Elizabeth Marshall's Blog, page 4
August 27, 2011
Childhood Dreams
Many years ago, I read a book called ‘Little Woman’ by Louisa May Alcott.
For anyone that has not read the book, one of the characters was a young girl called Jo March, whose nature was based largely on the author herself.
Jo was everything I admired in a person.
She was courageous, bold, confident, adventurous and brave.
She dared to dream and despite the many challenges she faced in the pursuit of her dream, she always found the grit and determination to carry on.
Filled with enthusiasm and dreams of my own, I started to write my first book when I was ten.
I was home from school ill and my mum gave me a blue airmail pad of paper and a pen.
I filled the pages with words, every one of them rubbish.
Four years later my mum gave me a book called ‘Forever Amber’ by Kathleen Winsor.
There followed my fixation with Historical Novels and another attempt at writing a book.
Again, it went in the bin, but my dreams didn’t follow the manuscript.
They hung on like the claw of a hungry lion until eventually in February last year, I found the ‘Jo March’ inside me.
It takes grit and determination to write a book and buckets of courage to publish it but if you have a dream, don’t lock it in a cupboard.
Be bold, be brave, stick with it, work through the challenges and trials, and find that single minded determination and grit to live your dream.
For anyone that has not read the book, one of the characters was a young girl called Jo March, whose nature was based largely on the author herself.
Jo was everything I admired in a person.
She was courageous, bold, confident, adventurous and brave.
She dared to dream and despite the many challenges she faced in the pursuit of her dream, she always found the grit and determination to carry on.
Filled with enthusiasm and dreams of my own, I started to write my first book when I was ten.
I was home from school ill and my mum gave me a blue airmail pad of paper and a pen.
I filled the pages with words, every one of them rubbish.
Four years later my mum gave me a book called ‘Forever Amber’ by Kathleen Winsor.
There followed my fixation with Historical Novels and another attempt at writing a book.
Again, it went in the bin, but my dreams didn’t follow the manuscript.
They hung on like the claw of a hungry lion until eventually in February last year, I found the ‘Jo March’ inside me.
It takes grit and determination to write a book and buckets of courage to publish it but if you have a dream, don’t lock it in a cupboard.
Be bold, be brave, stick with it, work through the challenges and trials, and find that single minded determination and grit to live your dream.
It was dick Whittington made me do it
What happens when you grow up?
Honestly, I had no idea.
Mummy had told me I was big girl.
My world no longer made sense.
The Fairies were gone and Santa with them.
I looked at my dolls and understood for first time that they were toys.
But who could I talk to now?
There was no time for self pity.
Single minded and determined I focused my mind on finding a way forward.
Scanning my room, my eyes came to rest on my bookcase, filled to over flowing with neatly stacked books.
None of which I could read yet but all of which I knew the story to.
A thin ladybird book caught my eye; it was the story of Dick Whittington and his cat.
I ran my finger over the spine of the book, knowing I had found the answer to my dilemma.
It was, after all, what Dick Whittington had done!
The sock was filled with pennies, my school bag packed with clean socks, books and plums.
I wandered into the dining room and said goodbye to my Mummy.
Pride prevented me from crying but inside my heart broke.
I would miss my home and my bedroom and the books I had decided were too large or heavy to carry.
Mum looked up from the page on which she was writing and smiled.
“Bye Darling.” she said when I told her I was going to London to seek my fortune.
I walked up the garden, past my tree and towards the large gates at the top of the driveway.
Being grown up felt very lonely and I was quite sure I didn’t like it very much. But as I pulled hard on the iron gate, and it swung open, I concluded that there wasn’t much to be done about it.
Turning my head first right and then left, I stared up and down Springside Road wondering exactly which way London was.
No immediate clues presented.
Using what little common sense a seven year old has, I decided to head in the direction of Hillcrest, our local village.
So turning left out of our driveway, I started to walk.
The day was hot and bright and the sun burned down on me like a furnace.
It was not long before I needed a glass of water and started to wish desperately that I could turn back and go home.
I heard a car coming up behind me and then the screeching of its tyres as it broke hard.
Someone had noticed I was missing and, realising my goodbye had not been a game, had come looking for me.
The rest of that day was spent consigned to my bedroom in disgrace and I was told that growing up didn’t mean you had to leave home and live in a flat in London.
Well that was one prediction that turned out to be wrong.
Honestly, I had no idea.
Mummy had told me I was big girl.
My world no longer made sense.
The Fairies were gone and Santa with them.
I looked at my dolls and understood for first time that they were toys.
But who could I talk to now?
There was no time for self pity.
Single minded and determined I focused my mind on finding a way forward.
Scanning my room, my eyes came to rest on my bookcase, filled to over flowing with neatly stacked books.
None of which I could read yet but all of which I knew the story to.
A thin ladybird book caught my eye; it was the story of Dick Whittington and his cat.
I ran my finger over the spine of the book, knowing I had found the answer to my dilemma.
It was, after all, what Dick Whittington had done!
The sock was filled with pennies, my school bag packed with clean socks, books and plums.
I wandered into the dining room and said goodbye to my Mummy.
Pride prevented me from crying but inside my heart broke.
I would miss my home and my bedroom and the books I had decided were too large or heavy to carry.
Mum looked up from the page on which she was writing and smiled.
“Bye Darling.” she said when I told her I was going to London to seek my fortune.
I walked up the garden, past my tree and towards the large gates at the top of the driveway.
Being grown up felt very lonely and I was quite sure I didn’t like it very much. But as I pulled hard on the iron gate, and it swung open, I concluded that there wasn’t much to be done about it.
Turning my head first right and then left, I stared up and down Springside Road wondering exactly which way London was.
No immediate clues presented.
Using what little common sense a seven year old has, I decided to head in the direction of Hillcrest, our local village.
So turning left out of our driveway, I started to walk.
The day was hot and bright and the sun burned down on me like a furnace.
It was not long before I needed a glass of water and started to wish desperately that I could turn back and go home.
I heard a car coming up behind me and then the screeching of its tyres as it broke hard.
Someone had noticed I was missing and, realising my goodbye had not been a game, had come looking for me.
The rest of that day was spent consigned to my bedroom in disgrace and I was told that growing up didn’t mean you had to leave home and live in a flat in London.
Well that was one prediction that turned out to be wrong.
Where did all the fairies go?
For seven years, Father Christmas took time out of his busy schedule on Christmas Eve to make an appearance at my Birthday parties.
We were mates, best friends, allies, with everything in common.
The world and his uncle told me I was wrong. That Santa was not real, that the Fairies were silly, that I was misguided and foolish. It made no difference.
The Fairies were my friends, my dolls were real, Santa was the big boss and all was well with my world.
How could they not see it?
Until my seventh Christmas Eve when I sat on Santa’s knee and noticed the big black beard underneath the white one.
Oh dear! What a moment that was. Santa had betrayed me. He had sent a helper this year.
Why would he do that?
My mind swam with a million questions.
Filled with fear and self doubt I frantically tried to think how I could have upset him, what I had done to make him turn away from me.
Every conversation with the Fairies ran through my mind as guilt at what I should have done and had not done tore at my heart.
Only a few weeks earlier I had made little beds for the Fairies and left them in the tree, perhaps, I thought the bed’s were not good enough.
I should have done more.
Taking the gift silently from the ‘imposter’, I mouthed a thank you and fled from the room where all my friends were still lining up to receive their gift from ‘Santa’. I wanted to cry out to them, to warn them that this was not the real Santa but I had a more urgent task to tend to.
My heart pounded as I raced across the sun scorched grass towards my tree.
Up into the sturdy branches I climbed, higher and higher until I came to the fork in the branches where I liked to sit.
Urgently I whispered the names of the Fairies.
I couldn’t move, dared not breathe, as I waited and waited and waited.
They never came.
A few weeks later the question had to be asked.
“Mummy is Father Christmas real.”
Of course, I was only asking because I was quite sure my mummy was going to fix it all.
She would explain why Santa had not been able to come himself to my party.
She would give me an explanation as to why the Fairies weren’t talking to me anymore.
She was sitting at her dressing table, doing her hair.
I could see her face in the reflection of the mirror.
I stood behind her, watching, waiting for my world to make sense again.
“You are a big girl now. You know Father Christmas is not real.”
We were mates, best friends, allies, with everything in common.
The world and his uncle told me I was wrong. That Santa was not real, that the Fairies were silly, that I was misguided and foolish. It made no difference.
The Fairies were my friends, my dolls were real, Santa was the big boss and all was well with my world.
How could they not see it?
Until my seventh Christmas Eve when I sat on Santa’s knee and noticed the big black beard underneath the white one.
Oh dear! What a moment that was. Santa had betrayed me. He had sent a helper this year.
Why would he do that?
My mind swam with a million questions.
Filled with fear and self doubt I frantically tried to think how I could have upset him, what I had done to make him turn away from me.
Every conversation with the Fairies ran through my mind as guilt at what I should have done and had not done tore at my heart.
Only a few weeks earlier I had made little beds for the Fairies and left them in the tree, perhaps, I thought the bed’s were not good enough.
I should have done more.
Taking the gift silently from the ‘imposter’, I mouthed a thank you and fled from the room where all my friends were still lining up to receive their gift from ‘Santa’. I wanted to cry out to them, to warn them that this was not the real Santa but I had a more urgent task to tend to.
My heart pounded as I raced across the sun scorched grass towards my tree.
Up into the sturdy branches I climbed, higher and higher until I came to the fork in the branches where I liked to sit.
Urgently I whispered the names of the Fairies.
I couldn’t move, dared not breathe, as I waited and waited and waited.
They never came.
A few weeks later the question had to be asked.
“Mummy is Father Christmas real.”
Of course, I was only asking because I was quite sure my mummy was going to fix it all.
She would explain why Santa had not been able to come himself to my party.
She would give me an explanation as to why the Fairies weren’t talking to me anymore.
She was sitting at her dressing table, doing her hair.
I could see her face in the reflection of the mirror.
I stood behind her, watching, waiting for my world to make sense again.
“You are a big girl now. You know Father Christmas is not real.”
The Magic Faraway Tree
This is where fantasy writers are made. Little minds that live in worlds of fantasy, where other people’s tales are never enough.
This is a true story of my imagination and how the story of ‘When Fate Dictates’ was born.
A fold in the material allowed a thin strip of moonlight into the room.
Shadows projected their image, teasingly onto the bedroom walls.
The air saturated the covers of the bed and the clicking of the Christmas beetles echoed in my ears.
My eyes stared at the tiny gap where my curtains met.
My mind travelled through the window and towards the sound that echoed from outside.
I could feel the sharp blades of grass on my bare feet as I wandered across the wide expanse of our garden and up the bank behind the swimming pool, drawing ever closer to the tree.
My friends, the fairies, lived in there.
They worked most of the time for Father Christmas but around Easter they helped the Easter Bunny out and of course, when needed, they were always available for the Tooth fairy.
The tree was very special. It produced a sticky magic sap; but only the fairies knew how to use it which was why they chose to live in the magic tree in my garden.
Mummy read me a story about a ‘Magic Faraway Tree’ but even that tree was not as important as the one in my garden because my tree was the one that made the magic for the magic world.
There were magic worlds at the top of my tree too. The Fairies had taken me to them and they were much more exciting and dangerous than those Joe, Beth and Frannie’s tree took them to.
Besides which I was best mates with the Fairies and they were the most important part of the magic world.
They made sure that Father Christmas came to my birthday parties every year.
How special was that?
Santa took the time on Christmas Eve to stop at my house in South Africa and give all my friends a present.
I was quite sure Joe, Beth and Frannie’s tree was nowhere near as important as mine but that didn’t mean I wanted Mummy to stop reading me the stories.
I couldn’t wait to get back into the branches of my tree and tell the Fairies all about the new world Joe, Beth and Frannie had been to.
I could hear Mummy across the hall from my room.
She would be in bed soon.
Perhaps I could go now and climb my tree.
The Fairies would be awake; they could take me to the top of my tree and up into the clouds.
We could have an adventure all of our own tonight.
A warm breeze drifted through the open widow and the gap between the curtains widened.
The light shone brighter and I caught a glimpse of my dressing gown, hanging on the back of my bedroom door.
Quietly I slid out of bed, pushed my arms through the sleeves of the dressing gown and stood by my door, listening for the catch on Mummy’s bedroom door to click...
This is a true story of my imagination and how the story of ‘When Fate Dictates’ was born.
A fold in the material allowed a thin strip of moonlight into the room.
Shadows projected their image, teasingly onto the bedroom walls.
The air saturated the covers of the bed and the clicking of the Christmas beetles echoed in my ears.
My eyes stared at the tiny gap where my curtains met.
My mind travelled through the window and towards the sound that echoed from outside.
I could feel the sharp blades of grass on my bare feet as I wandered across the wide expanse of our garden and up the bank behind the swimming pool, drawing ever closer to the tree.
My friends, the fairies, lived in there.
They worked most of the time for Father Christmas but around Easter they helped the Easter Bunny out and of course, when needed, they were always available for the Tooth fairy.
The tree was very special. It produced a sticky magic sap; but only the fairies knew how to use it which was why they chose to live in the magic tree in my garden.
Mummy read me a story about a ‘Magic Faraway Tree’ but even that tree was not as important as the one in my garden because my tree was the one that made the magic for the magic world.
There were magic worlds at the top of my tree too. The Fairies had taken me to them and they were much more exciting and dangerous than those Joe, Beth and Frannie’s tree took them to.
Besides which I was best mates with the Fairies and they were the most important part of the magic world.
They made sure that Father Christmas came to my birthday parties every year.
How special was that?
Santa took the time on Christmas Eve to stop at my house in South Africa and give all my friends a present.
I was quite sure Joe, Beth and Frannie’s tree was nowhere near as important as mine but that didn’t mean I wanted Mummy to stop reading me the stories.
I couldn’t wait to get back into the branches of my tree and tell the Fairies all about the new world Joe, Beth and Frannie had been to.
I could hear Mummy across the hall from my room.
She would be in bed soon.
Perhaps I could go now and climb my tree.
The Fairies would be awake; they could take me to the top of my tree and up into the clouds.
We could have an adventure all of our own tonight.
A warm breeze drifted through the open widow and the gap between the curtains widened.
The light shone brighter and I caught a glimpse of my dressing gown, hanging on the back of my bedroom door.
Quietly I slid out of bed, pushed my arms through the sleeves of the dressing gown and stood by my door, listening for the catch on Mummy’s bedroom door to click...
August 10, 2011
That Jammy Dodger!
There's a riot in my biscuit tin, some nutter called rocky just hit penguin with a club, tied him to a wagon wheel with a blue ribbon, police said he was last seen catching a taxi to the dam where he drank bourbon and had it off with a ginger nut. Not a crumb of evidence has been found so the jammy dodger got away.
