R.J. Samuel's Blog, page 2

Provincetown Women’s Week 2013 – Part 4

Thursday dawned and I accepted the fact that I was reading in Provincetown, to readers and other authors. I was happy with the section of the Falling Colours I’d chosen, though vaguely worried about what to read on the second panel on Friday. On my way, I dropped in to the Breakfast readings at the Napi Restaurant where Lynn Ames, Laurie Selzer, Rachel Spangler, Melissa Brayden, and Marianne K. Martin were reading. I was disappointed at not getting to hear Lynn Ames or Laurie Selzer as they were on last and I had to rush to the Sage for my own reading, but suffice it to say I felt even more nervous and inadequate after hearing the others read.

I finally got to meet Liz Bradbury as she and her partner, Trish, had arrived late the night before. She is an indie like me, but her energy is that of a whole publishing company. Trish had handed out all their 250 business cards by some time that day and Liz was offering free books at our Womenscraft signing to those who collected little orange tickets at her reading.

Perched on the high stools with Kate McLachlan and Andrea Bramhall, and being inspected by timekeeper Nikki Busch.

What was supposed to be a five-minute reading on the Thursday morning panel with four other authors became a 7-minute reading and a chat afterwards, as one author didn’t turn up and another had moved panels. Mercedes remained calm as she marshalled Kate McLachlan, Andrea Bramhall, and me, and Nikki Busch went easy on us in the timing. Lucy and Fran had kindly agreed to use my phone to video the reading.

Reading on the Thursday, Lucy taping it on my phone

I enjoyed the experience of relaxing and just reading my words aloud to what seemed like a group of interested friends. While planning the trip, I’d printed out 10 booklets of a short story and had promised them to the first five women who came up to say hi to me after each reading. On the spur of the moment, looking out at the audience, especially at the friendly face of Tonie, Kate’s partner, I wanted some way to thank them for listening, for being supportive. I asked for a hug instead and the wonderful hugs I got were another highlight of my trip. And a surprise for me and for anyone who knows how shy and introverted I can be.

Hugs for Booklets

After my reading, I got to meet readers who were interested in getting signed copies of my book as well as those who had exchanged a hug for a booklet (which, in my opinion, had me coming out better in the deal).

There was another panel on straight after our panel reading on Thursday, but I was trying to stick to the activities I had promised myself I would attend. Of the three nights I’d been there, I still hadn’t gone to see Suzanne Westehoeffer, and I really wanted to take part in the Touch Football Classic hosted by Kate Clinton and featuring a lot of the women who were performing during Women’s Week.

The Kate Clinton Touch Football Classic featuring Kate Clinton, Vickie Shaw, Mimi Gonzalez, Jessica Kirson, Karen Williams, Jenny McNulty, Poppy Champlin

A team sport. The sun shining. A group of women who were playing for fun. Thanks to Mercedes for the offer of the facilities, I changed hastily into some vaguely sporty clothes, and raced across with Lucy and Fran to the grassy area where a sizeable crowd had already gathered.

The game had started and the performers were in full flow. I have to admit I chickened out here. At different stages, women were being called on to the field to participate, and I could have joined in, but I stopped myself each time the call went out.

Touch Football madness with the performers

Despite feeling a little let down at myself, I did have an excellent afternoon as, again, I witnessed the energy put into Women’s Week by the lesbian comediennes, Kate Clinton, Mimi Gonzalez, Jessica Kirson, Jenny McNulty, Karen Williams, Vicky Shaw, and the poor praying mantis, Poppy Champlin. I’d love to take part in a soccer game there, one in which the authors take on the comics.

I was starting on my more usual self-berating for my lack of courage as we wandered back to Commercial Street. Mercedes joined us, and we enjoyed the pizza giveaway in Twisted Sister, also hosted by Kate Clinton. I had my leaflets still in my rucksack and we stopped to watch and admire the interaction that Mimi Gonzalez was having with the people walking down the street. She was vibrant and funny and very persuasive. I wondered whether the people there knew there was a whole other subculture of lesbian fiction on the other side of town. The publishing companies had done a lot to promote their events, but many of the women I met did not know that this other world even existed. I got chatting to Mimi and she laughed with me at my timidity. Then she did something that changed me. She stuck my leaflet in her back pocket and proceeded to show me how it was done. I don’t know why seeing my face poking out of her jeans pocket as she proclaimed to everyone who could hear that I was an author who was reading the next day could have such an effect, but it did. As did the unselfish and supportive nature of her action. She epitomised what I had been thinking. We are not in competition and it can only help us all to bring attention to the different types of artists that are there, all baring their souls, just in different ways.

Lucy, Fran, and I went to Mimi’s show. She showed her generous nature again by giving the chance to a new comic to perform for the first ten minutes. I had the nagging feeling that I would be mentioned in Mimi’s act, and that made me nervous all over again. It was one thing to be brought to the attention of passers-by on the street, a whole other thing to be mentioned at a live show. I was hoping that if Mimi said anything about me, it would just be a polite reminder that there was a reading of fiction by an Irish-Indian author the next day. Now that was just stupid of me. You can’t just hand ammunition to a comic, especially one that is so quick off the mark, and expect to get away with a polite reminder.

Mimi spent the first half of her show that afternoon walking around the stage with my face still on her backside. I’m sure the audience were wondering what that was about and I grew more nervous by the minute. Finally, about half-way in, she took the leaflet out of her back pocket and looked at it. She then launched into a funny rendition of my ‘leafleting’ technique or lack of it. The only sticky point came when she used an Indian accent and the audience gasped and looked at me to see whether I minded. I couldn’t mind, after all, Mimi took off other accents and she was raising my author profile in a way I could never imagine. I was curious as to why the audience and I reacted the way we did, but I think now, with apologies to my Indian compatriots, that it is because the Indian accent can never be made sexy. No matter who speaks it. When she asked me to speak in an Irish accent, I found I couldn’t say a single word in an accent. Mine turned out to be a blend of nothing. Mimi finally got an Irish accent out of Fran and thankfully the show moved on. Not before, however, Mimi had read through the names of the other authors reading, had encouraged her audience to go to the reading, and had promised to be there herself.

I came out of the show in shock. And wandered in a daze after Fran and Lucy and Mercedes who wanted to attend the Bold Strokes Meet and Greet. I was uncomfortable about gatecrashing the party and tried to blend into the background, ending up on a couch chatting to readers about which author’s book to buy as a gift for Clio’s sitter. A very nice reader beside me turned out to be the partner of Kathy Knowles, a fellow VLR member and author, and we got to meet and compare notes. I can only blame my state of shell shock for forgetting that I was actually supposed to be at the Womenscraft Wine and Cheese party that was going on a few feet down the street. The less said about that the better, except a huge thank you to Kathryn and Womenscraft for their support of authors and I hope I made up for it the next day at the book signing.

I was now determined to see as many comics as possible. I still hadn’t got to Suzanne Westenhoeffer and the timing of her show was clashing with the other events I had planned to attend. I wanted to go to the Women’s Week Idol. Mercedes decided to perform in Idol and Jessica Kirson’s show was on just before it, so I went in, this time with Gladys and Anne. Jessica was incredibly funny, and I have to say that I haven’t laughed as hard in a long time as I did for the five minutes when she described her one-night stand from hell. We got out of the show to find that Idol was sold out. I ran around looking for spare tickets. Luckily, one was available and I got to attend the Idol show, an event that was the funniest, most entertaining of the whole week.

Women’s Week Idol madness – Kate Clinton, Mimi Gonzalez, Karen Williams, Vickie Shaw, Jessica Kirson, Jenny McNulty, and Suede

The judging panel consisted of comics, Jenny McNulty, Mimi Gonzalez, Vicki Shaw, Jessica Kirson, and the singer, Suede. The event was emceed by Karen Williams. I would go back to PTown again just to watch this show, but I wish they would do a tour with it. Mercedes came a close second in the actual Idol competition (which somehow managed to be held despite the antics of the judges, they’d only had two acts after an hour) and I felt like a rock star’s groupie when we went in to the after party.

Next, morning and the dreaded Friday reading

Provincetown Women’s Week 2013 – Part 3

By the time late Wednesday arrived, starting off the lesbian fiction part of the week for me, I must admit to being a bit distracted. (A tactic that was obviously working to allay my fears about my upcoming readings.)

I spent Wednesday morning walking with Gladys and Anne and met a few Facebook friends and authors on the street. I got a hug from Laurie Selzer (she gives great hugs) who I had really wanted to meet as she seemed so wonderful with animals, but I kept missing her throughout the week. I can see why animals (and people) are drawn to her even in the few minutes I spent in her company.

Gladys and Anne accompanied me to a Bold Strokes panel where we were treated to the humour of Carsen Taite who was moderating the panel of authors which included Andrea Bramhall (a UK author who I was reading with the next day on the GCLS panel), I. Beacham (another UK author), and D. Jackson Leigh. I got to understand the attraction of an unfamiliar accent. Until then, I’d been a bit sceptical when I was told to just talk in an Irish accent and stop worrying about my readings. When I heard D. Jackson Leigh reading in a Southern accent, which was an unusual one for me, I found myself noticing and reacting to the sound of words flowing in honey, transporting me into her setting and meeting her characters.

I rushed over after that panel for the Wiffle Ball game organised by Rachel Spangler. I was nervous as I’d signed up on Facebook because I love any team sport, but had no clue of the structure of the game of baseball and I was going to meet Rachel Spangler and Lynn Ames at the game, authors who seemed to be confident and outgoing (and therefore, slightly intimidating) people from the little interaction I’d had with them on Facebook.

The Wiffle Ball Gang

I spent the first half of the game hanging out in outfield (that’s a term, right..?) and didn’t touch the ball once. When I got up to bat, I was encouraged by the patience of the others and I actually played well. Apart from almost taking the windscreen out of a passing car. I love the expression on Rachel’s son, Jackson, as he watches the ball hurtle towards the poor innocent car (the kid is already a great baseball player, he’s one to watch).

Jackson’s reaction to my batting

The two authors I’d been nervous about meeting turned out to be damn good at Wiffle ball, but what stuck with me was how grounded they were, how warm and friendly, and how generous with their knowledge and praise, both to Jackson and to the newbie.

I rushed from the Wiffle Ball game to the Sage Inn for the GCLS Meet and Greet. Seeing the room where I would be reading the next day, wandering between the other authors, who seemed so together and calm, I found myself feeling the nerves again. I met Mercedes Lewis who was coordinating the GCLS events. I didn’t find out until later that she had been rushed in at the last-minute and was trying to find her feet as well. She answered my newbie reading questions in between trying to host the Meet and Greet. I was so grateful to meet Kate McLachlan and her partner, also an author, Tonie Chacon McLachlan (who are from an area in Washington State, which by chance is one of the settings for my WIP). They were sweet and reassured me that my accent would be enough to entertain the audience the next day. Kate and I were to read on the same panel the next day along with Andrea Bramhall. I was reading on two panels, one on Thursday that was sponsored by Pam Sloss and the other on Friday, sponsored by Lesfic_Unbound.

Another run to the next venue, a Singles night where I’d promised to meet some of the women. That was a strange experience, but as I was late arriving, I just enjoyed the fact that there were other single women around who had also plucked up the courage to walk in there.

Wednesday night was a quieter night as I rested up for the next morning’s reading, but I think the guy outside the door at the Pied Bar must have been wondering what I was up to, or what I was on, that I was in there three nights in a row, so far. Somehow, it sounds awfully tame to say I was just on a high of the experience of Women’s Week. And I didn’t think he wanted to hear one of the real reasons I was determined to be busy and happy and live in every minute on the 16th October, the anniversary of the day I flew to New York four years before, to watch my mum’s life end when the machine was switched off. That week in October has been a tough time every year since, as her birthday was on 10th October, my 16-year-old dog, Jesse, died that week the year after, and a few days later, my 15-year-old cat, Sukie, died on the morning I was leaving to go to New York for my mum’s first anniversary. My mum would not have approved in the slightest of my activities in PTown, but I needed to find a different way to mark the week and I hope she will excuse the method I used this year as it proved to be one of the best weeks I’ve experienced.

Next, Thursday and my author debut in PTown and being in a comic show

Provincetown Women’s Week 2013 – Part 2

I started this blog post on PTown with a description of how I ended up there and what happened to me while I was there. Halfway through I realised that’s not really what I want to write about. That’s not as important as the women I met while I was there. They are what made PTown special for me. If I’d gone there with a group, I probably wouldn’t have met so many wonderful people. If I’d gone there as socially anxious and closed off as I’ve been over the last few months, I’d never have opened up and gotten the opportunity to discover women again. Warm, friendly, genuine women who took me under their wings and in doing so, taught me to fly again.

I’ve been hiding out for months, physically as well as emotionally. I’ve taken the actions of a few people and distilled it into a distrust of humans and the outside world. Animals, especially my Clio, were pure unconditional love, safe. I read in a beautiful book on dog training that for those people who hide away from others out of fear of being hurt and who can unconditionally love dogs, they need to remember that if dogs can feel love for humans, then humans must be worth loving.

Ever since I opened up in a blog post and received kindness, I’ve been determined to be grateful for all the positives that are in my life. Which have multiplied since then. So this blog post about my trip to PTown is all about gratitude (apart from the bus and ferry-induced motion sickness which I have discovered I suffer from. I cannot find anything to be grateful for in that).

I’m so glad I decided to ignore the effects of the 17-hour journey on my first night in PTown and head into town after checking in at the hotel. I met six women that night who became friends.

That first night I met Michelle and Nancy, two women who have been friends for a long time, Lauren and Tina, a couple from Texas. They stayed all week so I got a chance to hang out with them and get up to mischief. Though with Tina’s parents also with them (and at the bar and at shows during the week), we were all pretty well behaved. Apart from one night, which involved extreme whistling and the 2 a.m. throwing of plastic ducks onto high window ledges in Essentials, a little store with a difference.

Unfortunately, the other couple, Jen and Lea, were leaving the next day (Tuesday), but we ended up talking and playing pool for the rest of Monday night and I spent part of Tuesday standing on a deck looking out at the ocean, eating and talking and laughing for hours with two kindred spirits who are as crazy about animals as I am. And because of them, I may return to being vegetarian. Not because they preached anything about being vegan, but because I watched them live their beliefs and it felt right, unlike that vaguely hypocritical feeling I’ve experienced being an animal-lover and eating them. (As I typed that last sentence, my Polish housemate handed me a bowl of soup with sausage in it.)

My novels on display in Womenscraft

I went to Womenscraft with Jen and Lea and had the thrill of seeing my books on display beside the books of much more established authors. I picked up the leaflets I’d prepared and shipped ahead, hoping I would have the guts to hand them out on the street.

The leaflets I was supposed to be distributing

That evening, I got in to a cab on its way to the Community Dinner. There were two other women already in it and I heard a familiar accent and called on my newly found social skills to pipe up and ask them where they were from. Lucy turned out to be from Northern Ireland and Fran from England. I didn’t get to spend much time with them that evening, but met up again for the week as they joined the motley crew we were becoming. I can blame Fran and Lucy for leading me astray and into the wrong Meet and Greet on Thursday, thus missing the scheduled one at Womenscraft. (That’s my excuse anyway, plus I had just been through an introvert’s nightmare and an author’s marketing dream, more about that later).

At the Community Dinner (where I got my first introduction to the performers that attend Women’s week), I was seated beside a lovely couple from Delaware, Gladys and Anne, who, on hearing I was moving to a little hotel/inn very near the centre of town the next day and I was there all alone, offered me the spare room in their condo. Not wanting my gallivanting to disturb them, I stayed at the hotel/inn place, but met up with them as well for the rest of the week. Later in the week, Gladys and Anne were kind enough to ask at the Provincetown Women’s Week Ticket Office whether it was not a crime that I was single and were there any suitable available singles. I’m looking forward to being in my 70s just so I can do the same for someone else.

Fran, Tina, Lucy, Lauren, Michelle, Nancy

By now, I had made 10 friends and it was only Tuesday. I was a bit shell-shocked at the connection I felt to all of them. And I hadn’t even met all the FB friends and authors yet. True to my promise to myself, I went out Tuesday night after the Community Dinner and ended up meeting some lovely local women and wandering with them from venue to venue as PTown hadn’t started to come alive yet and most places were quiet.

On Wednesday, I got my first glimpse of the performers ‘leafleting’ on the street outside the Crown and Anchor and the Post Office Cabaret. Their high-energy interaction with passers-by was fascinating to watch. There are regular comedy shows every day at a set hour for each performer, and with so many events going on for Women’s Week, the comediennes spend the hour or so before their show persuading people on the street to go to their show, or to the show of a fellow performer. I envied the confidence, the chutzpah, these performers had. Something I wanted to have, for a moment, to be someone other than the shy reserved author who works alone to bare her soul for the entertainment of others. I could never do what they did, I thought. To put themselves out there, to ask strangers for their attention. And most of them disguised it well, the vulnerability under the laughs. Only one couldn’t hide it from her eyes and it occurred to me that she wasn’t any different from me in not wanting to have to beg strangers to connect, she was just a hell of a lot braver than I could ever be. My leaflets still lay hidden in my rucksack.

By the Wednesday morning, I had been introduced to parts of three other subcultures of PTown, the women from all over who came to absorb PTown, the performers who gave so much energy to make the week special, and the locals who watched the shenanigans every year.

Next, Wednesday and the author part starts

Provincetown Women’s Week 2013 – Part I

I am terrified of flying. In all senses of the word. Of letting go, of being vulnerable, of crashing to the ground in a burning ball of flames. So when I had to go to the US this year, and I saw the GCLS (Golden Crown Literary Society) message that authors could sign up to read on panels in Provincetown for Women’s Week, I was petrified when I clicked on the sign-up button and registered on a panel. A simple click of the mouse, but one that held so much fear. And changed so much for me.

Golden Crown Literary Society

There are so many considerations when deciding to go on a trip like this. The cost, security, social aspects, business aspects. Finding someone I trust to take care of Clio, worrying about her, missing her. The trip was my first holiday since 2006, and I tried to placate my cautious side with assurances that it was a business trip; after all, I was going to read on panels with established authors, and interact with readers and authors. I promised myself that my only indulgence would be to see a show by Suzanne Westenhoeffer, a lesbian comedienne I’d listened to about 20 years previously, who I am sure has saved some people on the streets of Galway as I was too busy laughing at her stories to experience road rage.

I tried to find ways to reduce the cost, but I hadn’t planned far enough ahead and ended up cancelling the various hotel rooms I’d booked with the intention of finding others to share them with. I was reconsidering the trip when I got a message from another independent author, Liz Bradbury, who was reading on the same Friday panel and who gave me the benefit of her years of experience and the assurance that it would be worth it, and that she would be there to hang out with if I needed company. Liz got me on to Kathryn in Womenscraft who agreed to store the books and leaflets I needed to send ahead, would welcome us for a book signing session, and invited us to a wine and cheese party for authors and readers.

After weeks of researching planes, buses, trains, ferries, and cars, I chose the option of a bus from Galway to Dublin, a flight from Dublin to Boston, and the last sailing of the fast ferry from Boston to PTown. Seventeen hours after I left Galway on a 5 a.m. bus, on a journey that involved a lot of waiting and the discovery that buses and ferries make me extremely nauseated, I arrived in the dark and rain in Provincetown. I checked into the hotel outside of town that I’d booked for the first few days.

The fast ferry to PTown (just before the nausea hit)

I’d been travelling for what seemed like days, but I had promised myself before I went that I would not sit in my hotel room, that I would partake of everything that PTown had to offer, for every hour that I was there. So I got a cab and headed into town to the Women’s Week Kick-Off Party. The streets were deserted. The town looked like an off-season mountain resort. I was trying to hide my nervousness as I questioned the cab driver, was the whole week like this, had the recession done that much damage? I found out later that this was the Monday after Columbus Day and PTown didn’t really get going again until the Wednesday or Thursday, but that night I decided to make the best of it and went in to the Pied Bar. The Kick-Off Party was over, and the bar reminded me of a quiet night in Galway.

Of course, I didn’t realise that you have to tip bar staff and all I can say is Jill at the Pied Bar was very sweet and didn’t bat an eyelid when I thought I was being very helpful and placed the exact change on the counter. I may have over-compensated later when I discovered that you have to tip bar staff, restaurant staff, cab drivers. I think I may even have tried to tip someone who turned out to be Suzanne Westenhoeffer, but that’s another story.

Next, making friends

Committed Muses and Heartfelt Gratitude

After receiving a bit of a hammering from life, my muse has been committed to The Home for the Temporarily Bewildered and Perpetually Confused. She smuggles occasional words out, written on tiny scrolls and hidden in the middle of cupcakes, but I get distracted eating the cupcakes…

Well that’s my excuse anyway for only being 30,000 words into my novel which I’d planned to publish this month.

I’m not all that upset about not writing at the moment. My life took another one of its many turns after my last blog post; that vulnerable (unusually for me), painful, honest bunching together of words that had me terrified to press the Publish button. Part of the resulting change was due to the actual writing of the post, but the major part was down to the responses I received in the comments and in emails. I want to thank those people who took the care and time to reach out. The words you sent were very helpful and the action you took meant even more.

What I was especially glad about was that there was no negativity and not one person advised me to look with gratitude at all the good things I did have in my life. Which made me do that on my own volition. The day after all the responses was a beautiful day in Ireland. I sat in the sun and thought about a lot of things. And the things that flooded into my mind were all positive. All the tiny and huge blessings in my life, from the smile I felt in my heart listening to the sun-baked dog snoring beside me to the astonishingly long list of positives in my life. I had meant to write out the pain in whatever words I could find, as an exercise in releasing it, and I ended up writing out all those good things. And I asked for what I felt was missing.

My life has changed since then. In a multitude of good ways. Most of the things I asked for have come into my life, definitely not in the context I meant, but in ways that are good enough. In fact, they are more than ‘good enough’, they are stunningly brilliant ( I’m not normally an effusive person when it comes to praise so I’m trying to be better at that). And I’m taking the time to address the negative as it happens and to look for the positives and be grateful. It is working, in that the things that are happening are mostly positive, but also in the sense that I’m different in what and how I see.

About a week after I wrote that blog post. I watched a talk on TEDTalks about how we have all changed someone’s life, usually without even realizing it. I wanted to share that video with all the people who responded with helpful advice, a hug, an email, and to let them know that they are now heroes in my life and join the many people who have contributed in positive ways to help me get to where I am now i.e. blessed.

There are ‘small’ things that people do that affect others in ways they cannot even imagine. I read that it is a myth that when you land in quicksand, you sink to the bottom and die. Instead, you are stuck and are more likely to starve or die of dehydration or be drowned in a high tide. That the best way to survive is to try to float and if you have a strong stick you should get it under your back to support you and gradually start to move your feet and work your way out. At that bad time when my mind felt fractured and I was unable to do more than just float in quicksand, an almost stranger reached out and held a stick under my back. She did that by emailing every day, checking on me, supporting me, encouraging me to write if I could or not write if I couldn’t, and sometimes even just posting something for me or standing in the way of anyone who I couldn’t deal with. She didn’t have to do any of that, I was just a newbie author whose books she had reviewed and liked. But she opened a channel to me and flooded it with positive thoughts. She knows who she is (as I still bore her as much as possible with updates on my life ), but I’m not sure she will want a public thank you (being all British and shy and stuff) so instead, have a look at her blog page and know, if you didn’t before, that’s she’s a wonderful person and the kind of friend you want to have watching your back.

I also have to mention a ‘little’ thing that a well-established much-loved author did that affected me deeply. I don’t usually comment much on Facebook, unless it is something to do with Clio, as I’m really quite introverted. However, when this author was featured in a weekend discussion on a Facebook group I just had to comment as she is also an introvert and I admire the way she handles the public part of her life. That she turned out to be a thoroughly nice person and that she was genuine and kind to me, exactly the type of person I had gotten the impression that she would be, was comforting and reaffirmed that sometimes reality matches up with the imagined image. And watching the brilliant video she made cheered me up.

I’m mentioning these things because it is important that people know that even the little things they do can be life-changing for someone. I used to think that I couldn’t accept these acts of kindness without paying them back, but I’ve realised that rather than worry about paying it back when I may not be able, I need to pay it forward when I am.

The question that I asked of readers at the end of the last blog post was whether writers should write novels that explored the darkness while in the depths of darkness themselves. What I realised from the responses was that the question was not the right one, or at least it wasn’t the right one for me at that time. I will explore that issue and find the answer as I write the novel. What I know now is that my writing will always be authentic for who I am at the point in time that I write the words. And what I have discovered in my writing is that I am, and always need to be, someone who will search for the positive, the humour, and the light, even when I am in the depths of darkness. So when my eyes can’t see light, I need to wait until my heart can feel it and then the words with become clearer and the darkness will lose some of its power to blind me. In other words, there will always be good and positive people out there and I need to see that the rainbow of light they shine into my life will replace the colours that one person stole from my palette, until I am able to shine brighter for myself and hopefully for others.

I need answers from outside my own fractured mind

When someone has stolen the bright colours from your palette, do you paint with what is left? Does smearing your greys and blacks onto a canvas help anyone, but you?

Before a few months ago, I could access the hurt, the pain, the fear, and I could pour it into fiction, even the worst of all the bad things that happened- watching my mother’s breath being switched off, hearing the silence after and knowing that space would never be filled again, I could put it into a novel, a story about a woman that wasn’t me, despite the obvious similarities. I could put all the bad that has happened, that has been done to me, that I have done, and make my characters do the same, and watch karma pay it all back by the end of the book.

What could be worse than losing your dearest loved ones? Losing yourself? Your belief in love and goodness and karma, in the idea that everything will be all right in the end. I am not an overly religious person despite, or probably because of, having a priest as a father.  I don’t believe in the organisation of faith. I believed that if we figure out what we really want from life, we can paint that into existence. And I did, and still to a certain extent, believe that there must be more than what is visible. I was sitting in a church a few days ago, a stopgap, a quiet place to wait for an interview that could change my future, and I felt the heaviness of silence and asked the question that weighed heaviest on my mind in that moment. “What decision do I make, what path is the right one?” The one that doesn’t lead me to fall off a cliff. Because my previous decisions have left me stranded at the bottom, broken and unable to take more than a few steps in any direction, unsure whether there are more cliff edges to come and where they are.

The unsettling answer I got back very clearly was that there was no pre-ordained path. That I write my life myself in every moment. That I could choose security or adventure. That nothing is written anywhere that says I will not fall off the cliff again. Nothing is written that says I will not feel that betrayal, that hurt, that absolute depth of pain that comes when you place your foot on what appears to be solid ground and out of nowhere there is nothing but an abyss, into which you fall mostly bewildered, until the ground that was solid and firm beneath you is now actually the hard surface against which you smash and break.

I broke my ankle about ten years ago during a simple soccer training session. Training that I had been doing for years, every week, twice a week. Until that day when I took a step forward to stop the ball with my right foot and my left foot got lost, leaving me with only a round moving object to provide balance. Before that, I belonged to a world where a fracture was a theoretical concept. I was brave, I thought proudly, I would make any tackle, put my head in the way, save a goal from going in against my team, but this wasn’t a heroic goal-saving ‘worthy’ moment, this was an innocent, ‘whistle as you walk’ ordinary moment. When my ankle fractured, when all everyone on the training pitch could hear was the sound of bone breaking, ligaments tearing, muscles ripping, as a foot swung in ways it was never designed to do, in that ordinary moment, something more fractured, more than just a tibia and a fibula. Belief in the physical fractured. The belief that nothing so bad, so painful, so awful, could happen to your body in those ordinary moments of life. Not when you were not prepared. And certainly not when you were careful. Not when there was no use, no purpose for the pain.

Before my ankle fractured, I used to dance freely, with rhythm. I used to be able to pick up any sport and play it pretty well almost immediately, which I’m sure was annoying to others, but it gave me a sense of confidence, in my world, in my body. The broken ankle was patched up and bolstered with a titanium plate which is strong I have no doubt, but now I do have doubt in my bones, my muscles, my ligaments, my body. I dance awkwardly now. With fear. I still have rhythm, an inbuilt memory of the movements, but no grace, no confidence, no laughter in those movements.

When everything, and I mean everything, went wrong a few years ago, it was slow coming. I could see the cliff edge approaching, could prepare my mind and body, could distance myself and watch as loss after loss buffeted me. And after, I could collect the pieces and even on that lonely beach at the bottom of the cliff, I could still marvel at the spark off a rock, the glint of light off the waves, something to brighten my moments and possibly a laugh or a smile to brighten the moments of others. I wrote my novels and included the darkness, but also the light because I still had an open heart, a childlike innocence because I believed that there was a purpose, a light, a love waiting for me. That for someone somewhere I would be enough, more than enough, that we would blend the colours that would make our lives shine truer and deeper, that there would be someone I wouldn’t lose and who would not want to lose me.

But instead something happened a few months ago. My mind was fractured. There are no visible bruises and only I heard the sound of breaking. It was not the heartbreak to which I have grown accustomed at the end of relationships. Not the well-worn track that I know and can adjust my gait, my movements, my expectations. I loved someone who I believed with everything inside me to be my soulmate, who used the dreams I showed her to portray herself as everything I wanted in my life, who made me believe that everything I had wished for could come true. Maybe I was a fool to believe, maybe I was vulnerable clinging on to the wreckage on that beach, fighting against being drawn out into the sea, of drowning. I had built a life raft from the pieces of my life and she offered me a safe haven designed to protect us. When I discovered that it was all fiction, that she did not even exist except in that fiction, something snapped in my mind. A mind walking along in the innocent belief in the ‘ordinary’ truth, that things are what they are, suddenly had no ground beneath it.

And now, my mind cannot dance anymore. It is awkward and shy, without grace, without confidence. It peeps out, makes a half-hearted attempt, and then crawls back inside. There are no visible scars, no crutches, no few months of ‘keep the weight off’. There is no Plaster of Paris cast to be signed. There is only the grind of bone against bone as I hold the ends together to get through the day. Making sure not to let others see the break because in my world, where even before reality was twisted in on itself I would not show vulnerability, a fractured mind leaves me more vulnerable than a fractured ankle. And is less acceptable.

As a writer of fiction, I could escape into stories. I could connect with others without being too vulnerable because, ‘they are fictional characters in pain, not me’. And, until a few months ago, I have always been able to use bright colours to lighten the darkness in some little way and hopefully even bring a smile. When readers connected to share their wonder at the concept of a vision painter, at the pleasure in the thought of being able to paint a life with happiness, I felt the same wonder and pleasure again. That even through pain and darkness, my words could reach others and we could share hope. I was pleased that despite the obvious negatives in the novels, what had connected and lifted spirits and remained even for a brief moment, were the positives.

Now, all I can do is post up pictures on Facebook of Clio, my saving grace, the main reason that I can smile. I can hide my fractured mind behind that smile and we could go on existing like that. I’ve been working on my next novel, though I haven’t written anything for the last few weeks, wary of adding more negative than positive, more shadows, making another dent in innocence, adding falsehoods to a world already brimming in them. I know that my writing is not that important in any grand scheme of things, but it is to me. It is important to me that my words have integrity whether they are in the guise of a medical thriller, a romance, or a fantasy of magical realism. It is important to me that when someone reads my words, they do not feel worse after, do not have to endure the grinning companion of hopelessness that stamps out any flicker before it can become the flame that might burn bright and leave me destroyed, or might light the way.

Existing now without my palette of bright colours is gloomy enough, should I put that out there into the world and darken what can already be a shadowed canvas? Should I stop writing and connecting with others now, when I need it most? Or, should I just put on my big-girl pants and invent a Happy-Ever-After, because dammit, I’m a writer?

I feel the need for answers from outside my own fractured mind. I want to know from authors – do you put your novels on hold at times like these, until the story that pushes to be written can offer something more than what life at that current moment holds for you? From readers – do you wish to be drawn into the darkness in the same way you were captured previously by the story?

Casting Shadows is now available

Casting Shadows – The Further Misadventures of a Vision Painter

Kiran is still the only vision painter in Ireland but she cannot express her gift as she struggles with the consequences of its misuse. When everything she loves is threatened, she must protect her family by uncovering the history and secrets of the vision painters in Kerala. But there are those who will do what it takes to keep the truth locked away in the shadows of the past.

Casting Shadows is a story of love, sacrifice, betrayal and guilt. Of love and hatred that spans time and place. Of history that casts shadows on the future.

Casting Shadows on Amazon.com
Casting Shadows on Amazon.co.uk
Casting Shadows on Smashwords

http://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B00B6UFULM

 

The Princess Clio Diaries: Musings on my life with my human – Day 1

 

 

 

 

 

Clio: Ok so, Day 54 and the..

I put down my pen and she glances at me and stops.

Me: Day 54? What happened to Days 1-53?

She waves a little white paw in the air.

Clio: You’re the writer, you fill them in. It feels like Day 54 to me. Should I continue or are you going to interrupt me at every stage?

Me: You know, a small subset of people think it I am weird to love animals as much as humans? Why do you look puzzled?

Clio: You are weird.

I pick up the pen and make a gesture towards her.

Clio: So, as I was saying, Day 54 and my human accompanied me on a brisk walk down the lovely country lane – Yes, what is it?

Me: Could we at least refer to me as something more complimentary?

Clio: You have a problem with the truth? You’re human, you’re my only subject, ipso facto, you’re ‘my human’.

Me: I didn’t know you knew Latin?

Clio: What did I say about interruptions? We must hurry, if this works on the same principle as my 7 dog years to your 1 human year then I have just 7 minutes of inspiration per day.

Me: You think that’s funny?

Clio: I crack myself up. Now, where were we?

I look back at the notepad.

Me: I should have left you down the bog country lane.

Clio: You wouldn’t!!

Me: We’ll see. Go on.

Clio: My subject…my human, no? What would you like then? Especially since you were so kind as to come up with a pretty decent title for me. Though why on earth you picked such a long one is beyond me. I would have been satisfied with something short and sweet like ‘Her Royal Highness, Princess Clio’.

Me: I wanted to give a sense of your authority.

(Under my breath): And limit its scope.

Clio: Did you say something?

Me: No.

Clio: I like it. ‘Her Royal Highness, Princess Clio of Cloogantoverville’. It will be difficult to emblazon across a jacket but it is fitting. Why tack on the ‘Ville’ at the end of the name?

Me: Don’t know really. Wanted to have an Irish and American feel to it.

Clio: Right. Well, I’d like to shorten it in everyday conversation to ‘HRH Princess Clio the Pretty’.

Me: Ok, HRH, what’s next?

Clio: I was thinking that since these are my musings on you and my life here, I would start by letting you tell readers how pretty I am and maybe a few details about my good nature and gentle character as well as my very regal bearing.

Me: Well, I do write fiction. Should I include the fact that I had to wash poop off your big fluffy backside this morning? You know, I now get why my dad looks at me sadly and shakes his head and says ‘You used to have such potential.’

Clio: My backside is not big!! Besides I like my hair.

Me: You should have a gold medallion to hang around your neck. You could pass as a Greek guy then, with all that chest hair.

Clio: Would you like me to talk about the time Freda wanted to call the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals on you?

Me: I knew you were behind that!

Clio: Well, you have to admit the haircut you gave Hamish was cruel.

Me: You try shaving a wriggling dog with one of those hand power razor things.

Clio: You didn’t think of stopping after the first few jagged swathes of hair were gone off his back?

Me: (muttering) It was an expensive razor thing. Hey, it might still be in the cupboard somewhere.

Clio: You bring that thing near me and you will be eating through a feeding tube too.

I retreat to doodling in the notepad.

Me: are you nervous about your surgery on Friday?

Clio: What, with the specialist flying in from Israel just for me? And a top vet surgeon in Dublin?

Me: Right. So it is just me.

Clio: You worry about everything. I’ve come through seven surgeries on my mouth and I’ve got this feeding tube stuck in my neck, do you see me complaining?

Me: Yup.

Clio: When?

Me: What do you call running from the towel and rubbing your wet self into every cushion in the house?

Clio: A royal protest. Besides you shouldn’t have cream-coloured fabric covers. Pink is much more my colour.

Me: I’m getting a headache. Your seven minutes of daily inspiration are surely over by now?

Clio: You’re getting old.

Me: Hey! Eight in dog years is older than I am now. You think maybe we should retire the ‘Princess’ thing now? Maybe call you Milady Dowager or something?

Long silence.

Me: I’m going to pay for that, aren’t I?

Clio: Human, you have no idea how much…

Is it assault to smack your imaginary muse..?

I had sent my third novel, Casting Shadows, to my beta readers and I was just about to celebrate when she whispered in my ear, “I was just thinking that you could have them do -”

So I smacked her.

Not hard. After all, she was responsible for setting me off on my novel and had helped me through the months of writing.

But now, I’m wondering whether imaginary jail would have pen and paper…

Because I already miss the characters. In some shape or form, good or evil, characters have been whispering words into my mind for what seems like forever. Well, a year and a half. And while I am grateful for the (relative) peace and quiet in my brain at the moment, I miss them. Their problems, fears, hopes, dreams, messes..

So I wrote a short story. And plan to add it to three more short stories to make a little collection. Thankfully, I only managed to write one. I’m realising my brain really does need a break.

But that dratted muse did actually plant the seed of a good idea for a fourth book. Maybe if I ignore it for a while, it will take root unseen and unnoticed and when I’m ready, the little sprouting will push its way back into the front of my mind.

I know it is probably considered kidnapping to bind and gag a muse and put it in a cupboard and I really don’t want to get into any (more) trouble with the mind police so I have restrained myself from doing that to her. But I can see her eyeing me warily as she sulks on the couch. She’s just got to learn that you can only push a writer so far before they write you into an unpleasant situation.

So, tread carefully my imaginary muse, I may not be writing just now but I can still plot…..

Pre-Launch of Casting Shadows: Falling Colours & Heart Stopper – $2.99 for a Limited Time!

In anticipation of the launch of my third novel Casting Shadows – The Further Misadventures of a Vision Painter, I am running a promotion on my other two novels. This promo runs for a limited time so if you haven’t already got the first in the series, this is your chance to catch up.

You can get the first novel in the series, Falling Colours – The Misadventures of a Vision Painter, at the reduced price of

$2.99 on Amazon.com and

£1.92 on Amazon.co.uk

You can also get Falling Colours on Smashwords for $2.99 by entering the Coupon Code: JR73J

While you’re there, check out the new cover for my first novel, Heart Stopper. And get it for

$2.99 on Amazon.com and £1.92 on Amazon.co.uk

You can also get Heart Stopper on Smashwords for $2.99 by entering the Coupon Code: AP69B