as you were.  Or at least, only be changed for the better.  Starting again with a dirty slate only demonstrates that you aren’t willing to let go.  And we can all lie about it, but ultimately, we’re only deluding ourselves and wasting energy harbouring ill feelings, which in my book are unhealthy and most likely will come back and haunt you during the long, dark hours when you’re trying to sleep.

I’m apologetic to a fault.  It’s quite irritating – both to me and to others – but impossible to phase out.  This does, however, have a positive side.  I can’t bear grudges or ill feeling amongst otherwise good friends/family and so I’ll try and do everything in my power to fix a misunderstanding.  And it is always that, because I can categorically state I would never intentionally hurt someone in my circle.  I know I’m not alone… mostly, people are kind or at the very least, fair.  There are always exceptions to this, of course.  But on the whole, we try to surround ourselves with people like us.  Only I was recently surprised to find that a few people I had considered pretty good friends were not, in fact, like me at all.  Because, ultimately, they were not prepared to forgive.

The initial issue was out of my hands – they knew that.  The ensuing misunderstanding was dealt with apologetically (emotionally so, much to my annoyance) – they allowed me to grovel.  And the upshot was an unkind, aloof stance that might as well have been a giant banner emblazoned with, ‘WE SHALL NOT FORGIVE’.  The dynamic was altered as a result of an act of kindness that went a bit awry.  And I was (and still am) being punished for it.

The good news is, I gave up.  I went above and beyond the excessive apologising I would normally offer towards a friendship worth salvaging and you know me well enough to assume I carefully worded all contact and thought everything through to the death, to ensure I said everything I could.  But, in the end, my friendship wasn’t good enough – I wasn’t worthy of forgiveness.  I think that was the bit that hurt the most.

As with all things in life, you move on as time ticks away.  I can’t deny I’m surprised by things that have happened, but I consciously feel that I’ll always be the better person for being able to forgive a somewhat minor err in judgement.

The most brilliant thing has happened in my humble existence whilst I’ve been gone!  The wonderful Ether Books has published two of my short stories, available for just 69p apiece to all iFolks.  For those who are Apple-free, Ether hopes to extend their platforms across the next year or so, but as a burgeoning (and successful!) ePublisher, they are currently only able to provide this extensive range of short fiction to users of iPhones, iPod Touches and iPads.  Which is quite a large group, as it goes.  I’m lucky – I have kind, generous friends who are the best critics in the world and I am still really buzzing to be able to label myself as a published author of short stories.  Woohoo!  So yes… you can read, ‘Virtual Lies’ and ‘Visiting Dad’ right now through Ether’s App.  It would mean such a lot to me, even if you dislike them both.  It’s useful to know these things, believe me.

I was wondering if my inability to concentrate might be construed as some form of writer’s block.  Then I considered how many people might have started a personal blog and called it, ‘Writer’s Blog’.  Quite a few, I’ll bet.  And who could blame them?  It’s pretty good!  Then I questioned the apostrophe in writer’s block – is it a singular writer, or is it an affliction that affects writers in plural?  Or is it free from the restraints of apostrophe-ness altogether?  More to the point, could we even care less?  Regardless, I’m clearly over thinking again and not writing nearly enough.

I currently have a few different frying pans in the fire.  Granted, they aren’t really sizzling at present, more fizzled out, but I am still eager to embark on them wholeheartedly and do them the justice they deserve.  One is my youth fantasy novel, but it turns out, I need to be in a very specific frame of mind for that one.  Then there’s my brand spanking new idea for a grown-up novel.  Chick-lit, to be absolutely precise.  I’m quite fired-up about that one, but it’s still only in my tiny mind at present.  Then there’s my Guilty Pleasures anthology – a collection of short stories based on the deeply embarrassing favourite choons of friends.  I am only on number two, but still need a few more, if you’re man enough to name and shame yourselves.  And finally – nothing at all to do with writing – my photo project.  You give me something you absolutely adore and I turn it into a photograph.  I am also waiting on a vital bit of kit for this one, having generously donated mine to travelling cyclist buddies.  Sadly, it’s currently out-of-stock so I am once again Procrastination Queen.

Blogging falls by the wayside at the best of times, but I really want to get stuck into at least one or two of these projects.  I also have photo shoots to edit for my sideline, which is a priority, as paying customers should be!  But I will try and remember to stick a few lines here from time to time – it’s only fair.  I dread to think what I’ll be like once I’m back in the world of work – Gawd help us all.

Incidentally, I’ve already read some incredible short tales on Ether’s App – many of which are absolutely FREE!  So do download it if you’re able… you won’t be disappointed, I promise.

So, James turned four on the first of the month and alongside the mini-mountain of colourfully-wrapped pressies from generous friends and extended family, we were fortunate enough to have received a BIG package of goodies from Lands’ End for us to trial.  I felt sure that no one could give new clothes and accessories a run for their money better than my son!  And he was only just lucky, because their beautiful kids’ stuff starts at age four.  We received SUCH a good range that we haven’t even been able to try out all the bits yet, so watch this space!

As most of you know, we went on an overnight camping trip to Snettisham the day after James’ birthday and I eagerly packed the backpack with all our new bits, fully intending to try them all.  Best laid plans and all that… but I’m happy to report that the backpack was incredible!  It was, as prophesied, a little big for an only-just-four-year-old to carry, as it’s aimed at 5-8 year olds but I have absolute confidence its durable, versatile design will last us way beyond the next four years.  It has loads of fab internal pockets and sections, so there’s no need to pack things like toothbrushes in separate bags and it even comes with a small karabiner and whistle for safety – how cool is that?  The straps are adjustable and well-padded so it’s comfy for kids to hoik around for themselves and it looks good too.  I was also really surprised at what a mini TARDIS it seemed to be, having packed stuff for both boys in it.

We went to Ferry Farm Park for the first time last weekend, for a friend’s daughter’s birthday party and James got to wear his new t-shirt.     

It’s a sumptuous shade of deep red, which was why I opted for this one and I was keen to see how it washed.  I know most mums of small boys tend to lean towards the more budget t-shirts, but in all honesty, a lot of the ones we’ve had have been quite inferior in quality and made from really flimsy material and just not lasted the course.  The cotton is soft, not overly heavy and what I love about it is it’s a good length.  I find so many tops are ridiculously long and drown James, as he’s a skinny little thing.  It washed really well and looks as good as it did to start with.  And I’ve just noticed they’re on sale!!!

Ever since I can remember, I’ve adored buying hats.  I never wear the darned things, as I lack the confidence to carry them off, but this passion has extended to my boys.  And so, I jumped at the chance to get my hands on a beautiful freebie.  I ordered a small, on the basis that the clothes in the range start at age four, forgetting that James has a massive bonce.  The hat is really lovely and clearly well-made, but its pork-pie style design means it’s just too small for him to get any benefit from.  It doesn’t really cover much!    

I figured I’d use it on Harry instead, as His Baldiness needs one all the time and if you exclude the fact he just snatched it off to play with it every five seconds, it was perfect on him.   Also on sale at the mo so grab ‘em quick… but check the sizing before you buy!  I’m actually secretly quite glad Harry has a new hat as so far, everything’s inherited from Big Bro, bless him.  He never complains.

So, we still have a couple more items to trial – a waterproof sun top and fleece shorts, so please pray to the Sun Gods for some nice weather and I can let you know what I think – they certainly look fab!  I’m lucky, as we have a Lands’ End outlet store in town and I struggle to drive past without turning in, but the online ordering system seems super-efficient so grab a bargain now!  Thank you to Lands’ End for the chance to review your fantastic products!  Now… how to convince them I want to trial womens’ stuff…?

This isn’t completely true, is it?  There’s always that rare exception that catches your ear in a café, resonates through your very being as if you’ve already heard it a gazillion times before.  Almost as if it actually carries the meaning of life within its complex harmonies.  These tend to stay a firm favourite for the short term – played to their death, or until your preferred method of player is emitting black plumes of smoke.  And then they become a part of your past… tied into a distinctive memory that you may choose to forget or call upon to lift a mauve mood.  And then there’s that one exception to all your own personal ‘rules’ of taste.  You know, ‘The One’.  That song that you know you shouldn’t really be allowed to love quite as much as you do.  The one you’d never, ever admit to liking, let alone owning a copy on several formats, just in case.  Your forbidden pleasure.  Your dirty little secret…

Only now, I’m asking you really, really sweetly to reveal your secret embarrassment – to let me in, just momentarily.  I’m not going to promise I won’t tell anyone or anything equally pointless.  In fact, I want to do something even dafter with your choices.  Here’s what I’d like you to do.  Simply comment with your artist and title and a very brief description as to why you love the song much more than is healthy.  And I will endeavour to turn your song choices into a short story, possibly completely unrelated to you and your reasons.

So, come on… if I can admit to my guilty pleasure (as I’m just about to) then so can you!  You’d be doing me a massive favour, because I really do dislike asking for favours.  Only this time, I WILL ask again.  Because I think it’ll be fun and might motivate me to put my metaphoric pen to paper a bit more frequently.  Pretty please.

So this is my guilty pleasure.  Yes, I have it on my iPod and yes, I do listen to it and sing along.  I’m not particularly into old, ten-gallon actors and their brief foray into singing.  I’m certainly not into country as a genre.  But it warms me to the core and it definitely makes me smile.  When I was about seven, my step father worked a night shift and I used to wake unexpectedly in the middle of the night and have visions of ghostly fishing nets swirling and swooping around my bedroom – sometimes empty, sometimes containing various harbour items.  And just sometimes, a red-kneed tarantula.  It would petrify me and I’d creep into my mum’s room and ask nicely if I could sleep in her bed.  She never complained and at 7am, her state-of-the-art, 70s bedside clock radio would switch onto Radio 2.  And, I think, Terry Wogan, although don’t quote me on that… maybe it was Jimmy Young.  Anyway, I digress.  Whilst she rose for work right away, I had the luxury of a little lie-in and approximately twenty more minutes of radio.  And ‘Della and the Dealer’ by Hoyt Axton was indeed a very popular choice – in fact, I’d hear it most mornings.  And I completely loved the frivolous idea of a talking cat, meaning that, to this day, I still have a real fondness for this silly little record.  So it’s my guilty pleasure and dagnammit, I am NOT ashamed!

Now… tell me yours and tell me why.  I’ll be really appreciative but sadly, I’m too poor to offer a financial incentive.  Thank you.

For me, this is a simple question to answer, albeit with a rather convoluted answer.  So unlike me to be generous with words, eh?  I never wanted James to be an only child, like me.  Simple enough, but there is always the pressing need to elaborate, as if this isn’t a selfless enough reason.  I consider this is because it somehow negates my stronger-than-strong love for Harry, my secondborn, through its practical façade.  Above all else, had we not wanted another child, we would have stopped at one.  Neither has there been any Grand Plan, mapping out the next forty years of family life – expect the unexpected is more our motto.  But this is how I generally explain our choice…

I’ve reached 37 with no siblings without the world ceasing to revolve on its axis.  OK, so I don’t NEED a brother or sister, but there have been many, many occasions when I’ve WANTED one.  I don’t welcome the sole responsibility for the family bloodline.  I used to lie awake at night, panicking over the impending death of a parent and going through it alone.

My husband, Michael, and his three siblings lost their mother much too soon.  Michael is the youngest and was only seven when this crushing tragedy occurred.  He will be 40 in January (and won’t thank me much for reminding everyone!) and frankly, this paled event from the murky past has affected every single turn and lack of judgment ever since – wholly without his knowledge.  At the time, with his poor, bereft father nursing a crushed heart, Michael had three siblings with whom to go through the subsequent period of time.  They were able to wordlessly understand.  If a hug was needed, it wouldn’t be rejected or dismissed.  If a knee got bruised, a rub could be administered by proxy for the woman who was no longer there by circumstance, but who would remain forever in all of their hearts.  When Michael felt grief, in whatever way any seven-year-old does, his two sisters and brother were there to empathise.  It’s often a completely invisible act and I’m sure that, if asked, Michael would have been unaware of it even happening.

When I was 25, my father died.  It wasn’t completely unexpected but if I’m honest, I had been slowly preparing myself for some time.  We weren’t close but I was somewhat surprised at my initial inability to cry.  I was reluctant to call my closest friends and tell them, I wasn’t sure I had the words, but I knew I had to.  I delayed telling my then best friend for days and eventually was thoroughly ticked off for not having done so.  My mum helped with the arrangements, because she’d been through it several times before but there was no one with whom to share the other important stuff, like emotions.  And rather than feel overwhelmed by them, I shelved them.

The funeral was quite traumatic, although I have yet to hear of anyone who’s actually enjoyed one.  As I sat right at the front, I heard the racking sobs of my best friend from somewhere at the back and this upset me considerably.  She wasn’t crying for my dad – she was crying out of sympathy for me, her friend.  This made me feel so uncomfy and I think I cried because of her and not because of the curtain being drawn across.  I received so many cards and beautiful, heartfelt messages of sympathy from friends, family and some near-strangers and I appreciated them all.  But what I think I really needed more than anything was a shred of empathy.  And this was something that no one could give me.  I was all alone with this one – even in the company of others.  And it’s one of the loneliest places to be.

When James was born, I felt an overwhelming need to provide him with more family members  – what if something happened to me or his daddy?  This vulnerable, angelic little soul, completely and utterly alone… a normal thing for a new parent to feel, I know.  But one which stayed with me as he got older, more independent.  I guess this is why it seemed all the more difficult that we struggled to provide this much-needed sibling.  I worried for him.

The daft part is, I have never struggled to pave some kind of unobtrusive existence in the world without a sibling.  I won’t ever break records or win awards, but I’ve coped OK.  And I feel absolutely certain my beautiful firstborn will do the same, better than me.  But we have hardly any family to speak of and I feel a gazillion times more comforted for knowing that whatever happens in the future, he will always have the practicalities of a brother with whom to share life’s burdens.  I’m not naïve enough to assume they’ll become best mates – yes, it’d be wonderful if they did – but having that sense of empathy is, I believe, what makes us stronger.  They do say a problem shared is a problem halved.  Whatever one is going through, the other is in a position to completely understand and quite possibly feel the same.  They can empathise properly.

*Assuming the existence of God.

It’s been an odd few weeks and I find myself, freshly lobster-esque, just in from painting another couple of sides of the kids’ wooden playhouse, surprisingly calm.  A while ago, as I sat, casually supping a hot (yes, HOT!) cuppa in the garden, in the serendipitous peace of Small Boy watching telly and Little Boy fast asleep in the fresh air, I leaned back and appreciated my garden, even in its half-finished state.  Odd, since I’ve found it impossible really hard to properly relax in a long, long time.  I briefly considered that I might just be numb from the anti-anxiety meds.  But it was more than that.  I honestly felt calm, satisfied and yes, almost (don’t faint now) happy.  Which leads me to conclude that all major decisions that have recently been actioned were definitely the right ones.  And this is it – a new chapter, clean slate, full glass… however you wish to label it.  The past can only stay in, well, the past.

I decided today that writing is a bit like auditioning for Britain’s Got Talent.  Whether you’re good or not only depends on your audience.  It’s a subjective thing, much like art or music.  Whilst that might seem glaringly obvious, what isn’t apparent to your readership is how fraught with angst each piece of writing can be.  Yes, on occasions it does just seem to flow, but most of the time, you sit staring at a bunch of words on a page with a completely blank mind.  And in return, the words form into teeny smirking mouths and boy, do they ever try and put you down!  Words can be evil little bastards, in fact.

Most importantly, as long as you remain unpublished, you never, ever know if you’re actually any good.  Your readership is so diverse that what appeals to one won’t appeal to another and what seems complex to someone might come across as considerably dumbed down to another.  Because we all have a different level of knowledge on any given topic, it’s all like a giant playground of swings and roundabouts.

I suppose the big difference between writing and Britain’s Got Talent is that a panel of ‘judges’ (I use the term loosely) backed up by a large cross section of society (in theory, cough) let you know in a heartless instant that you’re shit at what you (a) love to do and (b) thought you were really quite good at.  It must be soul destroying.  Unlike writing rejections, which, although disheartening and sometimes debilitating, allegedly say less about your ability and more about your relevance on that occasion.  People will always pull out the J K Rowling card and I’m sure the number of prior rejections she received increases each time I hear about it.

So, you basically have a handful of lovely, kind, intelligent people who let you know in all sorts of ways that you CAN do it and not only that, you can actually do it well.  But there’s always that little git on your shoulder who’s sneering, ‘Fuck this for a game of soldiers, you’re shit with words, you have an array of rejected documents from précis to novel, you may as well go down the pub on your way to the jobcentre and drown your sorrows’.

And so you procrastinate.  And then you procrastinate a bit more.  And then you realise that, had you stuck to your self-imposed and really quite realistic deadline, you’d have two-thirds of a youth novel under your belt right now, on this glorious sunny day.  As it stands, you have 1,637 words – not even one complete chapter.  Why?  I’ll tell you for why!  Because it all seemed too bloody much on the days when you had a gazillion washloads to hang out, a screaming, teething bubbub, a tantruming three-year-old, photos to edit, Facebook to… gawp at like a goldfish, hoping someone was about to update.  You get what I mean.

And so, when experienced and usually published and successful writers say it’s vital to write little and often, as and when you see fit, I’m of the opinion that they really know what they’re talking about.  If you can write a few words every day, so much the better.  It keeps it fresh, it keeps it enjoyable, it keeps up the momentum.  And if you only have ten minutes, then so be it – you’d be gobsmacked at how many words can be churned out in a ten-minute window.  And if you have a bad writing day, do NOT let it deter you from picking it up the following day.  Because that negativity towards your own ability is the irritating rock that gets wedged in the cogs.  And when you’ve allowed yourself one day’s grace, you’d be surprised how easy it is to allow yourself another and another and so on.

You learn to expect rejections in their multitudes and just keep on hoping that the polite rebuffs are not just a tactful adaptation of Simon Cowell.  There’s always going to be someone better than you, further educated than you, more experienced than you.  But those are the ones you learn from and one day, it becomes your turn to illuminate others through your own experiences.

Ultimately, you write because you enjoy it and when you no longer enjoy it, then that’s your cue to call it a day and take up juggling or strumming an acoustic guitar.  I firmly believe that if you don’t write for yourself then what’s the point?  And thus, I will endeavour to blog a little more frequently.

I posted a link on Facebook, saying it was a good read for anyone who WANTS to ‘get’ Twitter but just doesn’t.  I am of the opinion that the people who don’t ‘get’ Twitter are the people who only have a passing interest in it, or are maybe just a bit inquisitive, feeling like they’re missing out on the party.  But unless you throw yourself right into Twitter, you have a snowball’s chance in Hell of actually getting into its groove.  But once you’re in, you’re pretty stuck.  It can be both a blessing and a curse.

I’m trying to spend a lot less time on Twitter at the moment and I simply feel as though I’m missing EVERYTHING.  So when I DO login, no one really cares what I tweet and rarely replies.  It’s a heck of a shame, but life moves in waves and my Twitter time is currently in a trough.  I really miss the funny folk and the witty folk and I also miss the brief frisson of tweeting a celeb or two.  And I cross my fingers that all of the above are still there when I go back in.

Anyway, I digress.  So unlike me…!  Having read the article in its entirety, I quickly tweeted its author and rushed out of the house on the preschool run.  When I came back, I found I’d been feeling a rising warmth in the pit of my fat belly tummy that someone (I didn’t even know) had sat down and penned such an inspirational and understated, yet insightful piece of writing just one week after the death of their mother under the ruse of it being their ‘Follow Friday’*.  Their way of thanking the strangers who had helped them get through a very emotionally traumatic time in their life.  And I felt utterly compelled to do something.  Something constructive, just for a change.

The author’s late mother had required a LOT of blood during the final few weeks of her life and those who tweeted their condolences were being encouraged to donate some of their own to help others in a similar situation.  Now, anyone who knows me, knows I’m not massively squeamish about most things, but also knows that even so much as watching others give blood puts me at the edge of consciousness.  I’m not afraid of needles or blood as such – merely the idea of something being drawn out of my body through a vein.  I suppose it’s veins that make me feel a bit queasy.  I certainly don’t like wrists very much, although appreciate their importance.

And so, for many years of watching my late stepfather give copious pints of the gloopy red stuff, I have always been a bit annoyed with myself for being effectively ‘silly’ about something so vital, but evidently not annoyed enough to have conquered the self-instilled phobia.  And I sat and thought about the kind, ‘Try and give blood if you can’ tweet I’d received from an otherwise grieving and busy individual.  And I remembered I’d been a human pin-cushion during my first pregnancy, due to my appalling, hidden veins, to the point that during my second, I was able to describe to a talented extractor exactly where the one good vein was and came out the other side of it not only with a beautiful second baby, but also with few venous bruises or mental trauma.  And thus, the decision was made.

I registered to give blood here and am fully confident that I’m now ready to give something back for being alive and mostly healthy.  Of course, I can’t actually GIVE any blood at the moment for two reasons.  The first is that it’s only been seven months since I gave birth and the second is that I’m taking the anxiety meds.  BUT I’m not using these to procrastinate and merely pretend I’m doing something good.  I can’t do things like that as I just feel like I’m being dishonest with myself and that keeps me awake at night.  Nope, I fully intend to get cracking and attend my first donor session as soon as I’m able and hopefully, it’ll go swimmingly and I’ll be able to donate on a regular basis.

I was so excited to tell the author of the article.  Not really to get a bit of glory or anything, but because I genuinely wanted to express how much I’d been moved by someone else’s words.  And the heartfelt, grateful response I received made me feel amazing inside.  And although I feel a tiny element of fear, I know that the sense of achievement I’ll feel afterwards will be totally worthwhile.  And, with a bit of luck and the right wind, who knows?  I might even manage to help prolong a life along the way.

Never, ever underestimate the profound effect of the words of a stranger.

*Follow Friday is where people recommend those they follow to others.  Word of mouth on Twitter is the best way to get to know the best people.