Think Positive

Some wise words to live by

Little Adventures: 2013 365 Challenge #296

Do they do Grown-up ones?

Today we got stuck in to the new normal. It was my first day home with little man by himself and we embraced it. We went swimming, at his request, and discovered the local pool has a parent and toddler session in the morning, complete with toys and singing (and in the warmer training pool too, hurrah!)

Then we went to the supermarket for lunch and shopping, and discovered the existence of super-cool car trollies that made shopping with a three year old boy much more fun. Mummy discovered how much mess a dropped 6 pint bottle of milk makes too! “Clean up at till five please!”

Mummy also found out that little boys who have done ninety minutes of swimming, followed by ninety minutes of shopping, fall asleep on the way home so that Wheels on the Bus can be turned off and Mummy can sit in the driveway reading her book.

It’s kind of weird having to rediscover parenting, having stuck to the tried and tested places to go for the last year or two. I find I’ve lost my nerve for new. Two years ago I took two children swimming by myself when one was just a baby – now I find it hard to take one preschooler who is more than happy in the water! It’s amazing how quickly we can get stuck in a rut and lose our confidence.

But, with an eager and energetic three-year-old to wear out and entertain, I can feel some exploration and adventure coming my way! I’m terrified and excited in equal measure.

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire typed some words into the search box and hit return. The library felt cool, despite the sunshine outside, and she wished she’d brought a jacket. Scanning down the list of results, Claire tutted and changed her search parameters. Still nothing.

What did I expect? That the internet would magically produce a report on tourism in the south west? If it was that easy, Conor would have done it himself rather than hiring me.

She sat back in her chair and listened to a mother reading stories to her two children. She admired the way the woman poured her heart and soul into her reading, bringing the characters to life and speaking in different voices.

Dragging her mind away, Claire turned back to the computer, cursing the lack of funds that stopped her replacing her tablet.

At least Conor’s bringing me a laptop.

The thought didn’t make her smile. Conor was also bringing himself; his expectations that she was capable of delivering a report on tourism in less than three months’ time.

What do I know about tourism? I’m amazed I even made it through the interview.

She tried to think back over the weeks to when she’d sat facing the men in suits, and had sold herself and her talents. What had she said that had captured Conor’s enthusiasm and made him move heaven and earth to hire her? The intervening weeks in New Zealand appeared to have leeched all business thoughts from her brain.

At last her random searching came across a website promising to help the tourism industry develop the visitor experience. Flicking through the pages, Claire realised she didn’t even understand the terminology. Phrases like “Primary visitor research” and “In-depth stakeholder interviews” left her none the wiser. In her experience stakeholders were the company directors and clients paying her wages. Who were the stakeholders for tourism?

People like Conor, I guess. Or business owners, people running B&Bs. I don’t know. And how do you interview them all? And what the hell is primary visitor research? Is that what I’m meant to be doing?

Claire rubbed at her temples and let out a sigh. Fighting back tears she, loaded the library catalogue and looked instead for books on the subject. Choosing the most basic looking ones she went off to discover whether they were on the shelves or not.

Damn, it’s like being back at school.

As she wandered around the gallery looking for the books, Claire glanced over at the fiction section below, and thought how nice it was to be back in a library. There had been little reason to visit one, once she had graduated, and she’d forgotten what restful places they were.

The sound of children laughing rose up from the lower floor and Claire smiled. In her student days the noise would have irritated her but it seemed fitting.

It’s nice the kids still come to a library, instead of spending all day on their phones and computers.

Finally locating the section she needed, Claire grabbed a handful of books and went to find a desk. Then she realised she didn’t have so much as a pen or notepad with her, and went back to reception to see if she could borrow something.

Honestly, Claire, you need to get your act together and start taking it all a bit more seriously, or Conor is going to see straight through you.

For some reason making Conor unhappy worried her a lot more than it ever had with Carl. In fact, annoying Carl had become something of a game.

I knew what I was doing then. I don’t want Conor to think I’m an idiot, that’s all.

Trying not to dwell on it, Claire returned to her books and set about learning something about Tourism.

***

In the Now: 2013 365 Challenge #295

And it rained…

We’re always hearing about the importance of ‘Living in the now’. Children and dogs do it really well: they forgive mistakes, don’t hold grudges, are rarely judgemental and can be distracted from misery to happiness in a heartbeat.

Grown-ups; not so much. We live in the past, dwelling on mistakes, re-living better days, yearning for the time when we had a decent job, a lunch break and enough money to buy stuff without feeling guilty (or maybe that’s just the mums!). Or we live for the future: the weekend, the promotion, the new car, the holiday, Christmas, retirement. Even when we are in the now, we moan about it.

“It’s raining.”

“I’m bored.”

“God, I’m ill/tired/stressed.”

We don’t look around and see the beauty in the world. We don’t look at the rain and think, That means the grass is going to grow for another season. That’s topping up the rivers so I can turn on my tap and have a nice cool drink of water. Our minds are like skittish kittens, darting from one shiny thought to the next.

Mindfulness (as I understand it) teaches about living in the now: about being present in the moment without judging it. I don’t know a lot about Mindfulness as a theory, because I have little patience for self-help books. Not that I don’t believe in them, just I don’t seem to be able to read them without looking at myself with loathing and thus spiralling down into darkness. That’s just me. But I understand the principle. Life doesn’t fly by so fast if we can concentrate on the present rather than worrying about the past or future. We enjoy life more if we can give each moment our full attention without judging or criticising ourselves or others or the situation.

Remembering sunny days

However, there are times when I wonder if it is dangerous to live always in the now. Human beings are very good at forgetting: Mothers would never have more than one child if they couldn’t forget the pain of childbirth. We’d never fall in love more than once if the brain didn’t soften the pain of rejection in our memories. Those are good things.

But it’s also easy to look at the rain and think “It’s been raining for weeks! It always rains. When did the sun last shine? I’m so sick of it.” When, actually, the sun shone yesterday. The summer was amazing.

It has rained more or less nonstop here for two weeks (My poor sister, they had the worst of the year’s weather during their visit) but that doesn’t mean it’s been raining forever.

The same happens when we’re ill. A cold, viewed from the outside, is pretty trivial. I joke with my hubbie that I’m only ever sympathetic when I succumb to the same virus. Because, on the inside, it feels like it’s going to last forever; that I never felt well before and my head has ached since the dawn of time. Then it goes, and slowly wellness creeps up, and we take it for granted, until we’re ill again.

Depression can be like that. Down in the pit of despair, it can feel like there is absolutely nothing in the world to live for. That the world will be dark forever and ever. Those who suffer from long-term depression have it the worst because they know that beyond the rise of the next hill is another dark valley. But at the point in which you’re sitting in that pit; that is definitely not the time to live in the now. That’s the time to remember past happiness and look forward to future joy.

One of the bloggers I follow, Michelle Holland of Mummylovestowrite, is currently in one of those deep dips. I want to reach in and pull her out, even though her recent post could have described the inside of my mind two weeks ago (not to the same extremity, as I don’t have chronic depression or anxiety, but close enough). I want to tell her she will laugh again, that she will find something to live for. Except she already knows. She is a strong person. She writes “The real me likes to read, write, enjoy music and interact with others.”

The real me.

Sometimes in the now, especially in a dark now of exhaustion or depression or calamity, we forget who the real us is. That’s when it’s important to look to the past, to remind us, and to concentrate on a brighter future. It’s important not to let the now define us.

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Claire pulled out her phone and glanced at the screen to see who was calling. A smile spread across her face and she looked around for somewhere to sit before selecting answer.

“Hi, Conor.” Her voice rang out into the afternoon sunshine, and she blushed as two passers-by turned to stare.

“Good afternoon, Claire, how’re things?”

Claire looked down the high street and wondered whether to be honest. “Great, they’re great. I’m in Torquay.”

“How’s Kim?” Conor’s voice held a hint of wariness.

“Good, I hope. She’s with her parents.” Claire chose not to reveal that she’d taken a day off to drive her friend home.

“Oh.” She waited while Conor processed the information. “For the best, I suspect. I wish her a speedy recovery.”

The business-like tone of his voice caused the smile on Claire’s face to falter. Just when she felt she knew him, he said or did something that reminded her he was her boss.

As if in confirmation, Conor continued in a brisk tone. “How is the report coming along? I know it’s only been a week, but three months will fly by.” He didn’t need to add that his neck was on the line alongside hers.

A week?

Claire was startled to realise she had been home from New Zealand for so long. It felt like only a day or two since Conor had collected her from the airport.

“Er, yeah, good. Spending time in the English Riviera has helped to frame things.”

“It’s a nice part of the country,” Conor said without inflection.

Claire wondered if he thought all places inferior to the Isle of Purbeck or whether he was disappointed that she hadn’t travelled further in the few days she’d been on the road. With a flush she realised she’d spent half her time dealing with Kim and the rest buying and getting used to her new car.

If I’m not careful I’m going to get sacked before I receive my first pay cheque.

She vowed to spend the next twenty-four hours writing something up before Conor called her bluff and asked for an initial report.

“It occurred to me that we haven’t provided you with the means to compile your findings or send regular updates. I’m in the area tomorrow evening, ready for a meeting first thing Monday. I’ll bring a laptop with me, and you can update me on your first impressions.”

Claire’s heart plummeted and the bacon and brie Panini she’d just eaten sat heavy in her stomach.

Crap.

“Where are you heading tomorrow?” Conor continued. “My meeting is in Plymouth so I’ll be staying in the town overnight. I can recommend the hostel at Salacombe for tonight, if they have space. It’s about an hour from Plymouth but I won’t be in town until the evening anyway. The views are amazing. It’s closing down later in the year as they haven’t been able to renew their lease with the National Trust. It would be a shame to miss out.”

The casual way Conor demonstrated his thorough knowledge of the local area made Claire’s ears buzz with fear.

I am so out of my depth. I thought this would be an easy assignment – a jaunt around a few more hostels and a quick presentation at the end of it. There is so much I have no idea about.

Conscious of how much needed to be done in the next twenty-four hours; Claire took note of where Conor wanted to meet up, and made her excuses.

Time to get to work.

***

Most Days When It Rains – A Poem (neverendingstorydepository.wordpress.com)

The New Normal: 2013 365 Challenge #294

Bottle top faces

This evening marks the eve of the new normal for our family. After a year of unemployment, self employment, projects, lucky breaks, disasters, starting school, publishing books, and finally seeing my sister and her family for the first time in nearly three years, we’re about to embrace a new start: hopefully one with a semblance of routine and normality.

I said goodbye to my sister tonight, and the cousins – who only really met for the first time twelve days ago – had to have the last screaming game of chase and the last negotiation of cuddles for at least another year.

We all cried. When we got home, despite it being bedtime and hubbie retreating poorly to bed, I made pancakes and the children and I settled down to do craft. Normality creeps in through the chaos.

Tomorrow morning hubbie starts his new job. The children will be at school and preschool. My sister and her family will board a plane back to Boston. I’ll write my next Claire installment and iron some clothes. Walk the dog; do the weekly food shop.

Super cool dude

Miss my sister. Enjoy the silence.

The normality will only last a week, before it’s half term and I have to figure out how to write seven daily blog posts with no childcare and no hubbie at home to help. Fun times ahead!

I’m looking forward to our new normal though. Much as I love having hubbie at home and able to spend time with the kids, I do like routine. Even getting into a rhythm of ironing shirts and uniform, making packed lunches and finding book-bags on a Sunday night fills me with a quiet sense of achievement. I’m not an organised person, but when it falls into place it feels nice.

And, of course let’s be honest, I’m rather looking forward to having a bit of time by myself. Even with the extra duties that come with hubbie being out the house all day, I do rather like shutting the front door and knowing it’s just me and the dog for a few hours. When you know there’s only you to do the work, it doesn’t seem so much of a chore somehow. Here’s to the new normal. Let’s hope this endless rain isn’t part of it!

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Claire meandered down the high street and watched the busy shoppers scurrying from store to store, their hands clutching bags of all sizes and colours.

As she looked about her at the town centre, with the endless row of cream buildings towering over her, Claire felt a strange sense of displacement. It was Saturday, and she didn’t know what to do with her day.

Trying to view everything as a tourist, to take in what worked and what didn’t, occupied part of her mind. In the back, however, like chattering children in the cinema, her thoughts kept making disturbing observations.

What did I used to do at the weekend, when I had a normal life? When I wasn’t working, sleeping off a hangover or visiting my parents?

With a pang she realised that, up until last Christmas, weekends had been spent with Michael. Even then, she couldn’t really remember what they did. On a Sunday they read the papers in comfortable silence in one of the many coffee shops. Saturdays usually meant the cinema or going out to dinner or maybe a walk in the park. Mostly they spent too long in bed or talked about work.

What do single people do? Do they just go shopping, and spend all the money they’ve worked so hard to earn during the week? Go to theatres and museums by themselves? Meet with friends? Read a book? Clean the house?

She’d been shocked when Ruth had reminded her it was only four months since she’d left for Berwick-upon-Tweed. Normal life seemed such a long time ago. Still, she guessed that four months of never really knowing what day of the week it was, and there being nothing to mark the difference in days except some things were shut on a Sunday, made it feel much longer.

Claire wondered if that was what had prompted Ruth to start attending church on Sunday, once she had free time without Sky. Was it for a sense of routine? Or to meet people?

As she let her feet direct her into a café for lunch and a latte, Claire became conscious of an overwhelming sense of the futility of things.

We go to work, to earn money, to buy stuff to make ourselves happy because we’ve spent all week at work. What on Earth is that all about?

It was easy to feel there was no point at all without someone to share it with. But looking back on her time with Michael, it hadn’t seemed all that different. Of course she had enjoyed his company, in and out of the bedroom. But what did they ever actually talk about but the latest scandal at work or where to go for dinner. That all seemed pretty meaningless too.

Is that why Michael wanted children? To give life some purpose.

She thought about her time with Sky. It certainly filled the day with things to do, but she couldn’t see how it gave life meaning. Headaches, heartache, insomnia, but not meaning. If not work, or children, or friends or lovers, then what?

Claire wrapped her hands around her mug of coffee, waiting for some low-paid barista staff to bring her an overpriced Panini, and wondered if somehow she’d missed the point.

***

“Kobogeddon”

First WH Smith then all KOBO

A couple of days ago I wrote about online retailers censoring self-published and indie books, referring to WH Smith / Kobo in the UK. Despite including this picture of the BBC news headline, “Kobo pulls self-published books after abuse row”, I didn’t really appreciate that there were two distinct (though overlapping) aspects to the scandal.

The first part, to do with censorship of erotica, I covered in my previous post. I personally don’t have a problem with restricting books that might be considered inappropriate (or ‘sick’ as one commenter defined them. Although I think these days sick means good, yes? I’m over thirty, I don’t know.)

The other element, that had passed me by, was the fact that Kobo blamed self-published authors for the whole affair. I caught up when I stumbled across the hashtag Kobogeddon on Twitter last night. UK-based author Rayne Hall started the hashtag to bring attention to Kobo’s hypocrisy and back-stabbing actions. Her blog posts on Goodreads here and here explain the full story, for anyone who doesn’t know the details.

#Kobogeddon on Twitter

In summary, a UK newspaper pointed out to WH Smith that they had featured books on rape and incest alongside children’s books (I think we can all agree that something had to be done. Perhaps put an 18+ filter on all books containing erotica?). In reaction WH Smith took down their ebook website and their provider, Kobo, took down all UK books. (Not just UK authors, I believe US authors were affected, although their books are still available in the US).

Fine. They had to do something. I’ve worked in PR, I get that. But they only took down self-published books (and ALL of them, not just erotica): any traditionally published erotica is still available for all to see.

That was five days ago. As of now my books are still not available on Kobo, although I understand that books published directly through Kobo are starting to reappear. Any of you who have read Dragon Wraiths, or Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes, or any one of the Claire installments on this blog that I collate into free books, will know there is nothing racier than a non-explicit sex scene or the occasional snog. Hardly risqué, Kobo.

Yet when I type in “School of” (as suggested by a comment on Rayne Hall’s blog) I get this selection of books (picture below): notice the erotic books School of Spank and School of Discipline alongside the children’s book The Clumsies Make a Mess of the School.

Kobo search results for “School of”

When I look down the list of categories on the left hand side there isn’t even an erotica category listed (although if you click in the book they are labelled as erotica, so the tagging is there).

I have restrictions enabled on my iPad to stop the children coming across things they shouldn’t (including books). Shame it doesn’t seem to work on any of the online retail sites. Smashwords at least has an adult filter, although it seems not all authors are using it. Self-published authors do need to take some responsibility for correctly tagging their books.

But Kobo has got it all wrong. Indie and Self-Published authors are not the only problem. Even if authors are not correctly labelling their books as ‘adult’, it still only represents a proportion of all books. By taking down everything, with no explanation (unless authors are published directly with them) they haven’t just chucked the baby out with the bath water, they’ve thrown the cash cow over a cliff.

Like it or not, self-publishing is part of the future of the book industry and pissing off authors is a really bad idea. I don’t need Kobo. According to my Smashwords stats I haven’t had a single book downloaded from Kobo since the beginning (although I might be in trouble if Barnes and Noble decide they don’t want to publish my books). I have other routes to market. Do they?

Please spread the word, whether you’re in the UK or not. If possible, buy your ebooks from another source. Direct from Smashwords is best. Support your Indie authors! We thank you for it.

Stilling the Voices: 2013 365 Challenge #293

The sun at last

I finally got to take the dog for a long walk today. It seems to have been raining for a fortnight and I confess the dog only gets the twenty-minute walk when it’s wet.

Today the sun shone and I happily strode around the 45 minute circuit enjoying the feeling of warmth on my face and a breeze on my skin. When I’ve been too much indoors my skin feels like it can’t breathe.

The challenge for me at such times is being able to still the voices in my head.

It sometimes feels like I’m walking around with a radio on my shoulder, like the kids you used to see on the high street with a ghetto blaster, in the days before iPods and tiny headphones. Freed from the constant chatter of the children, the kids’ TV, the family, the emails, texts and tweets, my brain runs like it’s on rails. A dozen different monologues chunter on, as I mentally write a blog post, plan my next novel and come up with a dozen marketing ideas I’ll never find time for.

Enjoying the evening sun

Usually I take my phone, so I can write one thing down and silence the cacophony. Today I left my phone behind, hoping to get free from the noise, from the endless words. Too much time indoors, more children than I’m used to, and a serious bout of sleep deprivation, has left me full up to the brim.

Unfortunately the voices don’t stop. Try as I might to focus on the autumn leaves, the sun shining in puddles or the dog frolicking across the fields, the inner voice doesn’t shut up.

Sometimes when I walk I end up with a children’s song stuck in my mind. A repetitive marching one, like Grand Old Duke of York or Nelly the Elephant. It drives me nuts. Like someone tuned the radio to the most annoying channel possible before removing the dial.

Today I wondered if actually it’s my brain’s way of switching off. The equivalent of putting my fingers in my ears and going “la la la la” to drown out the voices. Is that why people chant when they meditate? I’ve never tried meditation, but it occurs to me that the chanting might serve to block the endless chatter of the mind. If only my brain could settle on something less maddening than a nursery rhyme.

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The fireball sun hovered low in the sky, painting the clouds in lavish strokes of indigo and scarlet.

Claire followed her feet around the harbour, her mind moving as restlessly as the boats moored in the water. Beneath each straining white craft the sea rose and fell in gentle swells.

The scene was not the picture-postcard view of perfect reflections, that she’d seen hanging in a shop window during her evening stroll. Somehow, though, the endless motion of the tethered boats matched her mood. She could empathise with their constant urge to pull free and leave the safety of the shallow waters.

Around her an eclectic mix of buildings climbed the hillsides to overlook the town. A two-tone church watched paternally from above, while apartments and villas gathered to gossip on the opposite hill.

The moniker of English Riviera suited the place. It lacked the polished style of the Mediterranean, but still sat resplendent in its English charm.

The sun sank lower in the sky, its dimming brilliance picked up by streetlights and hotels, as if the baton for luminescence had been passed down to the them.

Calm fell over the water and, like children finally exhausted by their play, the boats ceased their bobbing and lay still. Gradually the surface of the harbour flattened until Claire could see the yachts and buildings reflected in perfect symmetry.

Her wandering steps led her out towards the sea which stretched not to the horizon but to more lights in the distance. She tried to work out what place she could see, but the geography of the area had yet to settle in her mind.

Turning her head back towards the town, Claire was surprised to see a bright white wheel dominating the skyline. The Ferris wheel hadn’t been noticeable in the daylight, with the houses and hillside behind it. Now it illuminated the harbour like a giant watching eye.

Around her Claire heard the sounds of Friday night revelry notching up a gear.

I guess in some ways we will never be like the Mediterranean.

From what she could remember of trips to Italy, night-time revelry mostly consisted of walking up and down the main street catching up with friends, followed by a late meal and even later celebrations at some nightclub in the hills.

Not drunk and rowdy teenagers collecting in groups and vomiting on the pavement.

As if to punctuate the thought, a huddle of bodies stumbled past and several people tumbled into the gutter amidst howls of laughter.

Her skin prickled as she sensed one of the men watching her. Aware of how far she had walked from the hostel, Claire forced herself to turn slowly and amble back towards town.

“Hey, pretty lady, wanna have some fun?”

Claire ducked her head and pretended not to hear. She felt his gaze piercing her shoulder blades, and every nerve zinged with the need to run. Reminding herself she wasn’t in a dark lane, but out in the open with plenty of witnesses, Claire concentrated on keeping her steps measured.

With a silent bark of derision she realised how soft she’d become in the months since leaving Manchester.

Once upon a time I would have told him where to go. She sighed. It seemed there was no end to what she had lost thanks to Carl’s machinations.

As soon as she was some distance from the group she lengthened her stride until the buildings came forward to greet her, providing the illusion of safety.

She tried to take in the details dispassionately; to generate ideas for her tourism report for Conor. Instead a wave of sadness washed around her, as if the harbour water had risen in a sudden squall to drench her tranquillity.

Ringing loud in her mind, as clear as if she had shouted it out to the hidden ocean, came the thought that she didn’t want to be here. No matter how beautiful the view or how peaceful the sounds of boats settling together like a flock of roosting birds, it was just another step in her endless journey.

What the hell am I doing? All I know about being a tourist is that I don’t want to be one anymore.

Folding her arms across her chest, Claire ducked her head and let her urgent feet carry her back to her borrowed bed.

***

School: Who is in charge? 2013 365 Challenge #292

Happy school

We had our first ‘learning conversation’ at school today (parents’ evening in the old language.) Our daughter has only been at school a few weeks, so there wasn’t much to discuss except is she making friends okay and how can we support her burgeoning desire to read? (She’s wanted to read for ages but wouldn’t let Mummy teach her! When she read out simple words like Pat and Mac this evening I wanted to burst with pride.)

It was the conversations in the playground that I found interesting though. We have a little book that is meant to be our means for communicating with the teachers, when it isn’t possible to catch them in the morning, and aside from the ten minute learning conversation slot every few months.

I happened to mention that I wrote something in the book about my daughter’s phonics and was disappointed that it wasn’t responded to – and that one of the assistants made the same point two rows below. (I confess, I scrawled in red pen “please refer!” and drew an arrow up to our comment. Okay, I’m a child!)

Some of my parent friends laughed at me, and I couldn’t understand why. Was it because I was pushing my child too hard, or that I had enough time to read through her homework diary (I know I’m extremely fortunate to have that extra time, that working parents sometimes don’t, and I was concerned that I was rubbing it in.) Hubbie was with me and I asked him what he thought I’d done wrong. His view surprised me: he thinks they laughed because I challenged the teacher with my comment. And it got me thinking – do some parents see it that the teachers are in charge and they have no role to play in their child’s education? Do I?

Playing after school

If you had asked me a few years ago, I would have said of course they are. They’re the professionals, what do I know? I would no more home-school than I would home-dentist. But now I have a slightly different view.

Of course teachers are better informed in how to get the best learning experience out of a child, and I intend to leave as much to them as possible. Particularly because my daughter doesn’t want to learn from me and I can’t help but get frustrated when she can sound a word out perfectly – say C.A.T. – and then read it as “dog”. I mean, really? 😉

However, am I prepared to leave it entirely to the teachers, and not want to know the details of what she’s learning, especially at this early stage? No. Not any more. Teachers are human just as I am. I made mistakes in my job, I took the wrong things seriously, I did my best and it wasn’t always perfect. I’m not saying teachers will make mistakes, but they are only human. Plus, even with the assistants, they’re still on a 12-1 ratio. And, ultimately, no one will understand or care for my child as I do.

It’s difficult to do things that get laughed at. I remember now laughing at one of my other parent friends because she checked her son’s merit chart every day to make sure he was getting merits (think gold stars). I felt she was a bit pushy. How wrong I was. She was just interested and keen that he did well. It’s so easy to judge from the outside, but none of us can know how we’ll react until it is our turn! So, yes, I’ll be the pushy parent, the pain, the one questioning and asking and not taking it all for granted. Up until now I’ve left the professionals to it. But not any more!

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“Hello?”

“Ruth, hi, it’s Claire.” She held her breath, waiting for the tirade. There was silence, and she imagined her sister’s mouth hanging open like a fish as she tried to decide how angry to be.

“Hi, sis, how are you? How was New Zealand? The pictures on the blog looked amazing.”

It was Claire’s turn to hesitate. The warmth in her sister’s voice and words momentarily froze her brain.

“Er, it was lovely. Bit cold, in the south. It’s good to be back in the UK. Um, sorry I didn’t stop by when I got home.”

“That’s okay, Mum said you had some problems with Kim or something. I hope she’s okay?”

Still the uncharacteristic mellow tone. Claire felt like she was talking to a stranger.

“Yes, Kim’s been, um, poorly. She was going to come travelling with me but we decided she needed to stay with her parents for a while.”

“I’m sure that’s for the best. Have you started your new job? Didn’t I read on the blog that you were working for Dorset tourism or something?”

“What? I mean, yes I started work this week. I’ve got three months to prove my worth.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage it; after four months on the road you must have a pretty good handle on what tourists want. And at least you’re not working for that silly man any more, or a faceless corporation like Happy Cola.”

Claire shivered. She’d never known her sister to show so much interest in her life before or to talk for so long without saying anything about how awful her own life was. She felt like she’d woken in an alternative reality.

“How’s Sky?” That would be safer territory.

“She’s great. She’s spending time with Chris at the weekends, so I’ve had a chance to get some rest, catch up on reading and housework, that kind of thing.”

“Huh? I thought you said she’d see Chris over your dead body?” Claire’s head reeled with the change of direction.

“Yes, well, it nearly came to that, didn’t it?”

Ruth’s matter-of-fact tone didn’t fool Claire, but she was glad of it. She wasn’t sure she could handle any more lachrymose languishing. Even so, the idea that her sister was willingly making contact with the ex-husband she swore she’d never see again was too much to take in.

“Blimey, I’ve only been away a month and the world’s on its head. What made you change your mind?”

“Sky. She kept asking to see her dad and her new sister. At first it made me cross, with her and you.”

Claire braced herself for the attack she knew was coming. “I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bump into him.”

“It’s fine. You’ve done me a favour. We’ve agreed that Sky will spend every other weekend with him, and Bryony and Eloise of course.”

That was too much for Claire. “Hang on. Sorry, I can’t get my head around this. Bryony? Not that woman? What the hell happened, Ruth?”

“It was time I forgave him. I didn’t make life easy for him, when Sky was born. I see that now. And family is important. Sky probably won’t have any other siblings through me; she should be allowed to know her sister.”

A suspicion crept into Claire’s brain, only to be dismissed. Something about the way Ruth spoke, her measured tone and air of calm forgiveness, made her sound like a missionary. As if hearing Claire’s thoughts, Ruth’s next words confirmed it.

“I’ve started going to a new church on Sunday. They made me see that life’s too short for grudges. You should come, Claire, next time you’re home. They’re wonderful people.”

“Sure, I’ll do that,” Claire muttered. Part of her felt relieved that Ruth had found a new focus in life, but another part of her worried that Ruth had been brainwashed by some cult.

I watch too much TV. A church in the midlands isn’t going to be a brainwashing cult.

With a wry smile, she pushed the foolish thoughts aside. “I have to go, Ruth, but I’m so glad to hear that you’re getting on well. I’ll give you another call soon. You take care.”

As she hung up the phone, Claire’s mind whirled with new emotions.

***

A Breather: 2013 365 Challenge #291

My smart son

As you may have noticed, I ended up separating the ‘top part’ of my two-part daily blog challenge today and publishing it on its own. If you didn’t spot it, I wrote this, all about the news that the likes of Kobo and Amazon are deleting e-books they consider to be inappropriate.

It ended up being rather long (over 1000 words) and emotive and didn’t sit happily with a Claire installment. It also ate up all my writing time this morning (darling hubbie has taken our daughter to school and our son to the barbers so I can have some time to catch up, but they’ve just got back).

So, I’m off to find something for Claire to do today, while my boiling brain comes down from researching and writing about e-book censorship, and my son watches a DVD.

In the meantime, here’s a lovely picture of my son proudly wearing his new Red Sox baseball top, courtesy of his auntie and uncle. Doesn’t he look smart?

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire drove along the twisting tree-covered lane and let her mind drift, enjoying the empty car and empty roads. She wondered how Kim was settling in at her parents’ house and hoped her friend wasn’t holding any grudges.

I guess that’s probably too much to ask for. If she’ll forgive me when she’s better, that will be enough.

The sense of freedom filling her spirit made her heart ache with a mixture of joy and guilt. It was good to be free of the coach and the schedule, and – if she was honest – free from Kim’s constant misery. Did that make her a bad person?

As if running through the events of the year, her thoughts turned to Josh. She hadn’t heard from him since his return to Fiona, and she hoped it was because he was pouring his energy into making his marriage work, and not because he had found his escapism elsewhere.

I really should send him a note, make sure he’s okay.

She added it to her list of things to do and tried to push it out of her head. Another face tugged at her mind, someone else she hadn’t contacted recently enough. Ruth.

Damn. I meant to call in and see her before I left for the south. In all the confusion with Kim and not having a bloody car, I forgot.

Remorse twisted at her stomach and she vowed to ring her sister as soon as she got to the next hostel.

That’s assuming I ever get there.

Claire pulled the car around another sharp bend and tried to rein in her frustration. On the map, the tiny white road along the edge of the county had seemed to promise stunning sea views or at least beautiful scenery. So far it had delivered mostly urban roads and tree-lined lanes. She knew the sea was somewhere to her left, but it didn’t show itself very often.

I think the first thing I need to do is buy a new guide to Britain. Goodness only knows what happened to mine.

It was hard not to feel like her life had come full circle, as she followed the SatNav’s directions into town. It had been less than four months since she’d driven to Berwick-upon-Tweed with little idea of what the future held in store for her. In all those weeks she’d stayed in so many different places, home and abroad, that they were all beginning to merge together.

The hostel, when she arrived, looked like just another Victorian terrace in a wide street of cream houses. It didn’t feel particularly touristy, but she could at least see the sea in the distance as she pulled up outside.

With a sigh, Claire found somewhere to leave her new car, grateful that it had travelled the short distance without breaking down, and went to check in.

Inside, the building felt more like student digs than a hostel. The website had suggested it was a good base for seasonal workers, and Claire figured that probably explained most of the residents. It gave it a strange feel, as if she were intruding; coming to crash on someone’s sofa. More than anything, it made her yearn for a place of her own.

Forcing a grin, she strode up to the reception and dropped her bag. “Hi, I’m here to check in.”

***

E-Book Censorship – Necessary or a Slippery Slope?

The story as it unfolds

Some worrying news has trickled through to me this week, through various sources, that Amazon, Barnes & Noble and particularly Kobo are censoring Self-Published/Indie Published books. As far as I can gather, from reading posts on Shannon Thompson’s Facebook wall – here and here – and through statements from Smashwords, the concern is specific types of erotica, such as incest or rape themed books, but may easily stretch into all Indie Publishing.

WH Smith, who sell Kobo books in the UK, took down ALL self-published books in response to criticism over some of the content they apparently unknowingly stocked.

Smashwords also has this comment in their statement:

Going forward, I think we can expect this to become the new reality as major retailers set their sights on a global market where the cultural, religious or political norms in some countries will find certain categories of erotica too objectionable, or might find non-erotic categories that most western cultures consider mainstream as too objectionable. This means we can expect more mess to come in the years ahead as the industry navigates ebook globalization [My emphasis]

Now I have to be honest, this isn’t a straightforward debate for me. My mind is surging with conflicting emotions. Paramount is the thought “Oh my goodness, if they start deleting Indie books, there goes my five-year plan. Amazon is already censoring reviews (I’ve had at least three reviews of my books deleted and lord knows how many more I don’t know about). I’ll have to give up writing and get a job.”

This might seem like an overreaction when I write books with no sex in them, never mind erotica. But, as Smashwords points out, this may well not just stop at erotica but might cover any area that’s considered taboo in a certain culture. Shannon points out on her blog that the legal age of drinking between the UK and the US is different, so might books featuring a teenager drinking be banned in the US?

First WH Smith then all KOBO

Then of course comes the view that refusing to publish any kind of books is bad. It’s censorship, it’s against free speech, it’s harking back to the days of banning and burning books for not fitting in with the social mores of its time. As one commenter points out on Shannon’s blog, though, it isn’t actually against free speech, because these companies are businesses and have every right to sell what they choose. Even so, it still isn’t good news for Indie authors like me.

Ah, but then, a third voice pipes up: the voice of the parent. I’d happily see all porn banned on the internet: free speech or no. And if there are erotica books out there that favour or promote rape, then I am happy for them to be banned. (Remember this is only the parent talking, so no snotty comments about me being a bigot, thanks!)

I don’t want my daughter growing up in a world where people have had easy access to books promoting rape. There’s something about an idea being written down that gives it gravitas. You write about rape in a book, make it sound like a cool thing, and somebody somewhere is going to feel like that gives them a green light.

In an article on the Christian Science Monitor (which I found through Shannon’s blog) someone defends the erotica ebooks by saying:

“We outlaw snuff films, child porn and, increasingly, revenge porn, because actual people are harmed during their production,” wrote PJ Vogt on OnTheMedia.org.

“Erotic fiction concerns fake characters who don’t exist in real life.”

So it’s okay if it’s in a book, with fake characters? I should agree, yes of course. Except I’ve read books that have changed the way I think. They’ve actually rewired my brain to see the world a different way. That’s the power of fiction (as so beautifully argued in a lecture by Neil Gaiman recently:

When you watch TV or see a film, you are looking at things happening to other people. Prose fiction is something you build up from 26 letters and a handful of punctuation marks, and you, and you alone, using your imagination, create a world and people it and look out through other eyes. You get to feel things, visit places and worlds you would never otherwise know. You learn that everyone else out there is a me, as well. You’re being someone else, and when you return to your own world, you’re going to be slightly changed.

Neil Gaiman

The On the Media article quoted above says that internet porn hasn’t increased actual instances of rape, and makes the assumption that literature won’t either. But if you look at Neil’s argument, the written word is more powerful than onscreen images, precisely because it happens inside the mind. It locates another ‘me’ in the world. Great if that widens the mind, not so great if it narrows it.

Neil also says, “We have an obligation [as writers] to make things beautiful. Not to leave the world uglier than we found it” but that’s an entirely different argument against some of these books!

There is a petition on Change.org that I will probably sign, but I am having to think twice about it. The petition does say **This petition is NOT condoning non-fictional beastiality, incest, pediphilia or other things of such ‘extreme’ nature**.

Non-fictional? What about fictional? Also, there are some views in the comments that I don’t agree with. For example someone says you need a credit card to buy the books, so you’re obviously over 18. Except what about the free sample? I’ve downloaded the first few chapters of plenty of books without having to pay for them, and many of them I wouldn’t want my daughter to read at any age.

It’s a difficult debate and I hate not knowing what side of the fence I sit on. If Amazon and other online retailers delete my books, I’m back to square one: trying to fight my way in through the agent/publisher route. And I believe we’ll all be the poorer for stopping the publishing revolution before it’s even got underway. However there is no doubt that there are books out there that ruin the image of self-publishing for all of us, never mind books I wouldn’t want my kids to have access to.

Where do you sit?

___

Self-Published Erotica is Being Singled Out For Sweeping Deletions From Major eBookstores (the-digital-reader.com)
A Little More on Taboos – and Censorship (brianrushwriter.wordpress.com)
Kobo porn scandal: the end of self-publishing? (telegraph.co.uk)
This is Not The First Time That Amazon Has Removed Adult Content Without Warning or Good Reason (the-digital-reader.com)
Kobo halts self-publishing after row (bbc.co.uk)

The Life We Choose: 2013 365 Challenge #290

Laundry Mountain

Sometimes the choices we make for ourselves are the hardest ones to live with. Situations that life throws at us can be endured, but taking responsibility for our own actions, our own choices, takes more courage.

Six years ago I chose to leave a good job because it wasn’t for me and was making me miserable. Hubbie supported me in my decision, even though I had no job to go to. I had every intention of making money selling paintings, not realising what a daft dream that was, and ended up contracting instead. Hubbie had to put up with my grump as I commuted four hours a day, leaving at 6am and getting back at 8pm.

Then I got pregnant and knew I wanted to be at home with my children as much as possible. Not full time, I wasn’t capable of that. But we reordered our finances so I could have a day or two to write without feeling pressured to earn enough to pay for the childcare. My part of the deal was taking on all the household chores. It was a fair trade.

When hubbie was made redundant I accepted that most of those chores and childcare duties would remain mine as he sought work and undertook DIY projects. But it’s one thing doing all the house stuff when you’re the only adult in it and another still doing them when someone else is there, even if they’re busy working. Mostly I manage to keep perspective, with the odd request for hubbie to empty the dishwasher or cook dinner.

My amazing hubbie

During the daily blog nightmare, hubbie has been amazing, taking the kids, doing the school run, giving me time to write. And I love him for it. But on days like today, when time is precious, and more hours have been spent on housework and chores than writing, I find myself getting resentful and snappy, even when I know he is working too.

Hubbie and I had a row as I chucked the makings of stew in the pot before rushing out to collect the kids. I haven’t written a word today and it makes me crabby. But these were my choices. I don’t have to go to work on Monday. He does. I don’t have to worry about meeting new colleagues or still finding time for the kids. I appreciate everything he has given me and I try so hard not to complain.

So this is an apology to him. I know I made my choices, and they genuinely make me happy. Sorry I forgot for a moment.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked around at the endless rows of cars and tried not to panic. Remembering her father’s advice, she pushed her shoulders back and pasted a smile on her face. Confidence, that was the key. That, and knowing he had agreed to lend her five hundred pounds to buy her first car. She felt eighteen years old.

Claire peered through the window of the nearest vehicle, despite the price tag hanging from the window. She wondered if there was anything in her price range.

Probably tucked at the back, out of sight.

She sighed. There was no denying that it hurt to be looking for a tatty rust bucket rather than a nice Audi or BMW.

I made my choices, I guess.

“Can I help you, madam?”

The voice greeting her was closer than she expected, and it made her jump. Turning to face the source of the voice, she had to suppress a giggle. He looked about ten years younger than her, in a shiny suit that didn’t seem to fit very well.

“I’m looking for a car.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place.” He laughed, then stopped as Claire raised an eyebrow at him. “What kind of car are you looking for?”

The salesman looked her up and down and she could imagine him taking in her stretch jeans and polo shirt, the sunglasses holding back her heavy brown hair, and trying to decide what would best suit her.

“How about a nice Range Rover, or the BMW X5?” He looked around, as if surprised to discover there weren’t any parked right by him.

Claire didn’t know whether to be flattered or horrified that he clearly took her for a yummy mummy. “I’d love one, but my budget doesn’t stretch I’m afraid. I just need a runabout that will take me around the West Country for a few weeks. When I return to the city I won’t need it.” She hoped her cover story – that she was on assignment from a City job – didn’t sound too forced. Then she wondered why it mattered what some lad in the sticks thought of her.

“Oh, right.” The salesman’s face fell dramatically and Claire half expected him to stick out his bottom lip. She guessed he was paid commission.

There’s not going to be much coming from me, I’m afraid. Better luck next time.

She followed the man through the sparkling sea of cars to the back of the lot where, as she suspected, the two or three cheap cars lurked unwanted and unloved.

Her Dad had explained they would be trade-ins and there wouldn’t be much choice, as the garages usually off-loaded them at auction. “I don’t need choice,” had been her response, “I need reliability.”

Her dad had sucked air in through his teeth and asked her if she had breakdown cover. It didn’t bode well.

The salesman started rambling on about low insurance groups and minimal tax. Claire let the words wash over her as she peered in the windows of the brown, beige and grey cars huddled together as if for protection.

Why do older cars look so furtive? As if they’re glad to have escaped the crusher?

Even with the fondness she had developed for the Skoda, Claire still shuddered as she opened creaking doors to be greeted by the stink of stale smoke and overpowering air fresheners.

She climbed inside the least awful car and flinched as her hands touched the sticky seats. Quickly climbing out, Claire smoothed the grimace off her face and turned back to the salesman.

“Is this all you’ve got?”

He nodded, all his exuberance gone as he realised he was unlikely to make a sale.

With a shrug, Claire looked them over again. “Which is likely to be the most reliable?”

The boy shook his head, to indicate he had no idea.

“Well, can I speak to your boss, then, please?” Claire stood with one hand on her hip. The salesman hesitated, then nodded again and strode across the parking lot.

It was several long minutes before an older man threaded his way through the cars towards her. Claire had had time to regret her request. It was easy to keep up a front with the inexperienced salesboy, but a manager was likely to prove tougher.

“Can I help you, madam?” The man asked, in a deep gravelly voice. His eyes twinkled and his face showed signs of habitual laughter.

Claire felt herself relax slightly. “I need a cheap runabout to get me round the West Country without breaking down. I’ve only got five hundred quid.” She gave a wry smile. “The Company doesn’t believe in exec cars, and I’ve never needed one before.” That was mostly the truth.

She half expected the man to rub his hands in glee and sell her the worst of the lot. Instead he smiled, and gave an understanding nod.

“It’s going to be tricky to find reliability for that kind of money. What you need is something that’ll be cheap to fix.”

It wasn’t what Claire wanted to hear. Maybe hiring a car would be a better option after all.

“We’ve got a nice Vauxhall Cavalier. You could probably fix that yourself if it broke down.” He gestured towards a boxy red car in the corner that Claire hadn’t noticed before. She walked over and peered through the window. She felt some of the tension leave her neck and shoulders as she saw a neat black interior. When she opened the door it smelled clean and cared for.

“Owner didn’t want to part with her, but the wife popped out a fourth and they had to get a seven-seater.” The manager walked up beside her. “It’s only done forty-thousand miles. Twelve months MOT, six months tax. It’s got a sunroof and electric windows, which is pretty good for a twenty-year-old car. It’ll get you forty to the gallon, which you’ll need if you’re putting in some miles. Petrol, too, so cheaper to run these days. Not like it used to be.”

Claire climbed into the car and let the man’s words flow around her like summer rain. It was bigger than the Skoda, more comfortable too.

“You’ll need to watch the oil and water,” the man continued, “they can get a bit thirsty. Should be cheap to insure though. Small engine.”

With her hands on the steering wheel, Claire sat back and let her body sink into the seat. A car. Her own car. To drive wherever she need to go. A smile spread across her face.

“I’ll take it.”

***