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Anno Domini 2024

Hello! And Happy New Year!

I don’t know about you, but 2023 could have been better. I’m not going to elucidate, because this isn’t that kind of blog, but if we just focus on the writing, I really didn’t pull my weight on here (sorry Debs), or indeed make much progress towards any of my writing goals…

2024 lies before us, and I’m pretty certain I won’t make my goals this year either. But here’s the cunning bit: if I make my goals something that will contribute to the overall ambition of being a better writer, and if I post it here, you, dear reader, can help keep me honest.

Many authors have talked about the discipline of writing everyday, and there are various tools, clubs, and the like out there that can be used to help with that. So, one of the things that I’m going to commit to this year, is a year of posting. I think that we can all agree that some (most) of these posts will be what we might generously describe as ‘a rough cut’, a hot take, if you will.

I’m going to try and avoid making hard and fast rules that I’m inevitably going to have to pretzelise because of something that crops up, but my general intention is to post something as close to everyday as possible, usually real-time (so apologies if these posts turn up on a slightly random schedule). At this point I’m planning to fold in the April A2Z challenge, and aside from April, I think that I’m going to take a gentle trot through the alphabet, spending a couple of weeks on each letter, with the possible exception of Q, X, Z, which might only get a week each – to accommodate the April A2Z, of course, no other reason… I’ve got a few long form posts of the sort that you’re used to in mind, so they’ll crop up from time to time, hopefully a bit more polished and probably planned well in advance.

And of course, this is a shared blog, so I need to make sure that Debs gets a fair share of the platform too!

I hope to see you around during the year, not necessarily everyday, but if you have any special requests for topics, do drop a comment below.

Once again, Happy New Year – may your TBR be big enough to keep you busy, but not so big that a collapse could be life-threatening, may the words flow, may the agents call with good news, and may the blurb-writers read the text without giving the plot away.

SecondThoughts: Separating art from the artist

… or the author from the books.

The world has spun a few more times around its axis since the last one, but the recent revelations about the private lives of authors – not one, but two – are of the sort which cannot be ignored. Or, at the very least, cause questions to be asked of ourselves.

I’m speaking, of course, about Neil Gaiman and Alice Munro.

As a reader, how do you react? Are you outraged or upset and decide you won’t buy any more of their books? Do you discard (or delete from your eReader) those of their books which you’ve already read? Or, do you feel disappointed but review your memories of those books you’ve read with this new information, or maybe even re-read them with this in mind? In short, is there a measured middle path to be trod, or is it all out cancellation?

For the reader in me, the decision is likely to be taken after considering the following primary factors:

The nature of the revelation and whether/how much it clashes with my personal value system? Only after that do I ask…
How much I like the books (presuming I’ve read some/all)?

I admit that if it’s an author whose books I’ve yet to read, it’s an easy decision to discard them from any future place on my TBR on the basis of there being too many books and not enough time. Indeed, I’m even unlikely to feel the need to consider question 1 in this circumstance.

Is that fair you may ask, and you’d be right to do so. My answer is a simple one – no, of course it isn’t. But I refer you back to there being too many books and not enough time, which means the decision-making process of what goes onto my TBR is already weighty enough without adding this additional layer.

For me, the more interesting question is the one to be asked of writers, especially those who’ve looked up to the authors in question, if the authors were an inspiration or formed part of the decision to become a writer. In this situation, I have to wonder – is it easy to set aside, or does it cut more deeply?

Fortunately, JKR aside, the recent revelations do not factor for me in this way. While I’ve read – and enjoyed – some of Neil Gaiman’s work, I most like the story he tells of meeting Neil Armstrong to illustrate imposter syndrome. That story, in particular, led me to defend him when Himself expressed his negative view on Gaiman, one gained from observing him during a period when they lived in the same locale – so I’m mostly peeved he appears to be right (again). As for Alice Munro, I’ve begun to feel I really should read at least one of her books, but the recent revelation will likely be the death knell for any of them ever reaching my TBR.

To return to my aside – many years ago, I used JKR as the author I could use for modelling purposes, purely on the basis that both she and I were single parents. As it formed part of a powerful technique which I re-visit when needing to keeping moving forward as a writer with belief, I’ve since chosen to insert an alternative author model, in order for the water not to be muddied.

That said, this is the where I am now position. I remain open to considering alternative views, or re-considering my position based on new information.

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then, when you know better, do better.”

Maya Angelou

Finally, there is a most interesting discussion on this topic on Damyanti Biswas’s site which I urge you to read.

If you are a writer who has looked up to authors who’ve fallen from grace, has it had an impact upon you?

#IWSG: It’s only Word(s)…

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. It’s an opportunity to talk about doubts and fears you have conquered. To discuss your struggles and triumphs and to offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling.

The awesome co-hosts for the July 3 posting of the IWSG are JS Pailly, Rebecca Douglass, Pat Garcia, Louise-Fundy Blue, and Natalie Aguirre – do take a moment to visit them.

July 3 question – What are your favorite writing processing (e.g. Word, Scrivener, yWriter, Dabble), writing apps, software, and tools? Why do you recommend them? And which one is your all time favorite that you cannot live without and use daily or at least whenever you write?

Back in the mists of time, I learned to type on a manual typewriter, to the tune of Scottish reels no less – the purpose being to keep a proper rhythm and evenness of pressure on the keys, otherwise the levers would get all tangled up.

As time went on, I progressed through the various developments of electric and then electronic typewriter – including IBM’s mighty Golfball. I used an early dedicated word processor before eventually working my way to and through a variety of word processing software options on a desktop PC. Word was the final one of those, and that is where I’ve stayed… in truth, for much longer than I care to think about.

It – and the desktop PC combo – remain my preferred options. Why? Well, putting the obvious comfort zone aspect aside for a moment, I have typed on a (proper full-size) keyboard of one sort or another for over 50 years – and, even now, I am still fast enough to keep up with my thoughts, so there is no interruption. I think… and the words appear on the screen in front of me.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t love Word, and indeed recall one particular early word processing package which worked loads better, but Word is so deeply ingrained, everything I need is automatic. And that provides a type of freedom where I can allow myself to focus on the story, knowing I won’t be distracted from the flow by needing to think about the mechanics of its capture.

I purchased Scrivener some years ago but struggled with it. There was lots going on in my life at the time so, accepting I didn’t have the bandwidth to get to grips with it, I reverted to Word in order to get on with the project in hand. I have since dedicated time and effort to get past that, but there is no doubt that – with Word – comes the freedom to just sit down and write, and so that is where I go first. If it’s clear an idea is becoming something more, then comes the decision to move to Scrivener for the additional publishing tools it provides.

But, yes, despite not loving it, it is Word I return to, despite Microsoft having moved to the annoying subscription model. In theory I would like to move completely to Scrivener, but I acknowledge that I’m not ready… quite yet.

I’m looking forward to hearing what my fellow members use to write (and why) in case there’s a better option for me to consider.

The Princess and the Quilt

Flo had lived a quiet if lovely life, surrounded by people who loved her and took care of her and of her every need. And while they were kind, really and truly kind, and so good to her, she did miss her Mama and Papa, and her younger brother.

But she didn’t get to see them very often. Nanny told her that they were busy doing important things, and she said important things in a funny sort of sing-song way. Flo had learned not to ask her what sort of things, for Nanny would hush her and change the subject. She did ask one time why Bernard got to do the important things with Mama and Papa, and not her… but Nanny got such a sad look in her eyes that she never asked again.

Then one memorable Spring day, Papa came to see Flo. Of course, he called her Florence – Mama and Papa always did – and she’d stropped trying to persuade them because it meant the little time she was with them ended up being spent in crossness, and Flo didn’t like feeling cross.

She could tell he wasn’t expected as Nanny was flustered and fluttered around the room straightening books, and plumping up cushions until Papa told her to leave them alone. That had never happened before and both Flo and Nanny looked at him with their mouths in a big O – which seemed to make him cross.

As soon as Nanny left, Papa told Flo to bring her chair close to his and then he spoke in what she and Nanny called his serious, important voice. Flo couldn’t understand what Papa was saying – she could hear the words, but they made no sense. All of a sudden he made a choking sound, and cried. Great big wet tears fell from his eyes and rolled down his cheeks, and he did nothing to stop them or to wipe them away. Flo was wondering if she was meant to use her handkerchief to do it for him, when she realised he’d finally got to the important bit… the kingdom’s coffers were nearly spent so she was going to have to marry a rich Prince and go to live with him in a far away land.

Nanny had talked to Flo about getting married, and she’d warned her that she wouldn’t get to chose, but she was at pains to re-assure her that Mama and Papa would pick someone lovely and make sure she could live nearby. But that wasn’t going to happen. Apparently Bernard had decided to marry a neighbouring Princess, but she wasn’t rich, and so it was decided that Flo would have to be the one to save the kingdom.

Flo felt rather cross. Why was Bernard allowed to do as he chose while she was not? But she was even more cross that Papa had agreed, but also that he had cried – for it meant that she felt obliged to make him feel better by agreeing and doing so without a fuss. She asked for only one thing, that Nanny and the people who cared for her be allowed to come with her, and Papa had readily agreed. When she told Nanny this, Nanny had spoken rather sharply – not at her, but about Papa. Apparently he’d have been more than happy to agree as that reduced the wage bill, and they were spending rather a lot on Bernard’s grand wedding. And now Flo felt really very cross.

Things happened quickly after that, so quickly that Flo began to suspect the plans had been in place for a long time before anyone had plucked up the courage to tell her. In fact, she and Nanny were now speaking rather sharply about Mama, Papa and Bernard pretty much every day.

She met the Prince and he seemed nice enough, and said he was pleased she was bringing her people with her, as he would be spending most of him away. It turned out that the reason he was so rich is he was always off fighting wars and carrying off the spoils. This didn’t please Flo, but he seemed to expect very little of her… and it’s not like she had a choice in the matter.

The wedding was a grand affair, the wedding night passed without untoward unpleasantness, and Flo was whisked away to her new home. They arrived as darkness was falling, so Flo had to wait till the morning to see her new kingdom. When she awoke the next morning, Nanny greeted her with the most beautiful smile and indeed, the sight she could see from her window looked most pleasing to her eye.

The Prince offered to take her on a tour and much to her surprise, he told her to dress simply, for they were to ride as private citizens – the time for her to be presented to the kingdom was to come soon, but – for now – he wanted her to see the land that would be her new home. Flo was touched by this thoughtfulness, it wasn’t what she’d expected from a soldier.

She’d expected to be taken to see the grand places within the kingdom, but instead they’d ridden into the countryside until they stopped at what he called “the lookout point”. Flo quickly understood, for stretched out ahead of her was the whole kingdom – and it looked like a vast colourful patchwork quilt.

As he pointed out farmland and orchards, places of industry and business, he named the individuals and families she would meet there, and as he spoke Flo learned how the spoils of war had been used to build all these homes, to create businesses, and make safe the people of his kingdom.

When they’d first met, he’d told her he’d been looking for someone who would care for and nurture the people of his kingdom as much as he did. In fact, she remembered he’d said something she’d not understood about not wanting a Princess who’d complain about a pea. That made sense now – he didn’t want someone precious, but someone who would consider the people of the kingdom precious.

As Flo looked out across that beautiful sight, she knew she was going to enjoy the work of adding more patches to the quilt, as well as mending and improving those already there. And right then and there – and without her asking him to – her prince called her Flo…

Eavesdropping had become a habit that winter

Evan had preferred pubs in the days before, sadly the bank accounts of too many hadn’t made it through the dark days of lockdown. There was still The Crown, but it being a sports pub meant there were too many occasions when it was crammed to bursting point, the excess of testosterone pungent in his nostrils.

Being a big man with a good line in glowering, he’d been left to his own devices. But since being ill, it seemed that his newfound weakness was worryingly apparent to those with an aggressive nature, so he’d taken to cafes and coffee houses, drinking tea or coffee instead of beer. It was probably good for him, and he didn’t miss the beer… well, not t00 much.

But the side effect of having lost a lot of weight was how badly he felt the cold. Perhaps it was karma for his past impatience with those similarly afflicted. Heating being as expensive as it had become, he’d taken to spending time away from home where he could piggyback on some else’s spend. It was surprising how little he could get away with spending, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to cooked.

There was a friendly Irish lady in one of the local charity shops, and she put aside anything suitable for a man of his height. He’d been able to buy a new wardrobe for an absolute pittance due to her kindness, and all it took was his willingness to pass the time of day with her. She even made him a brew or two when she was on her own in the shop.

He’d given up on the TV a while back. The licence fee was crazy expensive for the rubbish you could watch now, and of course he wasn’t going to pay for all those streaming services. He made do with the radio – Radio 4 or the BBC Overseas service droned away in the background any time he was at home.

After the day when the friendly Irish lady gave up her job in the charity shop, he realised the only words he exchanged were about items off the menu. But then, he wasn’t sure what he’d talk about anymore. She’d made it easy for him, chatting away or asking gentle questions. So he decided it was time to broaden his horizons and visit the library. After all, signing up cost nothing, and it was another place to sit in the warmth.

Soon his daily practice was to read the papers, before heading to a cafe with a library in hand. There he’d take his time over a pot of tea and some sort of breakfast. Sometimes he’d read, but most of the time, he sat with a book open, and just listened to the conversations going on around him.

He began to recognise some of the other regulars, and even had his favourites. From his eavesdropping, he came to know their names, the names of the people in their lives, their trials and tribulations, their joys and successes.

What Evan liked to do best was walk, so with the onset of the lighter and warmer months, he eschewed his eavesdropping in the cafe and heading to the seaside, to woods and parks – anywhere free that he could find a bench for when he was tired to take a load off, to pull the flask out of his backpack, enjoy a cuppa and a read. As a bonus, Evan was surprised at the number of walkers who joined him on the bench and engaged him in conversation about the book he was reading.

But when the cold and wet months came round again, no matter how far he walked or how warmly he dressed, he found it hard to shake the cold and damp out of his bones. So in winter, he stuck to the warmth indoors – the library and the cafe – and he dipped once more into the lives of his fellow customers. It helped him while away time as he waited patiently for the arrival of lighter, warmer and dryer days; days when he’d get to talk about more than items on the menu.

There once was a girl…

There once was a girl who had a little curl,
right in the middle of her forehead.
When she was good, she was very very good,
but when she was bad she was horrid.

Or so went the rhyme she was told when little, for yes, she’d had a little curl in the middle of her forehead.

From the photos she brought with her, she looked angelic – rather like Shirley Temple in truth – and while no doubt in any way perfect, she struggled to believe she’d been horrid. And yet… she wondered why they kept repeating that rhyme to her. What had she done?

Her younger sister was born when she was just a year old, but all the photographic evidence is of her being a proud and loving big sister. Indeed, there are no family tales of her being anything other… and yet, there it is, that rhyme.

Of course, switching to the adult point of view, we know about first children whose noses are put out of joint when they discover they are no longer the centre of their parent’s universe, especially when there’s another cute little baby whose needs are greater than theirs. And yes, sometimes that can spill into less than ideal behaviour – dependant upon either the way it is handled or the nature of the child.

And that’s why she had come to me. Could she be hypnotised and taken back to those years, to see if there was anything…?

The memories came quickly. They were close the sisters, doing everything together, dressing the same, even treated the same. Well, except for when they got into trouble – that’s when she was told, over and over, in that serious grown-up parent voice, that she was expected to be better…. being older.

All that was clear from the memories is they were the fixed person, one to the other, in a life spent travelling. So on we progressed.

When they got older, the bickering of childhood changed into fighting – not physically, but fierce – for they were so different. Yet still they had each other’s backs; even when they fell out, she remembered that no other person was allowed to upset her little sister – and those that did, got their eye blacked.

For yes, she had a temper. And she was punished for it, being told it wasn’t ladylike, and it wasn’t nice, and that she had to learn to control it. But when what you’re experiencing is red mist… how do you control it? ‘Cos no-one made any practical suggestions about how… and she was only 11 or 12, with hormones going crazy.

As they got older, she remembered taking care her sister, especially when they were travelling alone – all the arranging, the organising, making stuff happen. Surely this was her being a good elder sister? Especially as, even now being mature adults, her sister still turns to her for help.

The recalling of memories complete, we commenced reviewing them from an adult point of view. What was clear is while that rhyme had got stuck in her memory from when she was very little, the knowledge of her temper had caused her to believe there must’ve been something – something dark and horrid that she’d done. But eventually came the acknowledgement that in a family which didn’t hold back in telling you off when you’d done wrong, while never praising what you did right, how could that something dark and horrid not be spoken about?

What we’re left with is the image of that little girl, the one with the curly hair, believing so readily that the words of that rhyme were being said about her. Now all I have to do is help her believe it is long overdue that she put down that burden.

Insomnia

The noise of people returning home drifts in through the closed windows and drawn curtains; the slam of a car door, the murmur of a TV, a radio, or voices from the surrounding flats until, as darkness falls, those voices can be heard calling loved pets back indoors for the night.

With darkness, the only sound is that of the trains passing by, changing from toots to alert the idiots playing chicken on the uncontrolled crossing to simply the whine of a diesel engine as it passes by.

At almost the midnight hour comes the final whine till the morning. From then on, the only sounds will be those of foxes procreating and nocturnal cats fighting over territory.

One joy of living in a cul-de-sac backing onto fields is that it’s rarely loud, indeed it can get really quiet at night. But when you can’t sleep and the night stretches out ahead of you, it starts to feel decidedly lonely – so the reliable regularity of that diesel whine becomes surprisingly welcome.

To fill the gap between midnight and when sounds of life return once more with the morning, it’s become my habit to get out of bed. Something about overhead lights feel too harsh now, so it’s just the lamps and the kitchen downlighter I reach for to switch on.

Some nights I’ll boil the kettle, but tonight it’s a pan of milk put on the hob to warm. Taking a milky hot chocolate to the sofa, I assemble everything for the next few hours. Tonight it’s the basics – a blanket for my lap and a cosy wrap for my neck and shoulders. On colder nights I exchange my slippers for furry socks, and on bitingly cold nights, I add an old woollen cardigan which belonged to be my father’s – partly for the warmth, but also as it made me feel held and safe.

Next, as part of generating that feeling of being held and safe, I’ll refill my diffuser with water, before adding a few drops of whatever oils my nose tell me are right for me tonight.

Having tried most the suggested sleep inducing snacks, a banana has proven the only one which doesn’t sit uncomfortably on my chest… so one will get peeled and eaten while my drink cools enough for me not to burn my mouth. For yes, I’ve done that before, only to spend the rest of the night fussing over the state of my burned tongue. I suppose you could say it gave me something to occupy my mind, but come on… that’s scratching the bottom of the finding the positives barrel.

For sleepless nights have become my regular bed fellows. Meditation, sleep stories, audible books instead of reading, warm baths with relaxing oils, I’ve even fiddled with the temperature of my bedroom and experimented with different bed linens…. all to no avail. Whatever it is that’s going on in my mind has not let itself be known to me. But it will… of that I am certain.

In the past, reading in bed was guaranteed to do the trick, and I’d regularly get hit in the face as I lost the grip on my kindle, or wake up with a book clutched to my chest. But not anymore. Now I can read an entire book without the slightest eyelid droop. I’ve tried every genre of book I can think of, but there’s no apparent difference, so now I read whatever I want to, ‘cos at least that way I get to spend the long hours doing something I enjoy.

Eventually, I’ll hear the sound of the early workers departing quietly, but I’ll wait until the return of the trains as morning service commences. I don’t start going about my day until I hear the 6am whine of the diesel. Then it’s shower, breakfast and get dressed – I am functioning, if not at the top of my game – but it’ll still be time to leave for another working day.

#SecondThoughts: The BBC and the Hay Literary Festival

An article on the BBC website entitled “What you need to know about Hay Festival 2024” starts well enough by describing the Hay Festival as “one of the world’s top literary events” but then goes rapidly downhill by choosing to highlight the following from this year’s Festival line-up: Geri Halliwell, Bonnie Tyler, Gary Lineker and Teresa May.

And, you know what, I’ve not bothered to check if any of the four listed have a book out, because even if they do, and even if they’ve written it themselves and aren’t fronting a professional ghost writer, why would such a selection of celebrities need the spotlight? For clarity, my fight isn’t with any of the named celebrities but with the BBC – at a literary festival why not select from among the long list of literary names in the line-up?

For starters, Marlon James (Booker winner in 2015) will be there, together with Booker listed David Mitchell, Elif Shafak, Chigozie Obioma, Sanjeev Sahota, Colm Toibin, Jhumpa Lahiri and Kevin Barry. And if the Beeb feel that selection is too high brow, then how about best selling authors Jodi Picoult, Lisa Jewell, David Nicholls, Marian Keyes, Jeanette Winterson and Ken Follett? Children’s writers aren’t ignored by this year’s Hay Festival either with Michael Morpugo, Michael Rosen and current Children’s Laureate Joseph Coelho all present.

You can see why I have to wonder why, with all these literary riches available to chose from, the BBC would decide to feature two pop stars, one footballer-come-sports presenter and one politician?

I’m avoiding going on a broader society gone celebrity crazy rant, but the world of traditional publishing has long been a tough one for new authors to break into, and is even harder currently as publishers are choosing to offer opportunities to celebrities trying their hand as authors. Clearly they come with readymade audiences who will – presumably – buy their books, so it’s an understandable business decision on the part of the publishing house.

But, when talking about a literary festival rather than the TV, film, sport or political worlds, can the focus be on those who make their living as writers, indeed as authors who’ve made their publishing houses a penny or two – ‘cos there’s a lot of ’em at Hay-on-Wye this year.

If you’ve not been, it’s a wonderfully enjoyable festival with lots going on – a wide variety of events, big stages, smaller more intimate venues, and Hay-on-Wye itself is a lovely town absolutely thronged with book shops. I’ve been to two festivals and enjoyed some terrifically interesting, entertaining and informative talks by splendid authors – with my personal favourites being Salman Rushdie, Rose Tremain and Maggie O’Farrell.

Please don’t let the BBC’s underselling of the literary riches on offer put you off for it comes highly recommended by this writer, who’s first and foremost a reader. And if you don’t get the chance to go this year (for it ends of 2nd June) do consider going in the future.

One day my Prince will come…

My mother believed this would be my fairytale happy ending, so I’m afraid I took a dastardly pleasure in telling her every time a Prince of a Nigerian republic contacted me, telling me about the millions of pounds available which he would share with me if only I would… well, I don’t need to tell you that tired old story, do I?

After a while, she asked me to stop – and even I had to admit my practice had gotten tired, so I was entirely happy to acquiesce. Thereafter my love life trundled along, pretty much in the normal way – some bad guys, some nice enough guys, some commitment-phobes, some far too keen and desperate to settle down. But – yeah – absolutely no princes.

Keen to become a grandmother, the pressure was being put on, especially as my 30th birthday approached. My mother was non too subtle, and had even resorted to talking about ticking clocks and diminishing fertility – as if that was going to make me more inclined to partner up and pop out a sprog.

The day of my 30th birthday came and went, and my mother stopped nagging. I was so relieved, I wasn’t even suspicious. Not until my father suggested we take the dog for a walk together. Now that was suspicious, so I put on my coat and scarf with no small amount of trepidation. All manner of scenarios rushed through my mind before we even got to the end of the road.

We’d only just made it to the park gates, when I couldn’t hold on any longer, and begged my father to just tell me – whatever the bad news was, I could take it.

“Oh love” he said with a sad smile, “it’s nothing like that”.

Long story short, the last guy who’d made it to boyfriend status for long enough to have to endure the ‘meet the parents’ experience had been one of the desperate to partner up types. It had not lasted long beyond that weekend, and we’d gone our separate ways soon after.

Except… turns out he met another girl who was keen to partner up and have babies, and guess where she came from? Yeah, my home town. Not only that, but her parents had bought them a house as a wedding present, and enjoyed telling everyone of their acquaintance about it. But most especially, how he’d had to pass on me because I was a career girl who was determined not to have children.

It had been unkind of them to say that to my mother, especially knowing how much she wanted grandchildren, and so my father had taken her home with the excuse of a migraine.

To say I was furious was an understatement. No, I’d not found the one I wanted to settle down with, and while I wasn’t feeling any sort of clock ticking, I did want to have a family of my own. I left my father with the dog in the park and rushed home to hug my mother – and to re-assure her – indeed, I promised her I would take the finding of someone to settle down with more seriously.

This time round, it was my mother telling me about the Nigerian princes in her in box, while I would tell her about my many first dates. The online dating world is known to be a bit of a sewer, but I’d made a promise and I intended to keep it.

Then one day, after having one glass of wine too many, I re-wrote my profile headline “looking for my Prince”. When I woke up in the morning with a hangover, I was surprised and a tiny bit worried to find a reply.

His name’s Daniel Prince, and we’ve laughed a lot about my drunken profile and how grateful I was for his funny reply. I was happy to delete my profile soon after, and my mother is truly delighted she can tell everyone that grandchild number 1 is on the way.

I’m afraid she took especial pleasure in making it clear to my ex-boyfriend’s parents-in-law that the true story is I was waiting for the right man to come along… and when he did, he turned out to be a prince among men.

The Beach

Except what sort of a beach is it exactly when there’s no sand?

Yet, something about it allowed Melanie to breathe. Not those little shallow breaths she’d been doing of late, but great big lungs full of air. And even if that meant she was gulping in the odour of fish along with the sea air – something which normally would have her making that heaving gesture which annoyed her parents so much – it really wasn’t causing her any bother.

She’d heard Jeremy’s mother talking about it – saying they had “a little place on the beach” and so she’d jumped on a train. What she hadn’t expected was for the place to be full of old people, and people walking dogs. There was this little alcove which looked a bit like an old fashioned bus stop, and even though she apparently had absolutely no self-awareness (thank you Mum), she knew she had openly gawped at the old men sat in there with their shirts off.

She grabbed a coffee and a pastry from the cafe next door and sat on one of those picnic benches people like to pretend are comfortable to sit on, but which are actually awful. But it allowed her to gawp with a little more discretion. The wind kept blowing her hair into her cappuccino – duh, that’s why the old men were sat in that little alcove, it kept them out of the wind.

They were surprisingly brown too. All of them – the big tummies, the scrawny arms, the ones with tattoes – sitting peacefully with their eyes closed. And she had to admit they did look dead relaxed. Not one of them had a phone, earbuds, or even a book with them, and she began to wonder if they were actually asleep, when one of them snorted awake, and caught her staring.

She turned her back pronto and gazed out to sea – if it was good enough for the old men, surely there would be something out there to amuse her. She watched a ferry going into a nearby harbour, saw a couple of tiny little boats on the horizon, and eventually a ferry coming back out again. Other than the old people and the dog walkers, it was just seagulls. Why on earth was Jeremy’s Mum so pleased with herself?

Coffee finished, she decided to go for a walk. Passing the beach huts, all locked up tight, she started to read the inscriptions on the memorial benches. Right at the far end of the walkway, there were loads of ’em, with engravings on little metal fishes. Some were funny, some only had a name and dates, others had a little message which would mean nothing to anyone not in the know.

And then she saw it – carved into the chalk cliffside “Kathryn, marry me?” with a big heart around it. She went back and checked all the fishes to see if there was one with Kathryn and the mystery person who’d proposed – but no. For some reason, Melanie felt choked. Had Kathryn said yes? Had she even seen the message? Surely she hadn’t said no…

Giving herself a good talking to – why on earth was she taking this so personally – nevertheless, she walked back along the cliffside looking for an answer, only to realise it had been there all along. Inside that heart were two dates, with a two year gap between them. Surely it must be the date asked, and the date they wed? The tears sprung to her eyes, and she wiped them away crossly – what was the matter with her?

An old couple walking by with their dog asked if she was alright, and she surprised herself by not being rude or dismissive in response. They looked so concerned, anxious even, and she found herself telling them how touched she’d been by the carving. Before she knew it, she was petting their dog and they were telling her about how lovely the wedding had been – Kathryn and David’s wedding that is.

Not that they knew them, oh no, but lots of the regulars who walked along the front had seen the carving. A few of their number saw the story of the upcoming wedding in the local paper, and so they’d gone to stand in the churchyard, and watch. Naturally Kathryn had looked beautiful and David handsome, the little bridesmaids had been adorable, and the chief bridesmaid and the best man seemed rather taken with one another.

Normally Melanie would’ve found their story eye-rolling and overly sweet, but she couldn’t stop smiling. There was something so utterly lovely about their joy in the happy pairing of two strangers; and not just them, but every member of this little community of beachside walkers.

#IWSG: Distractions with the power to derail

The awesome co-hosts for the May 1 posting of the IWSG are Victoria Marie Lees, Kim Lajevardi, Nancy Gideon, and Cathrina Constantine – do take a moment to visit them.

May 1 question – How do you deal with distractions when you are writing? Do they derail you?

I’ve not been able to carve out a fixed time when I write, instead my process is a mindset – that when I sit at my desk and put my hands on my keyboard, it’s time for writing.

I work full-time and have plentiful calls on my time, so distractions are my constant companions, and I’ve had to learn to work around them. What’s key for me is to capture an idea before I forget it. Then, when I’m at my desk, I can re-visit the idea and get writing.

Mostly I capture ideas on my phone – usually the Notes feature, sometimes by recording a voice message. On the rare occasion when time and the materials have been available, I’ve used pen and paper.

What I do have to guard against is not spending enough time at my desk. If more than a few day goes by without writing time, I examine, analyse and strategize. What’s the cause? Is it a short or long-term issue? Is it a genuine roadblock, or is there a workaround? Is what’s keeping me from my desk not a practical issue but an emotional one?

Emotions have the greater capacity to derail me, but it’s not a cut and dried scenario. For example, my ability to write was seriously limited for almost a year following the death of my father, yet when diagnosed with cancer myself, I was strongly motivated to write.

For me, identifying what’s going on is paramount, for then I can focus on addressing how to ensure any derailment isn’t a permanent one.

Clearly my process to date is to focus on the why of distractions, so I’m especially interested to learn what practical tips and methodologies other writers use to handle distractions.