Robin Storey's Blog, page 3
November 1, 2021
The Black Dog
This post was written by Robin Storey.
“I’m just a waste of space,” says my mother over morning tea. “I’m no use to anyone, except when I help you with the children.”
I stare at her, dumbfounded. The raw anguish, the utter desolation of her words strike me like a blow to the head.
I try to think of a reply, but what can I say that wouldn’t sound like a feeble platitude? I look around her lounge room. It’s overflowing with piles of clutter and it hasn’t been vacuumed for weeks. Not that I am one to cast aspersions about sloppy housekeeping, but my mother used to be obsessive about keeping a clean and tidy house.
It’s 11am and she’s still in her pyjamas. It doesn’t matter because she won’t be seeing anyone today, apart from me. She makes excuses to avoid social functions and when the phone rings and there are no long distance beeps, she knows it’s me, because I’m the only person in town who rings her. She eats erratically and compulsively, and sits for hours, sometimes days on end in her reclining armchair, reading and watching television – anything to blot out the numbing futility of her existence.
My mother has been bitten by what Winston Churchill called the “black dog.” She has suffered from frequent episodes of depression over the past few years and has been treated with medication, with varying results.
I probably know more than the average layperson about depression. I worked in welfare for many years where I often came into contact with depressed people and I have read widely on the subject. I know it’s a common misconception that sufferers can beat their illness if they just stop feeling sorry for themselves and pull themselves together.
But that doesn’t stop me from feeling so frustrated that sometimes I want to shake my mother and shout at her: “You can beat this if you really want to! Go out and get a life!”
My frustration stems partly from feelings of helplessness, from wishing there was a magical cure and realizing that there is little I can do to restore my mother’s shattered self-esteem, to make her want to live a joyful and worthwhile existence. I can be there and listen, but somehow it doesn’t seem enough.
But if I’m honest I have to admit that part of the frustration I feel is based on fear – fear that one day it will happen to me too. Statistics show that there is a two to threefold risk of depression among first degree relatives of sufferers of depression.
Of course, statistics prove nothing when it comes to individual cases and at present, being in a state of depression seems to me as inconceivable and remote a possibility as living on Mars. As a working mother I lead a busy and productive life, with a supportive partner, a solid network of friends and goals to strive for.
But although depression is often a result of circumstances – for example, death of a spouse or loss of a job – it can also strike out of the blue for no apparent reason. That’s the scary part – what defences do I have against it? What can I do to ensure that it doesn’t happen to me? What can any of us do? There are no answers, no certainties.
Research has shown that there are certain personality types more prone to depression – in particular, perfectionists who set high standards for themselves and others and who find it difficult to adapt their ideas to changing circumstances. Whoever figured that out must have spent the past few decades spying on my mother. Her high standards and inflexibility were the cause of many a clash between us in my adolescence and young adulthood. But that’s not me, I reassure myself, no-one has ever accused me of being a perfectionist.
My mother talks a lot about the past, much of it negative. She talks about her repressive upbringing under a mother who meted out heavy discipline untempered by affection. She gave up her own aspirations to follow the career her parents wanted her to follow, and broke off her engagement because her family disapproved of her fiancé. Years later, she found herself in an unhappy marriage, but stuck it out because she felt she had an obligation to do so. The marriage ended in divorce, although at my father’s rather than my mother’s instigation.
She is haunted by ghosts of the past, tormented by feelings of guilt over mistakes she perceived she made in her children’s upbringing. We all make mistakes, I say. I’m sure I’ll make just as many with my children. I also point out that despite her mistakes the three of us have grown up to be responsible, well-adjusted citizens. She acknowledges what I am saying, but she is not reassured.
A wave of sadness washes over me. It seems that my mother has spent a large part of her life living up to other people’s expectations. She never felt she had the freedom or opportunity to follow a course of action simply because that was what she wanted. An acquaintance in her late 50s sums it up succinctly and with a tinge of bitterness: “My generation didn’t have a chance to find our identities.”
I wonder if this is the reason that depression is a common problem among older women. When you’ve spent a lifetime putting everyone else’s needs before your own, there may well come a time when you realize it’s left you with a feeling of emptiness rather than fulfilment.
“When I look back on my life,” says my mother in a moment of insight, “it seems that I’ve spent a lot of it being depressed and haven’t realized it.”
That’s definitely not me. But it is my mother. And until she can chase the black dog away with its tail between its legs, I and the rest of her family will continue to share the heartache.
Continue reading more of Robin’s short stories. Try, The Muse.
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The Wild Ones
This post was written by Robin Storey.
The Wild Ones. The ‘60s produced some of the best remembered rock ‘n’ roll hits of all time. Caloundra’s own rock ‘n’ roll legend, Tony Worsley, takes Robin Storey back to time of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.
When you walk into Tony Worsley’s Velvet Waters Restaurant in Caloundra you are instantly transported back in time. The walls are crammed with memorabilia from the ‘60s and ‘70s – framed EP and LP records, posters, magazine covers and newspaper clippings of the great Aussie rock ‘n’ rollers of the era – The Bee Gees, Johnny O’Keefe, Col Joye, Little Pattie and Russell Morris, to name just a few. And of course Tony himself, the front man for the Blue Jays, who had number of Top 10 Hits in the ‘60s, including ‘Raining in My Heart,’ ‘Knock on Wood,’ ‘Something Got a Hold on Me,’ and their biggest hit ‘Velvet Waters,’ after which Tony named his restaurant.
The Tony Worsley of today bears only a slight resemblance to the fresh-faced young lad grinning cheekily out from the magazine profile on the wall. He’s broad, tanned and remarkably youthful looking for almost 61. ‘I’m really a quiet, shy person,’ he says, but he hides it well under his jovial, exuberant manner. On the day of our interview the man who has played to a capacity crowd at Wembley Stadium in London and who counts among his personal friends Aussie rock legends such as Normie Rowe and Col Joye, seems more chuffed about having just been awarded a Centenary medal from the Prime Minister for distinguished services to the Arts.
Any local resident who is too young to remember Tony in his heyday will certainly know him as the creator of the Walk of Stars – a series of plaques cemented in the footpath along Bulcock Street commemorating the great names of the Australian rock industry. So far there are 45 plaques representing artists from ‘60s and ‘70s as well as contemporary artists such as Jimmy Barnes and Savage Garden.
‘People think I’m doing it for myself, but I’m not – I’m doing it for the city and so that these stars won’t be forgotten by future generations.’
Each of the artists represented in the Walk of Stars is also presented with a personal plaque by the Mayor in a public ceremony followed by a private gala dinner. ‘We fly the artists up (sponsored by local residents and businesses), put out the red carpet, vintage cars, put them up in a nice resort and treat them like Hollywood.’ He recalls, ‘We had 3000 people turn out for Jimmy Barnes , the street was packed.’ The latest stars to be honoured were Frankie J Holden, Marty Rhone and Maria Dallas at Kings Beach Park on Mother’s Day.
Tony’s own career has spanned over 40 years in the music industry. Even as young child living in England the only ambition he ever had was to be a singer. ‘I would never come home after school, I would sit up a tree and look out at the cliffs at Hastings where I lived and just dream of being a singer.’
He won numerous talent quests and after his family migrated to Brisbane when he was 14 he continued performing and began to make a name for himself singing at suburban clubs.
It was a time in the late ‘50s and early ‘60s when many of the artists who were later to become famous were striving to realise their dreams. ‘Marcie Jones and the Cookies had a farm on Cribb Island,’ Tony reminisces, ‘and myself, Billy Thorpe, Graham Chapman, Mike Furber and the Bee Gees would all go there on a Sunday for a barbie and we had a makeshift stage and we’d all play our tennis rackets and make out like we were going to be stars. The rest is history, especially for the Bee Gees.’
Tony’s big break came when he was offered an opportunity to join a band in Melbourne and at the age of 20 he became the lead singer for the Blue Jays, ultimately known as Tony Worsley and the Fabulous Blue Jays.
The next few years were heady times, touring Australia and Europe with such bands as Manfred Mann, The Kinks and The Honeycombs and the lifestyle that went with it – the hotels, limousines, endless parties and of course, girls.
‘There were girls knocking down the stadium door, girls in your air vents, girls in your showers…you picked out the good looking ones and got the guards to throw the others out.’ Tony adds ruefully, ‘It was just a wild trip and I don’t remember half of it.’
After 10 years with the Blue Jays he decided to quit. ‘I got pretty messed up in Sydney living in the Cross and I thought if I keep doing this I’m gonna die.’
He spend the next few years doing the club circuit in Sydney and the South Pacific, including three years with Johnny O’Keefe as his manager.
His years with the Wild One were exhilarating and at the same time depressing. ‘We had some crazy times together and he taught me a lot.’ But this was also towards the end of Johnny’s life when drugs and alcohol had taken their toll. ‘He was pretty spaced out a lot of the time…I used to pick him up and carry him to bed.’
After tiring of the club circuit, Tony and his wife Anne settled in Caloundra 10 years ago and opened their award-winning Velvet Waters restaurant. On Friday and Saturday nights, with the help of his singing waitresses, Tony entertains an appreciative crowd with renditions of popular songs from the ‘60s to the present.
He doesn’t regret giving up stardom at a young age and finds it much more rewarding performing to an intimate audience than to a huge crowd. ‘We sell memories. What’s good now is the mortgage is paid for, the kids are grown up and now people want to go out for what they gave up.’
‘In the end,’ says the man who’s never had a week-end off performing and vows to sing until the day he dies, ‘it’s the people who make the show.’
Sunshine Coast Weekender Magazine
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The Pistol
This post was written by Robin Storey.
You never know for sure what people are thinking. Take the woman opposite, gazing past him out the train window. Late middle age, lumpy, unflattering pedal pushers and floral blouse.
What did women of her age think about? You could guess mundane things such as shopping or meeting friends for coffee. But she could be just as easily be thinking of last night’s tryst with her toy boy, or her next canoe trip down the Amazon.
That was the interesting thing about people. Their unpredictability.
He studied the woman’s sagging cheeks and lipstick bleeding into the lines around her mouth. Unpredictability aside, you could probably eliminate the toy boy scenario.
And he’d wager a million dollars she didn’t have an inkling of what was going through his mind. If she did, she wouldn’t be sitting there so engrossed in her own world.
He slipped his hand into his coat jacket and fingered the inside pocket. It was still there. He knew it would be, he remembered placing it in there, before he kissed Jocelyn goodbye and ran to catch the train. But he liked to make sure, to feel its reassuring solidity.
He glanced at the faces around him. The travel-induced glaze in their eyes gave away nothing of their thoughts. The element of surprise always achieved the most gratifying results. He’d whip the pistol out without any warning and spray the carriage with bullets. Then watch everyone spring into action, like an ant’s nest being disturbed - ducking, running, screaming, as blood spurted and shards of metal and glass flew through the air.
He’d keep going until he ran out of bullets and the air was thick with cordite.
It wasn’t that he was a violent man, far from it. He never watched violent movies or television shows, and he refused to let his children watch them, not even crime shows - although he knew that Jocelyn let them watch CSI Miami on the nights he went to Rotary meetings. He was trapped by the sheer monotony and futility of his existence, a wild animal yearning for freedom. Sometimes his chest burned so intensely with frustration he thought he was having a heart attack.
The woman opposite was staring at him. He realized he still had his hand inside his coat. He took it out. Of course he wouldn’t do it. She should consider herself lucky. It was just a rehearsal fantasy, a warm-up for tonight.
With a screech of brakes the train glided into the platform. He disembarked and moved along in the stream of people up the stairs to the footpath.
It was a crisp, grey winter morning, the sort that weighed him down with depression. Everything was twice as unbearable on a gloomy day. The streets bustled with businessmen and well-dressed women in heels. He searched their faces, looking for signs of discontent, needing to find it in others to vindicate his own.
He stopped in front of a tall, glass-fronted building and surveyed his reflection in the front door. Short hair, rimless glasses, suit well-cut to hide his thickening physique, the legacy of a sedentary job, white shirt and plain tie. Conservative, trustworthy, reliable. In a word, unexciting - he could see it in the faces of the junior office staff and the shiny-eyed new graduates.
He opened the door, walked to the lift and pressed the button. Footsteps clacked behind him. He looked up. Jodie, the office trainee, was hurrying to catch the lift, breasts bouncing, long legs teetering on high heels. He held the open door button until she was inside.
‘Thanks, Mr Cresswell,’ she said breathlessly.
‘Running late this morning?’
‘Yeah, bloody bus, it’s never on time.’
She stood at the front of the lift, side on to him. He could see the curve of her breasts under her blouse. Her eyes were fixed on the upward journey of the lighted numbers. In his mind’s eye he saw himself, in one graceful arc of movement, draw his pistol and fire a bullet through her blonde head. She slumped down, legs splayed, bits of brain and bone spattering the lift. One life extinguished forever, another irrevocably changed through one split second act. The thought made his heart beat faster.
Ping! The lift door slid open. Without a backward glance Jodie tottered out into the reception area of Hodgson and Levitt, Chartered Accountants.
He followed her, then turned left down the carpeted corridor, past the partners’ lavish offices with harbour views. He turned again and at the end of the next corridor, across from the rest rooms, was a door inscribed ‘Neil Cresswell, Chartered Accountant.’
He unlocked the door and threw his briefcase on to the scratched pine desk. He dropped into his wonky swivel chair and stared out the window at the car park. He’d been proud of his name on the door when he’d first started at the firm, but now the words glowered at him in accusation.
Neil Cresswell, accountant, never a partner, or even a senior accountant. He was stuck in that office, would probably die there, sitting at his desk. What choice did he have, with a wife who thought a credit card was a licence to spend, and two children for whom only private schooling and every electronic gadget on the market was good enough?
Vivienne Greene, one of the partners, stuck her head in the door.
‘Don’t forget the meeting this morning, Neil.’
She disappeared into the Ladies. He didn’t like Vivienne. She piled her make-up on like a mask, as if she were trying to hide her face. Very unbecoming for a woman her age. And she regarded him with an air of amused condescension, as if he were the office idiot who had to be humoured. In many ways she reminded him of Jocelyn – or what Jocelyn would be like in twenty years time.
He took his seat in the boardroom. Another meeting to discuss new tax laws. The others straggled in discussing their week-end golf games or the latest stock market results. The old joke about accountants being boring was true. They were all as boring as batshit.
At first he’d loved working with numbers, their predictability, that if you put them together in the right combinations, you always got the answer you wanted. He’d liked that feeling of safety and certainty. But now those numbers were a millstone, dragging him down. He stifled a yawn as Bob Cotton, one of the senior partners, took his place at the head of the table and shuffled through his papers.
‘You can take your coat off, Neil,’ Vivienne said,
‘We don’t stand on formality here.’
All eyes swivelled to him. The pistol was heavy and warm against his chest.
‘Thanks, but I’ll keep it on, I’ve got a bit of a cold. If that’s all right with you,’ he added.
Someone sniggered. Jed, who was sitting next to him, gave him a thumbs up under the table. Bob Cotton cleared his throat and began to speak in his usual drone.
He couldn’t wait till tonight. Till the moment he would pull out his pistol and pump a bullet into every one of these supercilious, pompous jerks. And two into Vivienne Greene. He’d blow that snooty smile all over the wall.
He slipped his hand into his inside coat pocket. Despite the heat it radiated, the pistol was icy cold to the touch. Something made him look up. All eyes were upon him again and Bob Cotton was looking at him enquiringly.
‘Your report, Neil, on the new business tax amendments.’
He took his hand out of his coat and rifled through the folder in front of him. He found his report, painstakingly prepared as usual, and began to speak.
Afterwards at the water cooler, Jed said to him, ‘She’s a stuck up bitch, all right. I bet her old man has to bow down, say three hail marys and kiss her feet before she’ll part her legs.’ He gave a shudder. ‘Who’d want to, anyway.’
He liked Jed. Unlike the other new graduates he was friendly and down to earth. He only intended to stay at the firm for two years and then he was off to travel the world. He envied Jed his carefree life and lack of commitments. He’d spare him in the shootout.
Once Jed had said to him, ‘If you had the freedom to do anything you wanted, what would you be doing right now?’
He’d pictured tropical islands, dusky, sun-drenched women, skimming the roads in a Porsche, whizzing down the snowy slopes of the Alps. But they all seemed too superficial. He craved something deeper that would satisfy the gnawing deep in his gut, the restlessness that kept him awake at night staring into the darkness.
In the end he’d said, ‘I want to be noticed.’
But he’d taken so long to answer that Jed had wandered off to chat up the new receptionist.
At lunchtime he sat in the small park across the road with his usual chicken and salad sandwich. The sun struggled through a bank of cloud. He unfolded his newspaper.
There’d been another shooting in the United States, in a shopping centre in Atlanta. Four dead, six injured. The gunman had turned the gun on himself. Why? If you wanted to make your mark on the world, you had to be around to witness the consequences. Of course, there’d be justice and retribution to answer to, but once you’d done the deed, you couldn’t undo it.
That was the beauty and the terror of it. A young couple slumped into the park bench opposite him. Both pale and skinny, sharing a meat pie and coke. Probably on the dole, spent all their time smoking dope. In just a few seconds he could obliterate them.
They would never grow up, get a job or have children. Forever suspended in memory just as they were now. Power surged through him, his nerves danced, his fingers twitched. He was ready.
At six pm he stood in the spacious boardroom, stuffing canapés into his mouth from the table beside him. He clutched a glass of mineral water. He wasn’t drinking, as he needed a clear head. Laughter, chatter and the tinkling of glass flowed around him, and waiters with trays of drinks roamed the room.
The firm held a New Year’s Eve cocktail party every year on the thirtieth of June to herald the new financial year. Employees and their partners were invited, as well as select business associates and clients. He’d been waiting for this night for months, the perfect opportunity to make the maximum impact on the greatest number of people. Unfortunately there weren’t enough bullets to shoot them all, but he could certainly make a mess and wreak havoc on the occasion.
He looked at his watch and frowned. Jocelyn was late. Typical. She organised his life down to the last millisecond, but was incapable of arriving anywhere on time herself.
She appeared at the doorway, a vision in shimmering green and looked around the room. Bob Cotton disentangled himself from a group and rushed over to her. He hugged her, patting her on her bare back. Men loved Jocelyn. If only they knew.
Then she saw him, and wove her way through the crowd. Eyes followed her pert behind.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘The babysitter was sick so I had to take the kids to Mum’s.’
She gave him a peck on the cheek. ‘Could you get me a drink?’
She was in arm’s length of a drinks tray herself, but he grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and handed it to her.
She took a couple of gulps. ‘Oh, look, there’s Vivienne. I haven’t seen her for ages.’
She sashayed off, leaving him with the canapés. He watched her as she chatted to Vivienne, her painted lips moving animatedly. Vivienne was wearing a tight black dress from which her mottled flesh spilled out. What could they possibly have in common? Perhaps they were talking about him. Not for much longer, sweetheart.
Someone tapped a glass several times. Bob Cotton was at the front of the room, holding a microphone.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, could I have your attention please!’
This was it. He’d decided to do it when everyone was quiet and listening to Bob’s speech. He positioned himself at the back of the room behind a wall of suits and evening dresses. Bob launched into his speech. A mobile phone tinkled in the depths of the crowd, and heads craned. There was always someone who couldn’t bear to turn his phone off for a few minutes.
He put his hand inside his coat. The pounding of his heart filled his ears. The pistol throbbed with a pulse of its own against his chest. He reached in and drew it out of his pocket.
‘Neil.’
He jumped. Jocelyn was beside him, her mouth to his ear.
‘Mum just phoned. Michael jumped off the table, she thinks he’s broken his leg.’He stared at her. His hand was still hidden inside his jacket, gripping the pistol. His armpits were damp and heat prickled his body. Michael couldn’t have broken his leg. Not tonight, of all nights.
Jocelyn’s face was taut with anxiety. She dug him in the ribs.
‘Don’t just stand there, we have to go!’ she hissed.
He slipped the pistol back in his pocket. Eyes averted, he followed her through the crowd and out the door.
Later that night, after they’d returned from the hospital and were getting ready for bed, Jocelyn said, ‘You’ve been behaving very strangely lately.’
He shrugged his coat off and hung it in the wardrobe, wedged between his corporate shirts and his formal suit.
‘What do you mean?’
You’re always gazing into space as if you’re on another planet. Vivienne said she’s noticed it too. And sometimes the way you look at me – I’d swear you want to kill me.’
He watched her as she applied moisturizer to her legs, her long fingers gliding over the smooth flesh. Once he’d thought it sensual.
‘Don’t be silly, of course I don’t want to kill you.’
And you’ve always got your hand in your coat pocket. What have you got in there? A hip flask? Or a gun?’
She went to the wardrobe, yanked his coat out on its hanger and rummaged around in the inside pocket. Her hand re-appeared, empty.‘
I give up. Maybe you’re having a mid-life crisis.’
'Maybe.’
She shoved the coat back into the wardrobe.
‘Don’t forget Jessie’s got hockey training before school tomorrow. And we’re having dinner at Mum’s tomorrow night.’
She got into bed and turned her back on him. Within seconds she was asleep. He lay beside her, wide awake, staring into the darkness.
THE END
The Pistol by Robin StoreyThis short story won a Highly Commended Award in the Sunshine Coast Literary Association Short Story Competition 2009.
Read more short stories and articles on my stories page
Copyright Robin Storey
photo courtesy of www.vectorfree.com
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The Muse
This post was written by Robin Storey.
Esther Palfreyman’s heart plummeted as she pulled out the bulky envelope from her mail box. Her name and address was printed on it in her own large, rounded letters.
She opened it and slid out the synopsis and first three chapters of her manuscript Love Incorporated. Attached to it was a letter. Another rejection.
In the kitchen she uncorked the bottle of champagne she’d bought to celebrate her publishing contract. As it was apparent there wasn’t going to be one, she might as well drink it now.The next morning she arrived at work at the Taxation Office feeling very fragile.
‘Are you all right, Esther?’
Joe McCormack at the desk beside her was looking at her with concern.
‘I’m fine, just overdid it a bit last night.’
'Oh? What’s happened?’
Esther hesitated. The more people she told about her novel writing, the more she would feel a failure if she never got published. The throb in her head increased its tempo. Oh, what the hell.
‘I wrote a novel and it’s been rejected. Six times.’
‘You poor thing, how disappointing for you.
’Esther gave a stoic half-smile. Joe had been the manager of audits before his wife left him; then he had a breakdown and went on stress leave. When he returned to work he’d been given the less demanding job of data input operator. With his soulful eyes he reminded Esther of a lost puppy trying to find a home. Vulnerability in men made her feel uncomfortable; she’d always been attracted to strong, self-assured men who made her feel safe. Joe was attractive in a sensitive, romantic poet way, but she couldn’t imagine ever feeling safe with him.
‘Anyhow, keep plugging away. All famous writers get rejected - look at JK Rowling!
’Esther gritted her teeth. If she heard one more mention of JK Rowling she’d scream.
After dinner that evening she sat at her computer and opened up her second manuscript The Power of Love, of which she’d written six chapters. Her despair lifted and she felt a surge of resolve. After all, she’d only been writing for a couple of years, since she’d enrolled in her creative writing course and experienced that ‘aha moment,’ when she knew with a deep certainty that writing was what she was born to do.
It was in her genes – her grandfather had been a compulsive scribbler of poems and short stories, although he’d never had any published. And she’d chosen to write romance because her own life was so lacking in it that even vicarious romance seemed better than none at all.
She began to type, absorbed in her hero and heroine’s first romantic encounter on a deserted beach. After a few minutes she became aware of another presence in the room. Her skin crawled. She turned around. There was no-one there.
‘That’s nauseating in the extreme, I think I’m going to throw up.
’Esther screamed and sprang out of her chair. Behind her on top of the bookcase was a creature. That was her first impression, but on closer inspection she could see it was a man, in perfect proportion but the size of a doll. He wore a white shirt, bow tie and dinner jacket with a kilt and slave sandals. He was perched on The Complete Oxford Dictionary, swinging his tiny, hairy calves and regarding her with cool nonchalance. He had dark hair and eyes and a neat pencil moustache and even through her shock Esther registered that he was rather handsome – like a miniature Johnny Depp.
‘Sorry if I frightened you. My name’s Albert – I’m your muse.’
He held out his hand.
‘If you don’t want to shake hands, that’s fine, but please close your mouth. You look quite ridiculous.’
Esther snapped her mouth shut.
‘I presume you know what a muse is?’
‘Yes.’ Esther’s voice came out as a strangled croak. She cleared her throat. ‘I…I didn’t know I had one.’
‘Now you do. Of course muses, arising from Greek mythology, are traditionally female, but I’m striking a blow for equality. We male muses are still a minority, so you should be grateful I’ve chosen you.’
‘Thank-you,’ said Esther. Perhaps if she humoured him he would go away.‘What does a muse actually do?’
‘To quote the job description, “inspire and stimulate creative thought.” Which, in some cases, presents quite a challenge.’
He bounded from the bookcase on to her desk and gestured to her chair.
‘Sit down and I’ll show you.’
Esther sat down. He picked up a pen and used it as a pointer on her computer screen.
‘This scene where Lucy and Tye have their first kiss. “He pressed his mouth on to hers, its force engulfing the two of them until the world around them receded and she felt herself falling into a chasm of sensual bliss.” ’
He made a retching sound. ‘That’s what I was referring to when I arrived. It’s stomach-churning! What is this man doing? Sucking her up like a vacuum cleaner? Not sexy at all, unless you have a cleaning fixation. It’s obviously a while since you’ve had a man in your life.’
Esther blushed. ‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a knot, that’s Lucy’s prerogative,’ he said, grinning. ‘Don’t you think it’s much more sensuous to start off with a few light kisses on the neck to make her shiver, a nibble on her ear, then a gentle stroking of her hair from her forehead and a soft kiss on the lips on his way to the other ear?’
Esther said nothing. She didn’t want to admit that this rude, self-important Lilliputian in need of a wardrobe makeover might know more about writing love scenes than she did.
He sprang over to her keyboard and before she could stop him, he’d deleted the entire page.
‘Now just a minute…’
He put his hand up. ‘Write it again. I’ll help you and you’ll see how easy it is.’
Esther placed her hands on the keyboard and looked at Albert. This man is crazy and I’m even crazier for doing this. He winked and gave her the thumbs up.
Just as she was wondering how and when inspiration was going to strike, the words began to form in her mind. They built up momentum to full speed, her fingers flying over the keys as she transcribed them. In a few minutes she’d filled the page. She sat back and read it through. It was far better than anything she’d written before. Sweet and tentative, building up slowly to the first kiss, tempered with realism and a touch of humour.
‘I had no idea I could write like that,’ she said. ‘It was strange, like being taken over by an invisible spirit. Was that me writing or you?’
‘Much as I’d like to take the credit for it, it was you,’ Albert replied. ‘It’s my presence that inspires you to make the best of the talents you already have.’
He took a gold fob watch out of his jacket pocket. ‘It’s time I was gone.’
‘Do you have other writers to visit?’ Esther felt like a jealous lover.
He stood up, smoothing the kilt down over his legs. ‘Good grief no, one’s enough. I’ve got a meeting. A few of us male muses have set up a support group to get us through the initial hurdles. This is new to me, too, you know.’
He leapt off the desk on to the floor. ‘Just one thing before I go. Muses have to be fed to keep up their strength.’
‘Oh...of course. What do you like?’
Albert counted the list off on his fingers as he recited it.
‘Crackers – water only, cheese – camembert or brie, hot salami, smoked oysters and caviar. For sweets, chocolate brownies, no nuts and custard tarts. To drink, vat 9 Hunters shiraz. It’s cheaper if you buy a dozen bottles.’
‘And there’s one more thing, but I’m damned if I can remember what it is. Never mind, it’ll come to me. Hooroo.’
And he was gone, swallowed by the air.
The next afternoon after work as Esther filled her shopping basket at the supermarket, she reflected that feeding her muse was an expensive exercise. That’s if he existed at all.
That morning she’d examined every inch of the study, but could find no traces of his presence. She could have fallen asleep at her desk and dreamt the whole scene. Maybe she was losing her sanity and had hallucinated him. Except that it had been so real. And the love scene she’d written – that was real, too.
After dinner Esther sat at her desk and waited for Albert. But he didn’t appear. The next night she waited again, then the night after. By the fourth night she decided she’d imagined the whole thing and sublimated her frustration by scoffing all the custard tarts and chocolate brownies she’d bought for him. Bloated and despondent, she turned on her computer and tried to immerse herself in her novel.
After a few minutes the hair on the back of her neck prickled. She whirled around. Albert was perched on top of a painting on the wall, legs crossed, grinning at her.
‘Albert! Where have you been?’
‘Oh, here and there,’ he said airily.
‘Well, you certainly haven’t been here. I’ve been waiting for you for the last three nights.’
He dived from the picture and landed on her printer. He wore purple velvet flares, jelly sandals and a leopard print singlet top, revealing bony shoulders and pale arms. Esther stifled a smile.
‘That was the thing I forgot to tell you last time. Don’t wait for me to arrive. The more you try to invoke me, the more likely I’ll be to stay away.’
‘Why?’
He shrugged. ‘That’s the nature of muses. And one other thing – don’t try to find out where I’m from, or anything about me, for that matter. That will guarantee I won’t come back.’
‘Why do you have to be so mysterious?’
‘It’s the creative process – it’s supposed to be a mystery. Once you start to analyse it, it disappears. Now, do you have my supper ready?’
A routine was soon established. Every night after Esther had settled at her desk and begun to type Albert appeared, each time dressed in a different, outlandish outfit. He lolled about on her desk feasting on the food that she cut up into tiny pieces and drinking shiraz out of a medicine glass. She didn’t mind the crumbs and the dribbles of wine he left on her desk because while he was there, words and ideas jostled and fell over themselves in her mind. Her fingers were flat out keeping up.
After a few glasses of shiraz Albert fell asleep, emitting puppy-like snores. Then the words came to a standstill and Esther poked him in the ribs to wake him up. He yawned and grumbled that he wasn’t cut out for night work and it was just his luck to have a writer who worked nights.
After a while Esther plucked up the courage to ask him about his style of dress.
‘What do you mean, unusual fashion sense?’ He hitched his sarong up to his waist and puffed out his chest under its silk shirt and embroidered waistcoat.
‘It’s just that you wear things that wouldn’t normally go together. Like that sarong, which is casual beach gear, with a shirt and waistcoat which are formal wear.’
She faltered as he glowered at her.
‘I mean, it’s very original, it’s very adventurous of you to try new ideas.’
‘It’s all right for female muses,’ he said, brushing brownie crumbs from his shirt, ‘they’ve got centuries of tradition behind them. They just float about in those white gowns looking all ethereal, but there’s no dress code for male muses. We just make it up as we go along.’
‘Anyway,’ he added, ‘what about you? You’re not exactly the epitome of haute couture.’
He looked her up and down, at her baggy pullover, faded tracksuit pants and slippers.
‘There’s no dress code for writers either,’ Esther said. ‘We just wear whatever’s comfortable.’
‘Exactly. And what I’m wearing is exceedingly comfortable.’
He stretched out on the desk, tucking the sarong between his legs, and held out his glass. ‘More wine, please.’
Esther finished The Power of Love, honed and polished it until it sparkled and sent it off to several publishers. Then, buoyed by her accomplishment, she began her next novel.
After two months, she received her first reply. Rejection again. But the day after, she received a call at work on her mobile phone. It was Sarah Lindgren, the romance editor of Pascoe Publishing.
‘I adored your manuscript,’ she burbled. ‘So fresh and original. I’d like to offer you a contract and talk to you about future novels.’
Esther stared open-mouthed at her phone.
‘What’s the matter?’ Joe asked.‘
I just got offered a publishing contract,’ she stuttered, ‘and she wants to talk about future novels I haven’t even written yet!’
Joe leapt up and threw his arms around her neck. ‘That’s wonderful news! You deserve it!
’Esther was so excited she didn’t care that Joe was using her good news as an excuse to give her a hearty and prolonged hug.
Pascoe Publishing offered Esther not only a contract and an advance on The Power of Love, but also a contract for two more novels to be completed in the next twelve months. In her happiness she even succumbed to Joe’s insistence on taking her out for a celebratory lunch. When she arrived at the restaurant he’d already ordered a bottle of champagne. Esther proposed a toast.
‘To Hector Palfreyman!’
‘My grandfather,’ she explained in answer to Joe’s quizzical expression. ‘He used to lock himself in his office for hours writing. If we were visiting we had to tiptoe around so as not to disturb him. He sent his stories to publishers but never had any luck, and he gave up in the end. Took to the bottle and died of cirrhosis of the liver. I like to think of him, wherever he is, being able to share my success.’
Joe raised his glass. ‘To Hector and his granddaughter – the J K Rowling of Romance!’
‘I think that’s a little over the top.’ But Esther blushed with pleasure – it did have a nice ring to it.
She continued her next novel, but the hard slog of writing as well as holding down a job took its toll. Sometimes she nodded off at her desk at work and Joe had to gently shake her awake. Eventually, after The Power of Love was published and became a best seller, Esther resigned from her job to write full-time.
Life was much more enjoyable now she was able to write during the day and relax in the evenings. Albert was also happier now that he was free at nights to attend his male muse support groups. Sometimes Esther caught herself staring at him – a glance, a gesture, his grin, touched a familiar chord in the back of her mind, but she couldn’t think why.
Esther’s next two novels, Dark Stranger and Heart of Glass were also best sellers and Pascoe Publishing contracted her to write more novels at the rate of two a year. She moved out of her rented unit and bought an A-framed cottage overlooking the sea, with an attic perfect for writing. She had her hair re-styled and coloured and updated her wardrobe, as befitted a successful romance author. On Albert’s advice she created the pseudonym of Eve Palmer.
‘For a start no-one will be able to pronounce Esther Palfreyman,’ he said, ‘and she sounds like someone who writes treatises on the mating habits of obscure insects that no-one gives two hoots about.’
She went on book-signing tours, spoke at writers’ festivals and even made appearances on television chat shows. She no longer had to resort to vicarious romance as her own life was full of romantic opportunities. Men materialized from everywhere and she was never short of a date.
She and Joe still met occasionally for lunch and he gradually shed his sadness and hang-dog appearance. He asked her out to dinner countless times but she always refused. She enjoyed his company, but to her mind they could never be more than friends. Esther preferred to keep her nights for more exciting encounters with strong, self-assured men.
It was at lunch with Joe that Albert made his first public appearance. He unravelled himself from her table napkin in ballet tights, a fur-lined jacket and platform thongs. She gasped.
‘Go away,’ she mouthed, keeping her eyes steadfastly above his waist. But Albert just winked and shovelled the crumbs from her bread roll into his mouth. Words crowded into her mind, clamouring to be put down on paper. But she had neither paper nor pen.
Joe was staring at her. ‘Esther, are you all right?’
It was then that she realized that Albert was visible only to her and that Joe must be wondering why she was making faces at her plate.
‘My muse has just appeared and I’ve got an idea for the next part of my novel.’
At least now he’ll know I’m crazy and stop asking me out to dinner.
‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Joe said. ‘I’ve been dabbling in some writing myself, on the advice of my therapist. When the idea strikes, you have to run with it.’
He took a pen out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her with a clean paper napkin. ‘Be my guest.’
From that day on, Esther always carried a pen and notebook in her handbag. Albert now made regular appearances when she was out and had the knack of choosing the most embarrassing moments. He swooped on to the desk in front of her as she addressed a romance writers’ workshop, causing her to stutter and lose her train of thought. He appeared in her trolley at the supermarket, sliding down a banana. Nearby shoppers darted curious looks at the woman who had apparently taken fright at a bag of fruit.
When she was on dates he perched on her shoulder and whispered in her ear, which she tried in vain to ignore. Other times he sat on her feet and tickled her toes, making her grimace hard with the effort of not squirming or giggling. As a result, she gave the impression of being not only an inattentive conversationalist, but also possessed of an unfortunate facial affliction.
Each time Albert appeared, Esther was forced to excuse herself and find the nearest private place, usually the ladies toilet, to scribble down her inspirations. Her romantic assignations came to an unromantic end, as her suitors, out of frustration or pity, dropped her home early with no mention of further contact.
Eventually Esther decided not to go out at all – it was too nerve wracking worrying that Albert might show up and too embarrassing when he did. She refused any further public appearances for her books, as well as all social invitations, including lunches with Joe. Her life became a solitary routine, apart from Albert’s presence, of writing, eating and sleeping.
Then, when it didn’t seem possible, things got worse. Albert began to wake her during the night. She surfaced from a deep sleep to his tickling her ear, pulling her hair or jumping up and down on her feet. There was nothing for it but to drag herself out of bed and start writing.
‘I thought you didn’t like working nights,’ Esther grumbled.
‘It’s a new workplace agreement negotiated by the Union of Militant Muses for higher productivity of writers,’ Albert replied, adjusting his Bugs Bunny cravat. ‘In return we get longer holidays and long service leave.’
‘And when are your holidays?’ Esther asked, a glimmer of hope forming.
‘I’ve only just started, so I won’t get any for at least two hundred years.’
‘Oh, what a shame!’
After a bellyful of wine Albert fell asleep and she crept back to bed. When she tried to sleep in the next morning, he appeared again, bouncing on the bed and chirping, ‘Rise and shine! There are love scenes to be written, sexual tension to be explored, inner conflicts to be resolved!’
With her days and nights a blur of broken sleep and feverish writing, Esther finished her fourth novel A Time for Love and sent it to her publisher. Her editor was jubilant. ‘This is your best yet, it will break all your sales records!’
But Esther was far from jubilant. Isolation and sleep deprivation had taken their toll. Instead of plotting her next novel, she was scheming to get rid of Albert. Should she drug his shiraz, stab him with a penknife or bludgeon him to death with her glass paperweight? She even considered shooting him, though how she would acquire a gun, she had no idea. Perhaps, befitting his size, a toy pistol would do the trick.
In desperation she decided to confide in Joe, whom she hadn’t seen for weeks. She phoned him and arranged to meet for lunch.
‘I’m so glad you rang,’ he said. ‘I’ve been worried about you. I think you’re taking the reclusive writer thing a bit too far.’
As Esther dragged a brush through her hair, a pale, haggard woman with raccoon-like rings under her eyes stared back at her from the mirror. She looked nothing like the airbrushed Eve Palmer who smiled confidently out from the back cover of her novels. When she arrived at the restaurant, Joe took one look at her and said, ‘My God, Esther, what have you been doing?’
Tears pricked her eyes. She blinked them back. She recounted the story of Albert, from the time he first appeared to the present, including her homicidal fantasies.
‘So I suppose you think I’m crazy,’ she finished. ‘And I don’t mind if you do, because I’m damned sure I am.’
The tears spilled out. She was too tired to stop them. Joe took her hand in his. It was strong and comforting.
‘I don’t think you’re crazy,’ he said. ‘Not at all.’
‘I know he’s responsible for my success, but he’s taken over my life. I have to get rid of him. Even if it means I never write another novel again!’
A fresh wave of tears burst forth. Joe leaned forward and brushed them from her cheeks.
‘Of course you’ll write another novel, you’ll write dozens. But in the meantime what are we going to do about Albert?’
They brainstormed ideas for disposing of Albert. Set a booby trap, tie him up or super-glue him to the desk when he was asleep and refuse to release him until he promised to leave. But despite his fondness for alcohol Albert’s reflexes were sharp and Esther wasn’t confident of her ability to pull off these stunts.
Then Joe said, ‘Wait a minute, didn’t he tell you that if you sit and wait for him, he won’t come?’
‘That’s true. So you think I should spend the rest of my life waiting for him to turn up, so he doesn’t?’
They burst out laughing and Esther felt better, even though they hadn’t thought of a solution.
At three o’clock the next morning, she sat hunched over her computer as Albert reclined on her desk slurping smoked oysters and shiraz. In a flash she remembered his other cautionary instruction. ‘Don’t try and find out where I’m from or anything about me, it will guarantee I won’t come back.’
For the first time in weeks she felt a surge of hope. She plied Albert with more wine and waited impatiently for him to fall asleep. As soon as he began to snore, she Googled ‘muses’ and ‘Albert’ but found nothing. She even looked up the Union of Militant Muses, but according to Google it didn’t exist.
She glanced at Albert in the light of her desk lamp. He showed no signs of disappearing as he lay flat on his back, pink harem pants pooling around his legs, his belly heaving under his Hawaiian shirt in time with his snores. His head was tilted to one side, a woollen beret perched on top. The feeling of familiarity niggled her again. Then it struck her.
She sprang up, went to a cupboard in the corner of the attic and dragged out a large cardboard box. It contained memorabilia belonging to her mother, who’d died some years ago. Esther had rifled through the contents of the box, then put it away in storage and forgotten about it.
She dug into the box and retrieved a photo album and a leather bound journal. She blew the dust from them and opened up the photo album. The photos were sepia-toned with patches of discolouration from age.
She found the one she wanted. It was a studio photo of her grandfather on his twenty-first birthday, tall and proud in a dinner suit. His dark hair was slicked back, he was smiling and his eyes shone with a mischievous light. Very much like Albert’s eyes when he grinned. Grandpa’s face was broader than Albert’s and he was of a more solid build, but there was a strong resemblance.
She opened the journal. The pages were yellowed and stiff, the musty odour making her sneeze. On the front page was scrawled The Collected Works of Hector Albert Palfreyman, Volume One. She hadn’t read much of Grandpa’s work because his hand-writing was difficult to decipher, but this time she persevered. As she laboured through the stories, her spine prickled.
They were mostly swashbuckling adventures, but in each one there was a romantic sub-plot. Some of the phrases he used, sometimes whole sentences, were identical to those in her novels.She heard a rustle and looked up. Albert sat up yawning. His beret had slipped down rakishly over one eye.
‘What are you doing over there?’ he snapped. ‘Come here and get back to work. And I’ll have some salami and cheese.’
As she typed, she watched Albert from the corner of her eye. She didn’t know what to make of her findings – she didn’t believe in ghosts, spirits or reincarnation. Hell, sometimes she didn’t even believe in muses. Maybe it was all just a huge coincidence. And if she had indeed discovered his origins, why didn’t he disappear in an instant, the same way he’d arrived?
She worked a ten hour day and fell into bed, exhausted. When she woke up the sun was streaming through her window. She’d had a whole night’s uninterrupted sleep. She leapt out of bed, full of energy, made herself a cup of tea and switched on the computer. A message appeared in large, bold letters.
‘I am hereby tendering my resignation as your muse. I’m sick of playing second fiddle and getting none of the glory. I’m going to strike out on my own and become a writer. Besides, if I stay with you much longer, I’ll end up an obese, drunken lay-about.
Albert.
P.S. Here is the outfit I’ve decided is worthy of my newfound occupation.’
Esther scrolled down to a photo of Albert grinning out of the screen at her, dapper in a dinner suit.
She sat for a few moments taking it in. Her head was light – she wanted to sing, laugh and dance all at the same time. But underneath burbled an undercurrent of anxiety. Would her writing be rubbish now that she no longer had her muse? Would she be back to retrieving thick, self-addressed envelopes from the mail box and crunching out numbers in the Taxation Office? She tried to brush away her doubts by phoning Joe to tell him the news.
‘You’re a genius, Esther, how did you do it?’
‘It’s a long story, and rather spooky. I’m not sure I believe it myself.’‘In that case, how about you tell me over dinner tonight? There’s a new Italian place in town I’ve been dying to try out. I’ll bring some champagne and we’ll celebrate.’
Esther thought for a few moments. She thought about all the handsome, eligible men she’d dated who treated her writing as a frivolous hobby. She thought of the admiration that shone in Joe’s eyes, his soft, romantic poet eyes, when he looked at her, and how sure he was that she could be successful without Albert. He was right, she would prove him right. And she remembered the previous day at lunch, when he’d taken her hand in his. She’d felt tingly all over. And warm. And safe.
‘Are you there, Esther ?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘What’s your answer? Would you like to come out for dinner?’
‘Yes, I’d like that very much.’
Esther put down the receiver. She fetched a cloth and cleaned the crumbs and spots of wine from her desk. Then she sat down, opened a new document on her computer and began to type.
THE END
Copyright Robin Storey
For more great stories read The Pistol. You never know what someone is really thinking.
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Oh Brother
This post was written by Robin Storey.
Oh Brother is not the word. The circus has come to town and it’s called “Reality TV”.
Read more of Robin’s articles and short stories here.
The post Oh Brother appeared first on Robin Storey.
Driven To The Bottle
This post was written by Robin Storey.
If you’ve ever been thrust into the position of designated driving instructor to your children, you’ll know that the phrase “Driven To The Bottle” is more than appropriate.
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For another amusing anecdote involving my children, read Oh Brother!
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On The Gypsy Trail
This post was written by Robin Storey.
Taking a gap year to backpack around the world on the gypsy trail, is a rite of passage for many young Australians. Maggie Counihan did it solo at 60, first stop India. And as Robin Storey discovers, thirteen years later those distant lands still beckon.
On The Trail To IndiaWhen Maggie Counihan left Australia for her first trip to India, she had no idea she would spend the next ten years travelling the world. But Maggie was not your average traveller – she was sixty and backpacking alone.
‘I had a very comfortable life and a comfortable apartment in Perth, but I had a recent divorce and a bit of a barney with my family, and that was enough. I thought, “What am I going to do with the rest of my life?”’
Born and raised in New Zealand, Maggie married young, raised four children and worked in a variety of jobs. But now she was restless and dissatisfied with her life and as she’d always wanted to go to India, she booked her ticket and packed her backpack. It hadn’t occurred to her to ask anyone to go with her, and with a combination of nervousness and excitement she boarded the plane for her new adventure.
Nepal Or BustMaggie began her trip with three weeks in Nepal before travelling through India by train and bus. This is where she gained her travel degree. ‘I learnt so much there – I learnt how to be assertive, how to look after myself. In India there’s no such thing as joining a queue, I had to learn to push and shove. If I waited politely for my turn I’d still be there!’
On one occasion, when disembarking from a train, she became trapped in the crowd of oncoming passengers. ‘Instinctively I yelled at the top of my voice, “Help! You’re behaving like animals!” I felt I was going to be squashed to death. Suddenly there was a moment of quiet and the crowd parted to let me through.’ This was her first lesson in using her voice when in trouble.
Having successfully survived her first solo trip Maggie was hooked. ‘It still amazes me how life changing it was and I never even realised it until later.’ She spent the next nine or so years backpacking through forty countries across Asia and Europe, as well as Mexico and parts of Canada and the USA. With no set itinerary, she often decided on her next destination on a whim or advice from fellow travellers.
Budgets And BackpacksReactions from the local inhabitants, especially in the Asian countries, ranged from amazement to horror. ‘Reactions would be “madam, what you are doing here? Where is your husband?”’ In India especially she was an oddity as the women are usually chaperoned when they go out, and she quickly became used to being stared at.
Travelling on a budget, she stayed where possible in backpackers’ hostels. The reaction from her fellow travellers, mostly much younger than herself, was admiration. A common comment was ‘I wish my mother was doing what you’re doing.’ During all her travel she met very few women of her age travelling alone.
Maggie fell in love with Cambodia and ended up staying there for 18 months. She set up a business as a masseuse in Phnom Penh and also did voluntary work at local orphanages and an HIV/AIDS clinic. However, the country she enjoyed living in most was Thailand. ‘The people are gracious and generous and the lifestyle is easy.’ She bought an apartment there and used it as a base for her travel over the next few years.
Memorable Trail MomentsWhen asked about her most memorable experience she couldn’t narrow it down to one. ‘All the sights I saw, all the tourist spots – standing on the Great Wall of China, living on a houseboat on the Dal Lake (in India), standing on the rim of the Baltic Sea for the first time… but the most wonderful experiences were the people I met whom I would never have met otherwise.’
Maggie recalls only a couple of occasions when she was in danger. In Thailand a man broke into her room and in Prague a group of young people surrounded her in a railway station. On both occasions she screamed and her assailants ran off.
‘Never doubt the power of your own voice for protection…these things only happened when I was tired and not concentrating.’ In the Prague incident, she’d been travelling for 17 hours through 3 countries by plane, bus and train. It was a learning experience that made her more careful.
The advantages of travelling solo, she says, are many. ‘If I liked a place I’d stay, if I didn’t I’d move on…I enjoyed my own company and found it exciting to make my own decisions.’
Last year Maggie published a book about her experiences, ‘Backpacking to Freedom, Solo at Sixty.’ To others of any age who are thinking of travelling alone, her advice is simple. ‘Just have a go. You don’t know how much courage you have until you try.’
Practical Advice For Solo TravellersShe also has plenty of practical advice for solo travellers. Don’t eat in an empty cafe. Never read over a meal. Be open to people. Often just asking the question ‘are you alone, can I join you?’ results in sharing a meal, a room or a trip and sometimes an enduring friendship. If you’re in a country where English is not commonly spoken seek out students, who are usually only too glad to practice their English.
Her most useful tip, she says, is ‘Go with the right attitude. Don’t expect things to go wrong, I never expected things to go wrong and they didn’t. I wasn’t harmed in any way and I didn’t get sick, I looked after my health.’
Staying On The TrailNow 73 and living on the Sunshine Coast, Maggie exudes vitality and has no plans to stop travelling. Her days of solo travel are over since she met her partner Rollo 4 years ago. They spent 12 months teaching English in Hanoi in Vietnam and have a trip to Europe planned later this year. Maggie says she’ll always be a gypsy at heart and hates booking return tickets. ‘When people ask me how long I’m going to be away I say, ‘Oh, I don’t know.’
Read another of Robin’s published articles here called, The Wild Ones.
Or check out the short story titled, The Pistol.
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October 31, 2021
Classified Single
This post was written by Robin Storey.
“Where are all the decent men?”
Is a cry I hear again and again
From females from all walks of life
Who do not yearn to be someone’s wife
But desire a mate who’s handsome and kind
Who’s left all his emotional baggage behind
Who’s sensitive and generous and romantic and fun
Whose intelligence and maturity are second to none
And who always puts the toilet seat down
And never borrows your razor or dressing gown
And while one wouldn’t want to be accused of greed
A little bit of wealth would be welcome indeed
But ladies rejoice! I have found this creature
Of perfection while reading a newspaper feature
The classified singles, to be precise
Where every man is unfailingly nice
With all the qualities mentioned above
Ready willing and able to fall in love
And I could get myself one just like that – bingo!
If only I could understand the lingo
What’s a man who’s n/s or n/d, I enquire
Does it mean no/sex, or worse, no/desire?
No/sagging , no/drooping might be his claim
No/sadism, no/deviancy to sully his name
And SOH – Scared Of Heights, would it be
So that rules out the mile high club for me
Sex On Horseback, Short Of Hair, a Sort Of Homely chap
Or all three, an ugly bald jockey perhaps
Or VTPR – what I’ve guessed so far
Is Voyeuristic Titillation is Preferred Recreation
Or View To Performing in Railway Stations
Either way, it’s Versatile Talent for Public Relations
DTE, I think, must mean Drinks To Excess
Though why you’d admit it is anyone’s guess
Duos, Trios Encouraged – wow, what a stud
Or Dirty Talk Enjoyed, so your name will be mud
Perhaps Dying To Experiment, with an adventurous bent
But if he’s over sixty, it might be in the literal sense
But when Mr Perfect arrives, this much I can tell
He’ll be Old, Rich and Single, and Not Very Well
So until that time I think I’ll stay on the shelf
And be HABM – Home All By Myself.
——————————————————-
Poetry not your thing? Prefer a bit of reality? Then take a look at this article called Oh Brother.
The post Classified Single appeared first on Robin Storey.
September 1, 2021
How To Write A Memoir That Amazes Readers
So how do you write a memoir that amazes readers?
Well, it's not easy, and sometimes it's not even a lot of fun, but it can be extremely rewarding and in this post I'm going to show you exactly how to do it.
I’ve often heard people say, ‘One day I’m going to write my memoir.’
What they usually mean is they’re going to write the story of their life, which is actually their autobiography.
Many people, including those in the writing profession who should know better, use the words autobiography and memoir interchangeably.
But they are different.
A memoir is written about a particular period of your life, for example, an adventure you went on or a hardship you overcame.
There’s no limit to the time – it can be days, months or years. But it’s only a slice of your life.
For example, the book in this post's cover image is my own memoir about breast cancer.
An autobiography, on the other hand, is about your whole life, from the day you were born to the present, although there may be bits you skip for a variety of reasons.
And there could be a number of topics or themes.
Some famous examples of memoirs are:
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The Liar's Club by Mary KarrA story of her childhood in a small Texas oil town with a volatile mother and hard-drinking father.
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Wild By Cheryl StrayedAn account of her gruelling solo hike on the Pacific Crest Trail.
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Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth GilbertThe story of her journey through Italy, India and Indonesia to rediscover herself after a marriage breakdown.
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Teusday's With Morrie by Mitch AlbomHis recounting of his weekly visits to his old college professor in the last months of the teacher’s life.
Read More [image error] Writing A Memoir - Where Do I StartHow do you go about writing a memoir? It can be daunting not knowing where to start, particularly if this is your first book. Before you even start writing, I advise you to:
Do Some PlanningIt will be a lot easier to write it if you do some planning before you even put pen to paper, or hand to keyboard.
Know Your ThemeWriting a memoir is like writing any other sort of book, in that you need to know your theme, and the shape of the story – ie the beginning, middle and end.
The theme is the idea behind the story; or what you want your readers to take away from it.
For example, one theme could be that going outside your comfort zone is hard, but it’s always worth it in the long run.
Or: no matter how bad things get, there’s always something to be grateful for. Or something as simple as love is the reason for living.
A memoir, even though it is fact, still needs to contain all the elements of a good fiction story. So you need to know where and how it starts and ends, what the climax is.
Making a list of the main events that make up the story will help you to do this.
Now think about the characters in your memoir, starting with yourself.
Make some notes about how you changed and developed during the story, what you learned about life and yourself.
Readers want to be able to relate to you and feel empathy with you, and perhaps learn from your experiences.
Now make a list of the other people who will play a major part in your story. Do any of them change and grow as well?
How will you show that? How will you write about them, so they come across as authentic people to the reader?
Now your story is looking like it has a shape. The next step is :
Start WritingYour creative process will be strongest if you relax your mind and just write whatever comes into it.
Get That First Draft DownDon’t edit yourself as you write, just get the words down as they occur to you.
This isn’t easy if you’re a beginner, because you don’t always have confidence in your ability. But the more you write, the more confident you become.
When you’ve finished, put your story away for at least a couple of weeks so you can come back to it with fresh eyes; you’ll be more likely to pick up errors and see the flaws in the storytelling process.
Rewrite And EditWhen you come back to your story, read it all the way through, as if you are a stranger reading it for the first time.
There will be parts that jump out at you that need fixing – It may be whole chapters or just a few paragraphs here and there. As you read it:
Is the theme clear? Have you strayed off the theme anywhere and included irrelevant events?
Does the story keep your interest all the way through? Are there places where it drags or you get bored?
Do the characters, (including yourself as the main character) feel authentic and real? Are they well-rounded, so the reader is aware of their flaws as well as their strengths?
Is there just enough description to bring the story to life, without slowing down the pace?Show Don't TellHave you gone overboard in portraying emotion?
Less is more when it comes to emotion, remember ‘actions speak louder than words.’
‘John sat in his chair day after day, unshaven and glassy-eyed, staring out the window,’ is more evocative than writing, ‘John was depressed.’
Is there a satisfactory resolution?
If you’re having trouble working out how to improve your story, it’s a good idea to have it professionally critiqued if you can.
A developmental edit is good way to go about it and there will be an association of editors in your city or state that you can contact to find a suitable editor.
Proofreading is the final step; making sure the spelling, punctuation and grammar is correct.
Again it is preferable to employ a professional proofreader, but if you can’t afford it, find someone with a good knowledge of the English language to review it and mark the errors
Now your story is ready to send out into the world. There are three ways you can publish:
Traditional publishing, where a publisher accepts your manuscript and publishes and distributes it for you, taking on all the costs involved.
Partner publishing, where the publisher requires you to contribute to the cost of publishing your book
Self-publishing, where, as the name suggests, you take on the full responsibility and cost of publishing and distributing your book.What's The Best Way To PublishWhich is preferable? Suffice to say, it’s extremely difficult to get a traditional publishing contract, as there is so much competition.
You need to have an extremely well-written book on a topic that the publisher considers will have commercial appeal.
Partner publishing or self-publishing may be more preferable, depending on what you want to achieve with your book. But there are pitfalls here too for the unwary.
Publishing options is a topic worthy of a blog post on its own, so stay tuned for one in the near futureMemoir Writing ServiceIt all sounds like a lot of work, right? You might be thinking, ‘ I really want to tell my story, but I don’t have the time or energy to do all those things.’
If that’s the case, I can help you. I can write your entire story for you, in your voice. All you have to do is tell it to me. Have a look at my ghostwriting page where I go into detail about the services I offer.
You may be keen to write your memoir yourself but feel that you need some tuition and guidance first.
I can thoroughly recommend author Leeza Baric’s Memory to Memoir e-course.
I don’t get any financial kickback if you sign up for this course, I’m recommending it because it’s a comprehensive course which takes you from planning your story, through writing and editing it to publishing.
The modules, a combination of video, audio and text, are simply and clearly written in Leeza’s warm and engaging style.
There's not much more to say actually.
You’ve got all the information now for writing a memoir that will amaze your readers, so there’s no excuse for not starting.
Stop procrastinating and get to it!
I look forward to seeing your book the next time I visit the local bookshop.
Click the button below to find out more about having your story ghostwritten and to book an appointment with me.
book now [image error]The post How To Write A Memoir That Amazes Readers by Robin Storey appeared first on Robin Storey.
June 27, 2021
7 Reasons Why I Love Being A Ghostwriter
Why do I love being a ghostwriter? Let me count the ways…actually, here's 7 reasons why I love being a ghostwriter.
If you don't know what a ghostwriter is, then pop over and read this post to bring yourself up-to-date. Don't worry, I'll wait...
...Good, you're back.
This is not so unusual in these pandemic times, and I’m sure most who work from home would agree that not having to dress to impress is very liberating.
A lot of my interviews are on Zoom, as my clients can be all over the world, so I wear a decent shirt for the camera over pyjama pants or gym tights.
If the client lives in my area, I meet with them in person if they prefer it, which they normally do.
This entails frantic rifling through my wardrobe to find an outfit that says, ‘casual but professional,’ and swearing because I kept that tailored blouse for years and finally got rid of it yesterday.
Being my own boss also means I can work my own hours. So I can give myself permission to slack off because it’s Friday/my birthday/someone else’s birthday/take your dog to work day (I don’t have a dog but if I did, I’d get no work done).
Which then means I am up all night on Sunday finishing my project for a Monday deadline.
But it’s all part of the excitement and living on the edge.
And...because I'm my own boss, I can write my own stuff, like my own breast cancer memoir.
As a ghostwriter, I write stories for people who don’t have the time, energy or ability to do it themselves.
I specialise in life stories and memoirs, using my creative talents and sometimes my own research to write a story based on information from my client and relevant others about their life.
People who want their life story written have a particular purpose for doing so.
Sometimes it’s just for the family, a legacy for their descendants; other times they want to publish it to inspire and motivate others, especially if they have overcome specific obstacles in their lives.
Whatever the reason, my clients are always thrilled to see their story transform from just an idea to a tangible product; a book they can hold and read and sell or give to others.
Sometimes publishing their story can be life-changing – one client, Bob, who was 96, had been wanting to write his life story for over 20 years before I came along and agreed to do it.
Bob’s wife of 70 years had recently died and the process of getting me to write the book gave him a sense of purpose and something to fill in the long, lonely hours.
After he published his book The Ambo – from Field Ambulance to Civil Ambulance and More, he received a lot of local media attention because of his age and his achievements in life.
This gave him even more of a thrill, and he never stopped being excited about finally having his story written for posterity. He passed away recently, but I’m so glad I was able to help make his dream come true in his final years.
Job satisfaction doesn’t get much better than that!
The term zone of genius comes from a book by Gay Hendricks called The Big Leap, which I highly recommend if you haven’t already read it.
He divides your work into four zones - Zone of Incompetence, Zone of Competence, Zone of Excellence and Zone of Genius.
Your zone of genius is your own particular superpower. It’s work that capitalizes on your natural abilities, that gets you ‘in the flow.’
Although it’s work that you love doing and you’re good at, it’s not necessarily always easy.
Often you are pushing the boundaries of what you think you can do – but this is where the growth and learning occurs to make you even more brilliant.
I’ve been a professional writer for almost thirty years, but of all the different types of writing I’ve done, ghostwriting is definitely my zone of genius.
I love writing peoples’ stories, and each project I do pushes me out of my comfort zone into new territory and improves my skills.
I appreciate how lucky I am to be able to earn my living working in my zone of genius, as that is where true fulfilment lies.
I’m not a great party person – I avoid them when I can, but I still find myself at the odd social occasion where I’m meeting people for the first time and they ask me what I do.
‘I’m a ghostwriter’ never fails to elicit a raised eyebrow and often a puzzled look.
But I’m happy to explain what a ghostwriter is and talk about my projects (where I haven’t signed a non-disclosure clause), because telling as many people as I can what I do is the best promotion for my business.
I never know where my next referral is going to come from – a person I met at a party knows someone who has a cousin who wants someone to writer his memoir…
And if you lose sight of why you're writing it, read this post to remind you of the reasons why you started writing in the first place.
The process of interviewing people about their lives and the accompanying research I do means that I am constantly learning new things that I had no idea I was interested in.
Here are some of the topics I have become an ‘expert’ on:
Of course, while researching various historical events and people, I have often been led astray down the research rabbit hole, finding out all sorts of interesting facts that have no relevance at all to the story I’m writing.
But you never know when a history of female snipers in WW 11 or a working knowledge of hydronic central heating will come in handy.
Even though I specialise in life stories and memoirs, I’m willing and able to write any story in the non-fiction space – for example, true crime, historical biography, or business books.
I recently completed a story about a group of individuals whose livelihoods were ruined by the greed and corruption of their state government – a fascinating and challenging topic to write about.
Any story that’s based on fact gives me the opportunity to flex my creative muscles, expand my skills and ensure I’m never bored.
7. I Don't Have To RetireYou might not think this is a plus, but when you derive a lot of fulfilment and satisfaction from your work, why would you want to retire?
I Write Therefore I AmBeing a writer is part of who I am and to give that up would mean giving up a part of my identity.
And luckily, sitting at a computer and typing is something I can do as long as I’m able to sit in a chair, and as long as there are people in the world whose stories need telling.
While there are times that I feel like pulling my hair out when I ask a client a very specific question and they ramble on for 20 minutes about anything BUT the question, being a ghostwriter is just a whole bunch of fun.
I realise I am showing a high degree of nerdiness here but reason 8 really does cap off the 7 reasons why I love being a ghostwriter.
It's simply a really fun thing to do.
Do YOU want to have your life story written? If you want to know more then click here to go to my ghostwriter page or click on the Book Now button below to learn more.
Book a Free, No-Obligation Consultation Today!Click the button below to find out more about having your story ghostwritten and to book an appointment with me.
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