My Little Year One Schoolgirl

With half term rapidly approaching, my little girl is very well settled into being a year one. I am so pleased with the progress she is making and how much she loves school and learning.

This is a letter that she wrote at the beginning of the summer holidays.

A quick translation for anyone not completely in tune with emergent writing reads: To everyone, I love you so much. You've been nice to me. Especially the teachers and the children. From Addy.

I found that incredibly heartwarming and encouraging.

Her little notes aren't always so lovely. This more recent one requires no translation though possibly some explanation!

A Packed Social Calendar

I love the explosion of activity that happens at this time of year. I have a fairly packed schedule of events for the whole of December and I am starting to wonder exactly when I'm going to find the time and energy for Xmas shopping and menu planning.

On Monday, it was my Running Club's Xmas party. One of the things I miss about work since giving up to be a stay at home mum is the Xmas social so I was really excited about this one. It was held at our local Brewery and I very much enjoyed the three pints of Joule's Slumbering Monk Ale that kept me well lubricated throughout the evening.

The pub attached to the brewery is not blessed with the friendliest of staff but the brewer's hall, also known as the Mouse Room is a gorgeous venue if you enjoy cosy oak panelling, wood carving, beams and the modern touch of large windows giving a view across to the brewery. It was perfect for the party with an elegantly trimmed tree creating a festive feel.

The food was buffet style and although there was some confusion over whether the three vegetarian guests were to be brought a pre-plated selection of non meat offerings or left to the lucky dip of the buffet table, it did not spoil the evening. I managed to procure myself a reasonable selection of dodgy sarnies and mini mince pies. The non-veggies didn't fair much better. I was not particularly envious of their cocktail sausages or scotch eggs. The success of the evening really did not hinge on the gastronomic experience.

It was a fairly standard itinerary - prize giving followed by raffle. I was never in the running (pardon the pun) for any prizes and I didn't even come close to winning the raffle.

So apart from the venue and the ale, what made it a good evening? Simple really. The people. Feeling part of something good. Being inspired to run more - to push myself harder - enter some races next year and see some improvements in my times. It was lovely to celebrate success and look to the future.

Photo by Sophie Murray 

Yesterday I was leaving my little ones in the capable hands of big sister and dad again for another evening out.

The Market Drayton Writer's Club was holding an Open Mic night at the library and my daughter, who is a member, invited me to hear her read an extract from a novel she has been writing as part of the online writing challenge NaNoWriMo.  Her best friend (and mummy blogger) Carole has also been meeting the word count demanded by the challenge and was due to give a reading. As well as being interested in hearing these readings, I was lured by the promise of mince pies.

Carole's parents, boyfriend and boyfriend's mum along with my daughter, her boyfriend and myself occupied two tables pushed together at our local Wetherspoons to enjoy their steak night. Of course steak night is somewhat lost on vegetarians but I happily tucked into the veggie Burger and a Beer option and only gave a brief admiring glance in the direction of the mixed grill ordered by most of the party.

The Christmas lights in town looked absolutely gorgeous as we made our way to the library for the Open Mic event.

It was really interesting listening to the pieces that the town's creative writers had selected to share with their audience. Some were excellent and inspiring. Others, inevitably, not so good. I am not glossing over the truth in any way when I say that my daughter and Carole's readings fell firmly in the excellent and inspiring category! I felt very proud.

I admit that I was starting to ache a bit from sitting still for too long so I was quite relieved when the final reading ended and the mince pies were served.

With all this beer and mince pie indulgence, I am glad that tonight I will be going for my Wednesday 3mile run - and even more glad that I will be home in time to put my little ones to bed and enjoy a cosy evening in with my husband.

A Rose by Any Other Name...

Recently in the Memetastic Award blog post  I revealed that I have two recurring dreams, one about my teeth falling out and one about fish.

This inspired my daughter Liberty to write a 500 word short story for a competition with a Valentine Horror theme. I think her story is fantastic. You can read it here if you have a spare few minutes.

As usual, we were chatting in the sauna after a 20 minute Sunday workout at the gym and I suggested that I might like to have a go at writing a 500 word horror story. She, of course, was full of encouragement and told me to enter the competition. Not one to ignore a new challenge, I did just that.

This is my story, as yet untitled.

Untitled

I love the feel of the sun in my face. It helps me to forget.

I never knew my mother. Never knew her gentle touch or breathed her special perfume. I am alone.

It’s always been Jack that cared for me, fed me, told me I was beautiful.  I know I should be grateful but he scares me. I don’t like the way he looks at me, his eyes linger a little too long, making me want to turn away. The tone of his voice chills me when he says, “Rosie, how tall you are growing”. And now he has started to touch me differently. Not a nurturing touch. A touch I can’t comprehend.

He is coming now across the grass to where I dream. He has that look on his face that I have come to dread. His gaze makes me aware of my vulnerability. I stiffen and recoil as he cradles my head in his hands. I feel his breath, hot and acidic.

“My special girl”, he says. “Soon you will be ready”

My mind is in turmoil. Ready for what?

I wish my mother were here. My mother could help me make sense of my confusion. I don’t know why she went away but I am sure that Jack had something to do with it. Sometimes I think I can hear her calling to me, warning me. Or maybe it is nothing more than the wind in the trees.

I turn my face to the sun. I forget.

******

I am in my bed.

I feel him before I see him. How long has he been standing there, watching me?

Something has changed. There is heaviness to him like he is almost regretting what he is about to do.

I want to scream but I have no voice. I want to run but I am rooted. I want to turn my face to the sun but today there is no escape.

He steps closer.

He reaches his hand towards me.

I am gripped with paralysing terror.

One hand holds me tight as his other hand comes into my field of vision. I do not know how to interpret the glint of light that reflects from the hard steel of the knife he carries. The intense pain as the blade slices into soft tissue crystallises my awareness.

Silently I scream “Mothherr!!!”

******

I am not dead.

I can feel the life draining from me but I am not dead.

Jack is carrying me.

There is nothing I can do but watch and wait.

He is dressed in his best suit, hair brushed. I don’t understand. What is happening?

He carries me into a darkened room. There is flicker of candlelight. I can hear another voice, a softer voice, gentle but expectant. A woman?

“Jack”, the voice says, “what’s that?”

“It’s for you, darling. Happy Valentines Day”

The woman takes me, lifts me to her face and breathes in my dying essence.

“What a beautiful rose, Jack. Thank you.”

Erotic Fiction

My daughter, Liberty, is an aspiring author. Her current work in progress is a teen Sci-Fi novel. Although it is not a genre I would choose, I am thoroughly enjoying reading each chapter as it is written and I am now at a point where I am hungry for the next! She has a lovely writing style and a very clear vision about character, plot and structure. I am absolutely sure that one day her published books will be gracing bookshelves alongside JK Rowling, Stephanie Meyer and the likes.

Nearly twenty years ago, I attended adult classes in Creative Writing. As much as I loved being a stay at home mum, I liked that it got me out of the house one evening a week and away from what was an unfulfilling marriage. I chose creative writing only because the class was at a convenient time and location and a preferred option over Conversational French.

The course did present me with something of a challenge. At school I was always more inclined towards science than the arts. I would find solving a maths problem far more enjoyable than writing an essay. Here I was with a bunch of people who all thought they had the next bestseller waiting to burst forth from their eager writing implements, all just wanting to be nudged in a direction they had already decided upon. I came to the class without any expectations and certainly had no idea for a book of any description. I focussed on short stories which I used mostly as a vehicle to flirt with the teacher. It never felt like serious writing, it was playing, having fun.

Encouraged by my teacher, I did submit one of my flirtatious works to a new women's magazine who were looking for erotic fiction. I received a very positive response  from Isabel Kaprowski, the launch editor, who said that she liked my writing style but needed something longer and with more plot line and if I were to submit such a thing she would be very interested.

I don't know what it was that stopped me. Maybe it was because my unhappy marriage eroded what little confidence I had or maybe it was because I never really felt like a 'writer', an impostor in that class of authorial wannabes. Whatever the reason, I never followed up my invitation to submit a longer story despite writing a couple that fit the remit. Had I done so and achieved any sort of success my life could have taken a very different path. If I had chosen Conversational French over Creative Writing in the first instance, I might never have written a word but enjoyed more holidays abroad. Life is so full of crossroads and choices it doesn't really pay to start considering the 'what ifs'.

I didn't do much else in the way of writing after that apart from some academic essays for a Foundation Degree Course in Teaching and Learning that I did a few years ago. The course itself didn't excite me much but I found that I did love the essay writing - the satisfaction of placing the final full stop. The desire to commit words to paper (real or electronic) was in part what lead me to blogging.

I have a niece who this year has started a University course in English Literature. She also like to write. The majority of what she writes seems to fall under the category of FanFiction which my daughters have dabbled in but I find mostly annoying (call me boring but I prefer to see characters handled by their original creators). The FanFic sites on the internet do, however,  provide an audience - a readership - and ultimately the aim for the written word is that it be read (a truth that eluded me when I failed to submit my stories for publication). When I was writing, the release of Windows 98 and the internet explosion was still over half a decade away.

I asked my niece if she had any original works for me to read and she sent me a link to a story that she had entered for a writing competition. I know she has a lot of devoted followers of her Fan fiction who are full of praise for her but I am not the sort of person that gives praise lightly. I look for the good in things but I'm not afraid to give my honest opinion. My niece is ambitious, she has a good command of the language and some lovely ideas but I felt that her story, which dealt with a sexual encounter between two women, suffered a bit from a lack of worldly wisdom and maturity and the ideas were never explored quite enough to give you any real insight into the characters. I am hoping that she takes my criticism as positive and comes back with a new story to blow me away.

It was reading this story that made me think about my own dusty manuscripts, and filled with a sense of affection for my youthful incarnation, decided to dig them out. I was only able to lay my hands on the original erotic story I had sent to the women's magazine along with the response. Yellowed, typewritten paper and rusty staples held a little piece of my personal history and connected me to it.

Owing to the fact that my two year old is a little poorly and consequently unusually demanding, it has taken me practically the whole day to write this blog entry. This does not bode well for any fantasies I might have of resurrecting my fiction writing, erotic or otherwise. But you never know....