Tag Archives: writer parent

3 Sep 2014 · 1:38 pm

I am now, officially hybrid… I think.

That’s right I run on oil AND gas. Sorry, no. What I mean is that the good folks at a small publisher have accepted a short story from me for an anthology. In the process of this they have sent me a publishing contract to sign and there is talk of a small remuneration, depending on sales volume. I think that does officially make me, in the proper sense of the word; with publication pending.

Which brings me neatly onto the other thing. I was looking at Chuck Wendig’s excellent blog today and he was talking about keeping your writing true. Writing who you are rather than what you think people will want. It’s a fantastic post, link to come. The gist is that you can only write for yourself, from your heart because if you write to please anyone else or to follow a trend your writing can lose its conviction. I particularly liked his take on that. Writing a book about something because everyone else has achieved success with it is like being a dog chasing a car.

‘Don’t be the dog, be the car.’

But that made me think because the biggest reason I’m self published is because I write stuff that isn’t really mainstream. I believe it has mainstream appeal but only on an incremental basis with lots of time for people to get used to the idea. And I don’t believe any publisher will take a punt on it until it’s already successful.

That’s not to say I don’t experiment with writing different stuff. My accepted story at Awesome Indies Publishing is one such. And this writing what you, yourself, would like thing, I really have no choice.

Any M T attempt at erotica would be the literary equivalent of this. Thank you http://2makeyoulaugh.blogspot.co.uk

Can I just go off on a tangent here for a minute? Do you ever wonder what writing is like for authors in other genres? I mean, say you write erotica. If you write decent erotica, presumably it turns you on – I mean, that’s what erotica is supposed to do, right? So what do you do about being in a permanent state of arousal, I mean, does it cloud your judgement? Do you end up needing a cold shower to view your work objectively. Or, when you’ve finished a scene do you just have a quick wank, while the cat looks on disapprovingly, and then move onto the next one? It’s not a question that’ll be troubling me. I quite like reading good erotica from time to time, so I did try writing it once. It was one of the funniest things I have ever written but, unfortunately, in absolutely the wrong way.

So for the moment, I’ll carry on writing Bond meets Adams (but without the spies) and see what happens.

Right now, I see what I’m doing as positioning12052012068.

It’s as if I’m leaving my stuff, with artful, care on the bank of the mainstream. To start with there’s just one corner in the water. I imagine the paper waving about in the passing current but each papery wave represents a minuscule tug towards the water. Slowly but surely (I hope) the current pulls it down the bank, tiny, tiny nth of an inch at a time. There’ll be more of it floating in the water now, semi submerged, gently slipping further out into the stream as the current draws it in. Then, it’ll be hanging there for a few seconds, with nothing more than a fraction of the corner stuck to the side until… oops yes it’s floating away and everyone’s a bit surprised because although it’s waterlogged and moving a bit slowly, and shouldn’t really be there, it hasn’t sunk.

Er yeh… That’s the way I see my books inveigling themselves into popular culture. But no-one is going to risk picking up my work and chucking it in until at least some of it has been proved to float on its own. So getting the mini-est publishing deal feels as if well… it’s probably not sliding down the bank yet but maybe a couple more pages have gone in.

Sure, one answer to this question might be to write something that has broader appeal. Perhaps one day I’ll manage it. But if I want to write with conviction I have to write what I write. I know there are many multi-genre authors who would regard that as unprofessional of me, so it is a huge relief to find the particular approach I use endorsed by Mr Wendig. You can find his post, which really puts it very well, here.

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19 Jul 2014 · 2:14 pm

Is your life a French farce too?

For some years now, I’ve been convinced that my life is extra specially eccentric. This could be down to my personality, or it could be a matter of perception but things didn’t start too well this week, because I left my phone in Scotland. Then… well… let me share my Wednesday afternoon with you.

Wednesday is market day in Bury. It’s also one of my three days a week at the gym. This Wednesday, I also went for coffee with some of the other mums after the school run. After trogging round town to various stores – McMini’s party is coming up so I was buying party bag stuffing as well as the usual stuff I got home, hid the plastic bag full of McMini party kit, had a quick shower, did a bit of writing, ate my lunch and decided to leave for school pick up half an hour early so I could drop into Waterstone’s and speak to the YA manager about my new book releases.

That’s when I realised I didn’t have my wallet.

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Oh.

It wasn’t in my bag either.

No worries, I remembered I’d put it in with the shopping because there have been purse thefts recently and I usually keep it in a pocket on the outside of my bag, well, rucksack (I have a small child, I am doomed to carry a rucksack so I can jemmy in all the mountains of shit required for managing a small child through the trials and tribulations of every day existence; snacks, plasters, wipes, sting stick, calpol sachets etc). I checked all the bags I’d had my shopping in, including – a real high point – the one in the wheelie bin.

Nothing – which was, kind of, a relief in the case of the bag in the wheelie bin because I’d emptied Harrison’s litter box into it – but all the same.

Oh.

So I had a think. The last place I’d gone was the gym. I rang.

No wallet.

Oh.

So there was only one thing for it. I must have dropped it. I consulted my watch. Half past two. OK, where was the cat? Out. Right so I needed to get him in first. No wait, I didn’t. First I needed to check in the garage round my bike. I got the electric bipper to open the door and went out into the street, closing the garden gate behind me.

No wallet.

Oh.

Our garden is walled all around and the gate is about 7ft. As I closed the garage I realised I’d locked myself out of the garden. I’d have to climb in. Except that I don’t have as many knee ligaments as other people and I was a bit worried about the 7ft drop from the top of the wall to the ground below. After an energetic work out at the gym the knees didn’t feel up to it: neither did the rest of me.

Ah. Hang on. The garage has two windows at the back. Both festooned with cobwebs and probably cemented shut with stour but they are there, nonetheless. So I went back in and I tried to open the less cobweb covered of the two. It wouldn’t budge.

Bollocks.

OK, let’s call that Plan B. Back to over the wall. I cast around and found a small plastic garden toy thing which McMini loved as a toddler. I put it by the fence and climbed up.

No. I decided. Not a wise move to go over there.

I put it in front of the gate.

No. I wasn’t going over there either.

I tried using a log against the window frame and hitting it with another log. It wouldn’t budge. It must be locked.

Ping! An idea dawned. I tried the other window. It was unlocked and it opened. Flaming typical. Never mind. I was in. I broke my way through the cobwebs and dropped into the garden below with the agility and grace of a heffalump tripping over a rock. Looking at my arms I realised my journey through the window had transformed me into the cobweb yeti. Another shower required tonight then to wash them out of my hair. I tried to brush them off but they clung to me determinedly.

Ho hum. Never mind. I was in the garden now, even if I looked as if I’d been down a derelict coal mine. I got the keys, opened the gate and then put the primary coloured child toy away again. I double checked that there was no sign of my wallet on or around my bike.

There wasn’t.

Balls.

That meant I must retrace my steps to the market to see if I’d dropped it. That meant I must find the cat and put him indoors and that meant I didn’t have much time. I couldn’t leave him. He’s only 4 months old and the other feline visitor to our property, Big Vern as we now call him, tends to drop by in the afternoons. Big Vern is a real Ray Winstone of a cat. More of a tabby panther. I don’t want him and Harrison to fight if I’m not there to split them up.

After chasing the very over excited and skippity kitten round the garden for 10 minutes – this is a brilliant game Mummmy! I want to play it forever – I realised I wasn’t going to catch him. However, another five minutes bouncing a ping pong ball on the patio and he was there, ready to play. I threw it into the house and when he ran in after it, slammed the door and locked it. Time was running out. It was nearly 3 o’clock, and that’s when I have to leave to get McMini. I got my bike and cycled up to the gym. I checked where I lock the bike up and asked in a cafe nearby.

Nothing.

For fuck’s sake!

I cycled up the hill and as I got towards town remembered that the party shop was a little further from the market. That was the last store I visited so I went there. They didn’t have my wallet and it wasn’t anywhere near there. But going there did jog my memory. I hadn’t checked all the bags, because I’d forgotten to look in the hidden one from the party shop, which probably contained my wallet, but now it was too late to go home and check. So I went along to the school, picked up my boy and in the end he went to the park with a friend and her Mum. I cycled home and, as predicted, I found my wallet in the hidden bag.

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So as you can see, I bring a lot of shit on my own head (not to mention stour, cobwebs and potential for injury in this instance). Never let it be said that I don’t make life interesting for myself. I put the washing out, while I was there and then went back to the park to pick up my boy. Naturally I didn’t make it to Waterstone’s.

So if anyone else out there has a the kind of short term memory that would make a goldfish laugh, this is just to let you know that you aren’t alone. And hey… it makes life interesting and I am proof positive that you can successfully organise the odd thing, in spite of yourself. Er hem.

Finally, moving on to more important stuff Few Are Chosen, K’Barthan Trilogy: Part 1 – and also myself – get a shout out from Island Editions’ Reading Recommendations spot, or at least, got, yesterday. So here it is, please feel free to have a look, there are some fine books recommended on the site and if you like it, please feel free to share. There are a lot of good folks trying to help us indies and sharing, liking and generally appreciating their efforts is the way we can thank them. It also helps bring them more traffic, better search engine rankings, higher visibility on facebook etc.

So if you want to pop over to look, like and share the love you can find it here.

There’s an M T McGuire book signing coming up, too. Yes, despite having the organisational skills of a butterfly with indecision I have managed to arrange something. Try not to be too amazed, even if I am. The lovely people at Diss Publishing Bookshop, in Diss, in Norfolk, will be hosting a signing on Saturday 30th August, between 11 and 13.30. I’m very excited about that. More details can be found here.

 

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25 May 2014 · 3:58 pm

A little light fluff… literally

It’s been a bit too long since I posted anything on my blog. I have a box 010 post owing and heaven knows what else but there may be a bit of a hiatus until after I’ve launched both books… not that I have much time to launch both books.

You know about the old dears; Dad came out of hospital on Friday. And it’s half term this week, so I won’t be doing much writing related stuff for the next few days, either. Just to complicate things we have also adopted a rescue cat. He is just coming up for 10 weeks old as I write and in the words of the vet he is “a bit of a monster”. Not in temperament, he is a poppet, if he sticks his claws in, you just mewl like a kitten in pain and he withdraws them at once. He’s gentle, loving and a real character. In short, well, in his case it’s more like, long, he is great fun but he is absolutely bat-shit crazy. He is also at least a foot long, about 18 inches if I include his head as well, with enormous feet and ears…. which, as the vet explained, he’s going to grow into.

He was already named before we got him: Harrison, after George (his mother was Beatle and his brothers were Lennon and McCartney). He answers to Harrison, as well, so we’re stuck with it. With those ears, we’d quite like to call him Spock but it’s not going to happen. He’s great fun but he also takes up a lot of time. If we want him to be a people cat there has to be lots of interaction from the get go.

So, without more ado, here he is: Harrison. My latest distraction.

Harrison has two settings: On.

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or Off.

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Obviously, ‘off’ is the easier of the two states to photograph. He moves extremely quickly.

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12 Apr 2014 · 2:26 pm

Stealth Marketing in the Grand Tradition of the British Navy.

OK, I’ll admit, it’s a tenuous connection, especially in the extremely likely event I’ve got my facts wrong, but there is this lovely story about Admiral Rodney; that he was concerned that the demand of the British Navy for oak trees to make ships was outstripping British supply. He therefore carried acorns in his pockets and dropped them wherever he went. Actually, it may not even have been Rodney who dropped acorns wherever he went… thinking about it, I have a vague recollection that it was some Elizabethan dude…

Sadly I haven’t been able to get a sniff of conformation on this story in connection  with Admiral Rodney or anyone else. The internet, usually a rich source of substantiation for such bollocks, is disturbingly mute on the topic. Then again, it might have been invented in Britain but it’s definitely American and the demand for trivia pertaining to European history is probably limited over there. I expect I’d be more likely to find it using Google.fr. Possibly… if I was better at French. Or maybe I’ll have to find “Our Island’s Story” a three book set of the most engaging and charmingly written, albeit ideologically unsound and dubiously jingoistic, version of British history ever produced.

But I digress. The reason I mention it is because in a small way I like to think I am upholding this proud naval tradition… except with flyers and bookmarks advertising my books rather than acorns.

GooglyJoy

Eyebombing, harmless naughtiness.

Seldom, do I leave the house without my  pockets weighed down by promotional literature; two business card sized things for books one and two, book marks for three and four, and a packet of googly eyes – because if my target area proves unsuitable for leafleting, there’s always eyebombing.

Wherever I go, I leave promotional bumpf, printed at bargain basement cost. If there’s a rack, I put them in. I was particularly gratified, after leaving some in a hotel when I arrived for the night a couple of weekends ago, to find that the staff had straightened them all out nicely with the other leaflets when I went to breakfast the next morning. As if they were legit.

It helps that as a 45 year old bag, I can pretty much dump these things where they’re not supposed to be in broad daylight, because I look like an upstanding member of the community who is far to old to do anything furtive, subversive or childish. Even if I’m right there, sticking googly eyes on the back of a builder’s lorry, or walking into Starbucks and laying out my  leaflets as if I’m a member of staff, I get the impression that the people who witness it can’t quite believe their eyes or assume my presence there is kosher.

There are other stealthy methods I employ. I leaf through books in the fantasy and science fiction departments in book shops and libraries and slip my cards between the pages for readers to find. I shoved a load into all the Terry Pratchett books in Tesco. I leave them on tables in restaurants and bars, on shelves in stores, slipped behind mirrors in public loos. Naturally I left them on the seat on the tube – on the few occasions I went to London.  I slip them under the windscreen wipers of nice looking cars. Indeed, I have not been above sticking fridge magnets with them on to lamp posts in my locale. Sometimes I even leave whole books. I have even convinced myself that all this works because I have been contacted by a fellow who went home and bought both my books after he and his wife started reading a copy one I left on the shelves in Costa.

Perhaps it sounds a bit strange but all this clandestine activity makes me feel better. As if I am at least pushing the envelope, even if I seem spectacularly unable to push my actual books onto anyone.

It’s easy to get disheartened being an author, even about the things that make you happy, so, for example, a while back, an author friend had a book picked as a read of the month on a forum I visit. I was genuinely over the moon for him because he’d missed out for so long. But it also made me feel a bit disheartened because it occurred to me that of the authors I know well, in the cyber sense, on that forum, I am now the only one who hasn’t ever had a book read in the monthly reads thing. Occasionally stuff like that catches me on the hop and makes me churlishly low – even while I’m being delighted for someone else. I suspect it’s because books are very personal things to write so it’s easy to take that sort of thing the wrong way and feel like the kid in the playground nobody wants to talk to.

Well, we all go through these ups and downs but folks, if you’re going through a down like that I proscribe a bit of stealth marketing, or, if you read books rather than write them, try a bit of cathartic eyebombing. Seriously, it’s a hoot and it’ll pep you up in no time.

So anyway,  it was with much amusement that I read this post on indie hero recently confirming  two things. First, I am not the only one who likes a bit of stealth – he calls it guerilla marketing. Second – tsk – I missed a trick.

I must make myself some stickers.

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3 Apr 2014 · 12:05 pm

Even More McMini

Oh deary me, another one of those weeks, I foolishly volunteered to do a blog meme, thinking I could easily rustle up three victi er hem sorry, three nominees to pass it on to. I have two happily queued up and ready but can I find a third one? No. I have four but two who will break the chain. Even worse, it’s only as I answer the questions that I realise I’ve actually done something very similar before.

Note to self. No memes. No blog chains. Nada. Zilch. Ever again. Why adding a few million links to a blog post should take so long I don’t know but it does. Also, as I’m facing a couple of weeks sans internet, I’ve been scheduling some posts to appear in my electronic absence. Unfortunately, this means I’ve spent all week working on my blog without actually posting anything.

Chaos Fairies 1: Efficiency 0

Never mind, onwards and upwards. I thought I would share some of the latest gems from McMini, so here they are.

On April Fool’s day…
We went to the park. Wisely, because the lavatories are at the opposite end to the swings, we went to the bogs first.

“Mummy I need a poo,” said McMini.
“Oh dear, do you? Alright, hang on and I’ll come in with you.”
McMini stood in front of the loo with his hands behind his head.
“Shouldn’t you sit down for a poo?”
“No. I’m only having a wee.”
“Might I suggest that you hold it and aim it for greater accuracy.”
“Oh no Mummy, I much prefer doing it like this, and it’s alright I don’t need a poo. It’s April False day remember? I was just falsing you.”

I put him straight, on both counts.

On his reading assignments…
“Mummy I wish I didn’t have to read a book every night, they are terribly long.”
“Yes, they are but a lot of them are quite fun and you read them very well. Anyway, you don’t remember to change your book every night do you? So technically, you don’t read one every night.”
“True…”
“So what happens if you fail to read your book?”
“We have to sit with one of the big year olds and read it the next day. And it’s always the same big year old.”
“You don’t like that, then?”
“No.”
I laughed at this and told him that I thought ‘big year olds’ was brilliant. I kept forgetting it and asking him to remind me.
“Oh Mummy you really are a porridge brain,” he rolled his eyes. “Come on, say it after me, Big. Year. Olds.”
“Big year olds. Right.”
“Got it?”
“Got it.”

On biology…
I told him he was getting much taller and that I couldn’t believe he grew inside my tummy. He stopped for a moment in shocked silence.

“Mummy, I didn’t grow inside your tummy. I am a boy. I grew inside Daddy’s tummy.”
“No, it takes a man and a lady to make a baby but everyone, girls and boys, grows inside the Mummy.”
“Oh. Are you certain Mummy?”
“Very.”
“So did I just grow?”
“No, Daddy helped.”
“How?”
“Well, men and ladies are made to fit together. The lady’s bits go in and the man’s bits go out like putting a plug into a socket. Then they have a very special cuddle and it makes a baby.”
“Can I have a special cuddle Mummy?”
“Not with me sunshine and certainly not yet. Special cuddles are only for grown ups.”

This was the point where half of me was standing outside myself, looking at what was going on, thinking “holy shit how did I get into this?” The key with these, is to offer enough information to shut them up without them a) getting more interested or b) saying or doing anything weird at school. I think I got away with it but I am beginning to understand why they used to feed kids all that bollocks about storks.

In church…
Loudly, during a particularly quiet, prayerful bit.

“Mummy, I have just done a fart and I can smell it and it’s a really stinky one.”
“Would you like to nip out and have a poo?”
“No, it’s OK, Mummy, I am fine.”
A few seconds later.
“Actually Mummy, I do need a poo.”
There was giggling from the other members of the congregation as we walked out.

At the Altar Rail…
After a lot of lively chat to me about robots and lego StarWars figures I told him he must try to be a little quieter now because people around us were trying to pray.

“Why don’t you try saying a couple of prayers? I’m going to.”
McMini screwed his eyes tight shut and buried his head on his hands. I knew he was really concentrating because only his legs were wriggling. After about 10 seconds he looked up.
“Mummy, I am having a lovely chat with God.”
“Good stuff little one. You carry on.”

Another at the alter rail conversation:

“Mummy, you’re not going to die soon, are you?”
“I hope not. I will at some stage because everyone does but hopefully not yet.”
“Are Annie and Poppa and Gramma and Pappa going to die soon?”
“Not for a while yet, I hope.”
“But they will die before I do?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“Where do we go to get new Grandparents to replace them?”
“Well… it doesn’t work like that. They’re relatives, so when they die, there’s no-one to replace them.”
“Oh…”

Later that day….

“Mummy Annie laid* you. Who laid Annie?”
“Annie’s Mum, my Granny [name redacted].”
“Oh… who laid her?”
“I think my great, great Granny’s name was ….”
Long thoughtful silence.
“I see….”

On Manners….
While Enthusiastically Eating a Jaffa Cake, also in Church.

“Mummy look! I am ripping it like a dinosaur.”

Still in Church, still in a quiet bit…

“Look!” McMini held up a picture he’d drawn. “he is a baddy cowboy.” McMini then coloured his eyes in brown. “See? He has brown fire coming out of his eyes!”
“Brown Fire sounds like a euphemism for something else.”
“No it’s not brown fire Mummy. It’s pooh. He has pooh coming out of his eyes in big brown pooy streams.”
“Ah…” I replied as the people in the pew behind started giggling. What else could I say?

On school…

A sweet, friendly guest asked him, “Are you at school?”
“Yes.”
“Do you enjoy school?”
“Oh yes,” he said with enthusiasm.
“What’s your favourite lesson?”
“Lunch time.”

On history…
McMini told McOther a long and complicated story about a little girl called Frank who had hidden in a house under a bed from an evil soldier called Hitme. We later discovered that one of his friends had been to Holland over the holidays where she had visited Anne Frank’s house and told McMini all about it.

On cleanliness…
When I was trying to hurry him up going to bed – which takes a sod of a long time, believe me…

“Please will you stay here and play some more, Mummy?”
“I wish I could but I can’t. I have to go and cook your Dad’s tea and have a shower.”
“You don’t need a shower Mummy, you’re very fragrant as you are.”

In Church…
As the Gospel was read from the middle of the aisle, McMini moved over to where the bloke with the incense thingummy (the thurither) was swinging the incense container (the thurible). Slowly but surely he held out his biscuit, kippering it gently over the smoke. Needless to say the thurither (try saying that with your mouth full) started swinging it a bit further in McMini’s direction. Finally, wee man shuffled back to me, kippered gingernut triumphantly in hand.

“Mummy that incense smells delicious!” he said.

* Like an egg as in gave birth to.

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25 Jan 2014 · 5:39 pm

Fed up with eating snail and tortoise dust? Join us the #slowwriters.

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I know this isn’t a glacier. It isn’t even an iceberg. It’s mini icebergs, in the Tweed but it’s the closest I can get.

Ah I was all fired up to write this post, but now I’ve labrynthitis, sinusitis and a temperature and everything’s a bit meh. Then again, that’s probably as good a time as any.

The received wisdom about indie publishing is that if you want to earn money you need to write lots and lots of books. Fast. Or you have to be all over the internet like a rash, but a good rash; a warm snuggley comfort blanket, perhaps, rather than a rash. But you have to be there, working on your soft sell marketing techniques 24/7 so that your book sales soar. Alas, it looks like this is true and it’s only the people with the kind of sales skills that Satan, himself would envy and also time, and lots of it, who make a living from self publishing fiction. And the reason that makes me feel a bit meh?

Well, I am a stay at home mum. I will never have the kind of time required to make it out of the self published pond slime. And if I had the remotest skill at selling anything, I’d have scored myself a trad deal by now because the way forward is hybrid. Even though I am cynical and old enough to know that life is never fair, I am pissed off that indie publishing is not the level playing field I hoped. Hence the meh.

However, I did feel better after reading this fabulous article on Chuck Wendig’s blog  in which he talks about how long it takes to become a writer. The basic gist being ‘a sod of a long time’. This quote, in particular, I loved:

‘I have been referred to at times as an overnight success, which is true as long as you define “overnight” as “a pube’s width shy of 20 years.”’

The basic gist of his post was that it takes as long as it takes. And I know he’s right, or I wouldn’t have started on this writing malarky. I want to do it, I have to do it and if I can only do it at a speed that makes glaciers look fast so be it. Sure my ‘overnight’ may be 50 years but it’s better than looking back and thinking ‘what if?’ than never having tried at all. Nine years on, I’m sitting here with 4 books under my belt (although I did make my first attempt at the first one when I was 20). I sell less and less of the two that are published each month but I can’t help living in hope. Such is the hopeless optimism of the artist!

Commenting on another post on Chuck Wendig’s blog I encountered two other stay at home Mums who felt exactly the same way as I did. I got chatting on twitter with one of them, Megan Haskell and we came up with the idea of #slowwriters. A support group for people who are ideas rich and time poor, or for people who take a long time to write a book – because not everyone can churn out a book in a month. Sometimes, quality cannot be rushed.

So, if you’re gnashing your teeth with frustration as the snails and tortoises disappear over the horizon, if you sometimes think that there may be fossils that are formed in less time that it takes you to write a book, take heart. Here’s how Megan described #slowwriters – because she does it much better than I can.

‘We’re time-poor, idea-rich individuals with responsibilities that can’t be pushed aside or down-prioritized. As such, we’ve come up with a brilliant, albeit unformed plan. We’re going to create a support group for slow writers, individuals who feel frustrated with their glacial progress and need someone to point out that progress is progress, even if it’s only inches a year.’

Or that, as Chuck Wendig put it, ‘it takes as long as it takes’.

If you are a writer with other commitments, duties, things you cannot put aside that mean your writing only happens slowly you might feel this way too. Would you be interested in taking part in a group like that?

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Because I am really grown up and a very grown up and mature mother and because I can: my lad, as the Baldy Man (that’s my hair).

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5 Jan 2014 · 12:34 am

More McMini

Here are some more lovely gems from my small son.

“Mummy, remember when ….. (name redacted) came round and she did a pooh that was so huge that we had to break it in half with the loo brush to flush it away.”
“I’m tying not to.”
“Well, imagine if we were so poor, that we couldn’t afford a loo brush and had to cut it in half with  our hands or with a knife and fork.”
“I’m really trying not to.”

This one sums up the splendid randomness of life with children. This morning, I was woken up early with someone jumping into my room shouting, “boo!” McOther got up, luckily, fed the ravening mini-beast and went off up to town to the market. Meanwhile I got to the point where I was dressed in trousers pants and socks but my pyjama top when McMini, who was downstairs eating his breakfast, called me urgently.

“Mummy! Mummy! Please can you help me.”
“Sure, what can I do?”
“I need you to help me prepare some breakfast.”
Poor wee soul, I’m thinking, his Dad must have forgotten to give him his breakfast before going out, either that or McMini refused it, which is not unknown. So I scurried down.”Course I can help, what would you like?”
“Oh no Mummmy it’s not for me,” McMini explains as we make our way through to the kitchen, “I wanted to bring you your breakfast in bed but I need your help. I thought you might like a piece of toast but I couldn’t cut the bread,” visions of McMini wielding the bread knife flashed into my head and I tried not to think about them. “Would you like a piece of toast?”
“Hmm, actually I think that what I would really like is one of these crumpets*. Shall we toast one and then you can butter it for me.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea, then you can go upstairs and get back into bead and I will take it to you.”
“Well… I’m half dressed,” I said as I lifted McMini and he dropped the crumpet into the toaster, “press the button,” McMini pushed the lever. “I think the best thing is if I eat it up down here and then go and get dressed.”
“No Mummy!” (shocked) “You can’t do that. You must go upstairs and finish dressing, first. Then you must come down and eat it.”
“Right o. Can I have a bite before I go?”
A beat.
“Oh I suppose so.”
“Thank you.”
“But don’t forget, I have to butter it first.”

He then proceeded to dig a series of small holes in the top of the butter with the tip of the knife, it looks like a primitive woodcut of an owl.

In church last Sunday, the gospel was the massacre of the innocents.

“Why did Herod want to kill all the little babies Mummy?” ‘whispered’ McMini.”Because he cared more about being in power than anything else.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess he wasn’t a very nice man.” **
“Yes, he was a big wee pot.”
Sniggering from the pews behind showed that this did not go unnoticed.

Going to bed last night.
“Mummy! Come back in here or I will shoot you.”

Going to bed this evening, I found a large velour spider, which is called ‘Glorious’ sitting at the top of the stairs. I picked him up and brought him into the bedroom.
“I found Glorious on the stairs.”
“Oh no, that’s OK Mummy, you should put him back. He has been naughty.”
“Ah right, so he’s on the naughty step is he?”
“Yes, he is nearly finished then he can come back in so long as he isn’t naughty again but he must be out there for a little longer.”
I went and put Glorious back where I found him, walked back in to McMini’s bedroom.
“You can go and get Glorious now and bring him back in. I think he has been out there long enough.” McMini said, the minute I set foot in the door. I went and got the spider and handed it to McMini.
“Glorious is very sorry, he has given me a kiss and I will kiss him back to make up,” said McSmall. And he did.

This is Glorious.

Glorious, looking very contrite.

*Pikelets if you’re northern, google it if you’re from anywhere else but for heaven’s sake put an s on it – crumpetS – unless you want to have to wade through loads of stuff about sex.
** Herod killed two of his sons and I’m pretty sure he also killed his wife, such was his determination to hang on to the reins of power… as Augustus said: “It is better to be Herod’s dog than one of his children.” He makes Lord Vernon*** look like a bit of a pussycat doesn’t he?
*** and if you don’t know who Lord Vernon is, read the K’Barthan Trilogy. NOW. Um… please.

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25 Dec 2013 · 8:36 pm

Happy Christmas

K’Barthan 3 and 4 are with the editor and McMini is running around the house with a gravy baster, pretending it’s a lightsaber. God is in his heaven and all is right with the world.

Merry Christmas everybody. The lego creature is made by McOther. With us as parents, McMini has little hope!

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2 Dec 2013 · 7:23 pm

Aw bollocks it’s the Chaos Fairies! Never mind here’s another gem from McMini.

Multo pissed offo con ultimo gizmo, con action grumpo. I dropped my iPad today and smashed it to bits. Arse, that’ll teach me to eyebomb our garage door with McMini for a laugh and then try to take pictures of it.

Wankpots! Wankpots! Wankpots! Bloody Chaos Fairies.

Needless to say I dropped it from about 3 feet and am almost certain that it was my spanner fingered attempts to catch it that were responsible since they simply involved me batting it up into the air so it went higher up and came down on one corner as opposed to its back. Then again, if these things are the all purpose take everywhere items the makers and adverts would have us believe then maybe they should try making them a bit more sodding robust. Probably.

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On the upside, the screen works so I won’t have to spend £110 (urrrgh MT’s knees go a bit wobbly) on a new screen straight away. There’s a shop who’ll fix it quite near and they will do it while you wait (2hrs) and I might even be able to get McOther to pick it up – said shop is about a mile from where he works.

Oh and our garage door looked like Nigel Mansel for a few moments – until I removed the eyes in disgust.

And another positive, I managed to do 35,000 words, or thereabouts for NaNoWriMo, which, considering I wrote nothing at weekends or the week before last and very little last week either is making me feel… smug.

So to cheer us up, another couple of conversations from McMini.

His godfather is recovering from a shoulder up and suggested we draw him a card.

“My shoulder hurted a lot once but once I had got home it went away. He will feel a lot better when he gets home.”

And on the subject of marriage, overheard by his Dad.

“I’m going to marry my Mum when I grow up.”
“You can’t do that,” said McCousin, “your Mum is already married to your Dad.”
“Yeh but he’s old. He’ll die before long and then I’ll marry her.”

I’m not quite sure how to take that.

And this evening as we’re going to bed.

“Eugh! I’ve just smelled my trousers and they smell absolutely stinky.”
“Oh dear, what wee and poo stinky?” 
“No. They smell like fried socks.”

So… a mixed bag.

Oh and if you’re wondering where I’ve been for the last two weeks, well, for the first one I was baking a cake – more on that story, later.

In the second week I was catching up with all the things I was supposed to be doing when I was making the cake instead. Then I was hanging with the in laws and McMini. There’s not much going to happen this week either, phnark but I do hope to get the K’Barthan Trilogy done by Christmas.

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17 Nov 2013 · 6:33 pm

Shingles anybody? It’ll make you feel better.

I was looking at this post, earlier and a few days before that, this one.

Both are about trying to balance career with other things, in the first being a Mum, in the second illness. So this is not for the people happily churning out a book every month, or painting prolifically. It’s for the people who could but haven’t the time.  My books take about 2 years to write. If I had the glorious luxury of being able to write 9-5, the whole year I reckon each one’d take 6 months, tops. That, right there people, is frustration.

Eyebombing, the only art I have time to do nowadays.

Eyebombing, the only art I have time to do nowadays.

However, these days, I think I’m surprisingly happy with my lot and I’ll tell you the secret. Shingles. run with me on this one, it’s going to take a while.

This isn’t a Mummy Blog but I am a Mum, which is why I thought I’d write this post is for the other Glacier Girls and Guys who are living slowly because they’re parents and they have to. It’s also for anyone who is a Parent who feels that by not enjoying each and every single minute they are somehow betraying their child(ren). In any job there are going to be bits you don’t enjoy. Being a parent is a job and in this respect, it’s like any other.

The other trick, I think is that we all tend to get a bit Monty Python Fork Sketch about being parents. Sometimes, all we see are the bad bits. That’s a habit but it’s not an easy one to shake especially among those of us who tend to be a bit anal about getting everything right. Seriously, though it’s amazing how quickly the good bits become background noise.

McMini goes to school but in the holidays, mostly, it’s just me and him. Sometimes it’s a challenge – usually on days when my energy levels are not quite compatible with his – but mostly we have fun. I think we always  have but it’s only recently I’ve been able to see it like that. Because… well… the truth is, I had a bit of a melt down.

A little while back, three, four years ago? Something like that, the reactor really cracked. The journey down took a year.

My in laws came to live with us for three months, from May to September. I love them dearly and gladly took them in but I found it peculiarly stressful. The fact that I did upset  me. November, the cold set in and my Dad took a real nose dive. My worry about my parents intensified along with me feeling that I was failing them. I crept through the winter, torn between staying at home and looking after my boy and going down to Sussex and looking after my folks.

Meanwhile, I was trying to be a decent Mum, fun to be with, understanding, full of ideas, kind and loving, when I couldn’t remember the last time I’d completed a thought without being interrupted and felt like shit.

Then one of my friends was diagnosed with lung cancer and given 5 weeks to live and  I took stock. I had a loving husband, a lovely little boy, a very dear family, a fantastic group of friends and a car to die for. Hell, I’d even written a book. I knew it was all good but the frustration of caring for a little one and being torn in two different directions at once was beginning to get a bit  much. I knew I was happy ‘on paper’ it was just that in reality I didn’t seem to be able to convince myself. I was perennially angry and mardy and grim and I didn’t like it. Or me.

During this time, I didn’t write or paint. There just wasn’t the slack in the system. The ambient levels of background worry continued to climb into the red zone, my emotional glass was full and the tiniest thing on top would make it brim over and have me in tears. Eventually it all went pop.

It was a Friday, late March or early April and I got home from dropping McMini off at nursery and started to cry. I cried for hours. I mourned for my Dad, for my friend, and for my Mum as she shouldered responsibility for everything my Dad had used to do. I picked up McMini from playgroup puffy eyed and wondered if I was having a nervous breakdown. But I finally understood how it was I could love my life, and the people in it, the way I did and still be sad. And it was OK and it made sense.

The next morning, I woke up feeling as if a huge weight had been lifted, with a new and certain understanding of my world…. and shingles. I’ve never felt so shit and so relieved at the same time. Sure, shingles was bloody painful, but I knew I’d hit the bottom. The only way from here was up, and finally I had some fucking clue which direction up was in. And I felt something else. I felt strong, and solid, and grounded.

Shortly after that, my friend with lung cancer died and in the same week another one did, too, unexpectedly, three days before his 42nd Birthday. I became aware that you can lead a full and happy life, and still find your brain is in a bit of a knot. So, thinking I might need a bit of help I went to the Doctor to see if I could get some counselling on the NHS.  She referred me for something called cognitive behavioural therapy although by the time I got to the top of the waiting list, I’d kind of worked it out for myself, but the basic gist is this:

  1. You cannot do everything you want to do, only what you can do. This is the hardest thing in the world to accept.
  2. Once you’ve understood your limitations, think of ways to work within them and let the other stuff go.
  3. Concentrate on doing things that play to your strengths.
  4. Draw a line under your mistakes. You can’t change them. Move forward and aim to avoid making them again.
  5. Concentrate what you’ve achieved rather than what you’ve failed to do.
  6. If something is wrong, tackle it. Fix it.
  7. Don’t look at other people and compare them to you, they and their circumstances are different.

If you can manage that, you can enjoy and appreciate the things you are able to achieve and you’ll feel less trapped by the stuff you haven’t done. And that will make for an easier going, happier you and perversely, I’ve found I achieve more now that I’ve stopped worrying about it… (mostly). Sure, I am not the daughter I hoped I’d be and probably not the mum, but I know I’m fulfilling both roles about as well as I can and I’ll settle for that.

Yes, is difficult to adjust to the glacially slow process of your own life once there are kids in it – and I’m the queen of the big Jessies there, because I only have one. It’s also difficult to adjust to the fact there are bits of your brain, like your intellect, that you don’t get the chance or just don’t have the energy to use.

However, Amanda Martin’s post (the first link) summed it up perfectly when she said that the whole point is, she wouldn’t trust anyone else to do it. I wouldn’t and as for progress on other things. Well, it’s a bit like getting over shingles. When you are chipping away at something day after day, it’s easy to forget what you’ve achieved.

A few years ago, when I was absolutely at the end of my tether, I remember complaining to a friend, in tears, that I’d only written five words that day.

“Well,” he said, “That’s five words that weren’t there yesterday.”

And that’s the trick, isn’t it? Not to look at the oceans of stuff you haven’t done and the stuff you don’t have but to let all that bollocks go and look it the way it really is.

Life hasn’t stopped. It’s just slowed down; and who knows, we may be hankering for this when faster times come.

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