A Day of Memories: 2013 365 Challenge #259

My soul mate

It’s my wedding anniversary today. September is full of anniversaries: I first got chatting online to my hubbie at the beginning of the month, we met for the first time on 12th and, two years later, got married on 16th.

We each joke that we bought our spouse online for a bargain £16.99 (neither of us actually remembers how much) because we met through an online dating site. I joined because I was trying to shake off a persistent ex. Hubbie? Well, I think he was just playing around.

Apparently I stood out because I was polite. When there were several online conversations going on at once even my 80wpm typing speed would struggle, and I dismissed his first attempt at hello with an apology and a ‘maybe later’. Well, thankfully he came back.

Happy Memories

Our first date was memorable, too. It was the day after my friend’s wedding and we met in a pub I used to work in as I drove back from the venue. Hubbie dropped his keys down a drain and I had to drive him home for a spare, thus breaking all the online dating first date rules!

The year we got married was a momentous year for all sorts of reasons. We went to five or six weddings that year – it seemed to be the year for all our friends to get married. Ours was one of the last, so there was lots of pinching ideas and lots of stressing that we hadn’t done this or that.

It was also the year my father died suddenly, my hubbie was out of work, I graduated from my MA course, we moved house, and we went on our honeymoon to NZ on Boxing Day (where I spent three weeks not realising I was suffering from depression, just thinking I was going mad and didn’t want to be married.)

We survived it all and, on balance (with one exception) it was a good year. This week seems the right time to be sharing my poems about Dad. I may also share the short story I wrote about my online dating experience, although I’d like to publish a collection of short stories at some point, and that would be the main one, so maybe I’ll hang on to it, just in case.

A year of lilies

Postcards from an English Summer – July

The white marquee lies moored amidst a fleet

of tiny tents parading gifts and crafts.

I penetrate inside the hallowed gloom,

where village pride is wrapped up in the wares.

Fresh runner beans lie prone in pristine rows,

positioned with precise and loving care.

Resplendent dahlia blooms in vivid hues

await the judge’s eye with stately poise.

A dozen different fragrances lay siege,

each vying with the earthy scent of veg

and sweet delicious smell of cakes and jam,

as anxious faces seek out their rosettes.

The clink of teacups almost masks the sound

of children running races, egg and spoon.

Their giggles, yells of joy and cries of woe

discordant here within the quiet hall.

Immersed amid the happy families,

nostalgia wraps me in its snug cocoon.

I search the crowd but know that you’re not here,

my sense of loss is like a distant song.

_______________________________________________________________________________

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 lay back in the pool and watched the sun disappearing through the trees. Giant sails blocked out most of the sky, although she could just see glimpses of pink from the setting sun in the gaps around the edges. The heat seeped into her tired muscles and forced her to relax.

Bethan swam languidly up to where she lay, and propped her chin on her crossed arms so she could watch the people walking past.

“So, was this worth it then? Lovely, isn’t it? I can’t remember the last time I had a bath.”

“I wondered what the smell was.” Claire smiled to show she was joking: after the conversation in Warehouse, she felt more fearful of offending her friend.

“Ha ha,” Bethan responded, flipping over to face the same direction as Claire.

“Sorry. Yes, it’s lovely. Far less eggy than the last hot pool I lay in. Less mucky, too.”

“Let me guess, Hot Water Beach?”

“Yes. Seems a long time ago now. I don’t suppose it was, really.” Claire swished her legs through the water, deliberating whether she had the energy for a swim.

“Travelling does strange things to time.” Bethan sounded thoughtful, and Claire wondered if she was thinking of her own journey. Aside from the information that she’d spent two years in America, Bethan had shared little about her personal life.

She was about to ask how long Bethan planned to stay in New Zealand, when she sensed the girl stiffen. Looking over, she saw her gaze fixed on something across the pool. Her face drained of colour and Claire wondered if she was going to faint.

“Are you okay?”

Bethan didn’t seem to hear her. Unsure what to do, Claire hovered near her shoulder, ready to offer support if required. After a moment or two, Bethan’s face lost its rigidity and she took a deep breath. She turned towards Claire and seemed surprised to see her so close.

“Sorry, were you saying something?”

“Nothing important. Are you alright? You look like you saw a ghost.”

Bethan laughed and her voice shook. “I thought I had.”

Claire raised her eyebrows in query, and Bethan shook her head.

Although her mind clamoured with curious questions, Claire closed her lips tight and tried to respect her friend’s need for silence.

After a while, Bethan spoke quietly. “I saw someone who looked like my husband: shocked me for a moment”

Claire’s eyes widened. She’d taken Bethan for someone in their very early twenties, not a married woman. She glanced at her friend’s hand, but already knew she didn’t wear a ring. She’d never mentioned a husband waiting for her at home. Again she wanted to ask questions, but something stopped her.

Her reticence was unnecessary, as Bethan answered her unspoken queries anyway.

“No, I don’t wear a ring. We’re not married anymore. Yes I was a young bride. Your stereotypical Thai bride, I suppose. I married a man to get to America. In the beginning, anyway. But I loved him, oh so very much.”

Claire’s mind churned. She pictured Bethan with some old man, like couples she’d seen sometimes in town, and the thought made her uncomfortable. Bethan seemed to sense her emotions: Claire guessed she’d heard all the comments and criticism before and had her defence memorised.

“Yes, he was older, old enough to be my dad. But he had a young spirit. He was sexy, too. We had fun.” Her voice broke.

“What happened?” Claire didn’t want to ask but was finally unable to keep quiet.

“He had cancer. I didn’t know straight away. He never mentioned it in his letters and phone calls. I think he wanted to see if I would come for him, not because I thought I’d inherit his money when he died.”

“Did he? Die?” Claire wished the words unsaid, shocked at her lack of tact, but Bethan merely nodded.

“After only one year. And then the family came, although they never visited before, not once. Wouldn’t even come to the wedding. Like vultures they were. They contested the will; said ours was a sham marriage. I didn’t want to fight it. He’d saved some money no one knew about, so I left them to their law suit and their petty jealousy and I did what he asked me to do. I started travelling, seeing the places he never saw. Doing things like kayaking with seals and hiking on glaciers.”

Claire drifted in the hot water and thought about everything Bethan had said. To have experienced so much, at such a young age. Moving across the world to marry a near-stranger. Losing a beloved husband to illness, then being left to fight the relatives. No wonder Bethan seemed older than her years at times. She ached with empathy for her friend.

“You must miss him.”

“I do.”

They floated together in silence, listening to giggling groups and murmuring couples, splashing water and the call of birds in the trees. The sky grew dark around them, until it was time to leave.

“Thank you.” Bethan’s voice croaked with lack of use.

“What for?” Claire turned, surprised.

“For not judging me. For letting me grieve in silence.”

“Who am I to judge? What do I know of what true love is? I can’t imagine moving a hundred miles for anyone I’ve met so far, never mind half way round the world, away from my country and my family. How do you ever know it’s worth it?”

“When you finally meet him, the question won’t even occur to you.”

Her words should have sounded smug, but they didn’t. Instead they gave Claire hope.

Hooking her arm through Bethan’s, the girls headed out to get dry.

***

An open letter to Michael Gove

This is one for the Brits… I don’t normally do political, but I do have views about Mr Gove (mostly unrepeatable!)

Being ‘That’ Parent: 2013 365 Challenge #258

‘Fixing the bikes’

I’m afraid I have no more words today than yesterday. Hubbie went to Newcastle this morning, leaving me home with the kids. Not normally a daunting prospect, but a night of broken sleep and, shall we say, a hormonal time of the month, has left me a little fragile.

Today I was that parent. We spent two hours watching Heffalump at breakfast while I set up my free promo for Dragon Wraiths (I’m only doing it in a vain hope it might result in a couple of Baby Blues sales).

After dropping Daddy at the train station we paid a visit to the golden arches, where I surfed the free WiFi and ignored the kids while they ate unhealthy food and fought noisily over their free plastic toys.

More TV, a bit of shouting, a bike trip to the park and some healthy pasta and I survived to hubbie home time. Actually we were playing a happy game of ball in the garden when he arrived, which is always nice for the returning parent, even if tears came soon after.

Now I’m walking the dog while wracking my brain for something to cook us for dinner, and searching my mind for some conflict for tonight’s Claire scene. Oh and praying for bed. So, like yesterday, I’m going to include another of my poems from the Postcards set. I may share them all this week, because they were written about my father and I don’t think about him often enough. He is missed.

Not sure about the saw!

Postcards from an English Summer – June

The narrow winding lane is dapple-dark,

and ends abruptly in a sun-lit scene.

Upon the village green, a cricket pitch

where men in white stand round the batting crease.

Checked picnic blankets in the leafy shade

are weighed down with their sumptuous summer fare.

A breeze of quiet talk weaves round the trees,

pierced by the cries from children climbing there.

An eddy in the languid lazy calm –

An eager bowler marking out his run:

then crack, bails fall, a ripple of applause.

The umpire takes a walk from stumps to leg.

The bowler paces, pauses, thunders in,

throws out his arm: releases the red sphere

at waiting willow. Thwack! Your favourite sound.

The ball sails high into the chestnut leaves.

My senses become dulled in sultry sun,

and as I mourn the space here at my side,

I’m glad that England brought their Ashes home

six months before yours scattered on the wind.

_______________________________________________________________________________

“Come on, Claire, wake up. You’re coming on an adventure.”

Claire rolled over and peered at the source of the voice through sticky eyes.

“Go away, Bethan.”

“Nope. You don’t want to miss this. Sell your fancy boots if you have to, this is a once in a lifetime trip. The sun has even put in an appearance. Come on.”

Claire pulled the covers over her head, then shivered and swore as Bethan dragged them off. Her skin goosebumped as freezing air rushed across her body.

“You are not a good friend, Bethan.” Claire frowned, but swung her legs round and stood up. “How long have I got?”

“Ten minutes. Don’t bother with a shower: you’ll be too wrapped up for anyone to notice, and our tickets get us a free dip in the hot springs tonight. Besides, if you go up with wet hair you’ll freeze.”

“Am I at least allowed breakfast?”

“You can grab something in town. Come on!” Bethan hopped on the spot, finally making Claire laugh.

“What’s got you so excited?”

“What do you mean? This is the trip of New Zealand. Forget swimming with dolphins and chucking yourself off a bridge: this is it. It’s going to be amazing.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Claire pulled on her warmest clothes and tried not to find her friend’s enthusiasm irritating.

As the helicopter thrummed into life, Claire regretted letting Bethan bully her into taking part in the trip. They were squeezed into a tiny box and were about to launch into the air: claustrophobia and fear of heights all packaged up in one neat parcel of misery.

Claire turned to face Bethan and wasn’t surprised to see her grinning. With a shake of the head, Claire focussed on keeping her breathing even and urging the greasy pastry and burnt coffee she’d consumed for breakfast to stay put in her stomach.

Glancing out the window, Claire’s tummy flipped as she realised they were already a long way off the ground. She hadn’t felt the helicopter take off at all. The cab was all windows, and she could see the ground over the pilot’s shoulder as the landscape quickly went from flat glacial plain to climbing mountains and then the dirty grey ice of the glacier itself.

They climbed higher and higher, until everything was white. The ground came in to meet them as the helicopter settled down on the ice with barely a bump. As they jumped down from the helicopter and ran across the snow, Claire felt like a spy in a movie, and the excitement began to build inside her.

With a blast of air, the helicopter rose and flew away, leaving them abandoned with nothing in view but white. Then Claire spotted another helicopter depositing hikers in the distance: tiny black specks against the vista. Until then she hadn’t appreciated how vast the glacier was.

“Okay, Bethan, you were right. This is a bit cool.”

Bethan grinned, then bent to help the guide attach crampons to her boots. Claire did the same, cursing at her numb and clumsy fingers. She hoped the hiking wasn’t too strenuous.

When everyone had the proper kit, the group followed the guide across the ice. Claire had little idea what to expect. She knew the caves were a must-see, but didn’t really know why.

When the guide stopped outside a narrow fissure, she almost laughed. Then she watched as the group wriggled inside, one at a time.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. I’ve done my small-space terror-inducing experiences already, thanks. Caving, weaselling, I don’t need this.”

“Don’t be a scaredy-cat, Claire,” Bethan called, as she took her place in the queue. “You can’t see the blue ice properly from the outside. Come on!”

Feeling like a small child being continually chided by their parent, Claire did as she was told. The familiar blackness of fear swept over her as the walls closed in. Pushing herself through, glad of the thick jacket and warm clothing, Claire concentrated on forcing oxygen in and out of her lungs.

The cave opened up and all around shone blue. Fear evaporated as Claire drank in the scene, before fumbling for her camera.

“Wow.” Her voice sounded subdued, not echoing as it would in a rocky cave. A shaft of sunlight pierced through the blue, lighting up a dozen different shades. It was like being immersed in an abstract painting.

Claire realised with a start that the rest of the group had walked on and she shuffled after them, nearly dropping her camera in her haste. This was not a place to be left behind.

Back outside, the view of the glacier surprised her. She’d imagined it would be smooth, like a long sheet of ice. Instead it rose in pinnacles, reminiscent of a spiky plant or coral or something seen under a microscope. Fissures and caves could be seen revealing the blue of the oxygen starved ice inside. She wondered how safe it was for them to be hiking around up in the ice and how many people they lost.

Eventually the thrum of the helicopter returning rolled around the mountain. Claire felt a mixture of sadness and relief. It had been an amazing experience but the alien feel of the landscape left her on edge and longing for a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

Bethan chattered away about the awesomeness of it all and her gratitude that Claire had shared it with her. Claire only half heard the words: they triggered thoughts for her that she didn’t want to hear. Just experiencing such beauty didn’t seem enough. The important part was being able to share it: to tell someone and recreate the experience for them; to re-live it through their enthusiasm and eager questioning.

Oh, she had the blog and that was fun, although half the time it felt like her words were dropping into the ether, heard by no one. But this – this amazing once-in-a-lifetime not-to-be-missed adventure – didn’t feel real, any more than if she’d read it herself on someone else’s blog. Yes, her nose tingled from the cold, and her mind fizzed with the imagery. But already it was fading.

By the time they landed she felt as if the experience had evaporated completely, leaving only emptiness behind.

***

Walking on ice: Glacier trekking at Franz Josef (emilymeetsworld.com)
Heli Hiking on Franz Josef (backpackerbanter.com)

Tranquility: 2013 365 Challenge #257

Tranquility

While walking the dog this evening, in the pouring rain, I tried to nail my scatty thoughts to a topic for today’s blog. I was unsuccessful. My head is full of words but they’re like confetti chucked in the river.

I tried to think what people read blogs for: advice, company, shared experience, entertainment. I didn’t feel capable of any of those things (if I ever am!) All I craved, as I walked, was silence (I had the lyrics “Be happy, be healthy and get well soon” stuck in my head from one of the kids’ bedtime shows).

You can’t recreate silence on a blog. I tried to think of the nearest thing and I thought about some of the poems I recite in my head when I need to drive other words out (especially kids’ songs and TV themes: those pesky things are persistent!)

The poem that comes to mind when I’m dog walking is always Gerard Manley Hopkins’ The Windhover, as there are usually red kites flying overhead. But, as I always worry about copyright on this blog, I didn’t want to include it here. The other thing I often recite is the Desiderata (same applies about the copyright). The opening words particularly are often true, but generally every line is something I can learn and live by.

In the end, with copyright in mind, I thought I’d include a couple of my more tranquil paintings and one of the poems from my creative writing degree course.

Purple Ghost

Postcards from an English Summer – May

Wild lavender obscures the once-neat path –

My passing hands stir childhood memories.

Bare feet luxuriate in verdant grass,

I pause beneath your graceful Acer trees.

A symphony of song pervades the air,

with soaring solo blackbird melody.

Above, the fire-red leaves blaze bright against

a cobalt sky. Like hands they wave goodbye.

The silver birch, with peeling papery bark,

is worshipped by the bluebells, as they bend

and whisper to the wind of what they’ve lost.

Their sorrow echoes my unending grief.

Wisteria flowers in indigo and cream,

deep fragrance swirls around me like cologne.

They seem robust but fallen blossom tells

of frailty. Already they are dying.

Silk-tassel draped with hoary lifeless blooms,

like slender wind chimes silent from respect.

In hues of brown and blue my thoughts are drawn,

sensation without reason. You are missed.

Thank you for your patience. I hope you enjoyed your little patch of serenity and hopefully normal service will resume tomorrow.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Wake up, Claire.”

“Wuh?” Claire turned at the sound of the voice intruding on her dreams. She could feel drool running down the side of her mouth and prayed she hadn’t been snoring.

“Hey, sleepy head, we’re at Franz Josef. Time to get off the bus.”

“We’re here? What did I miss?”

Bethan chuckled. “Most of the day.”

Claire stretched and peered out the window. “Doesn’t look like much of a town.” She pulled her bag up from the foot well and climbed to her feet.

“We’re not here for the town.” Bethan’s smile suggested hidden secrets. Claire didn’t have to wonder what the joke was for long.

As she exited the bus, she stopped and stared. “Holy moly. Where did they come from?”

Up ahead, mountains rose to the heavens. A tree-covered conical mount dominated the foreground, symmetrical and green, as if someone had let moss grow over a mole hill. Then, in the distance, snow covered peaks, with a valley carved between them like a giant had split them with a machete.

“That’s where the glacier is, over there. I’m doing the heli-hike tomorrow, if you fancy it?”

Claire shook her head, partly in wonder, partly in denial. She’d seen the cost of the helicopter ride and couldn’t justify the expense. Yes it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, but there were too many of them on the trip. She thought she might do a half-day hike, if the men with hammers moved out of her head sometime soon.

As if sensing her pain, Bethan linked arms with her and asked gently, “How is the head? Do you feel better for the sleep?”

“I’d probably feel better if I drank a gallon of water.” Claire forced the words out of her parched throat. “Please tell me there are no more parties planned for this evening? I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“What do you mean we don’t actually walk on the ice? I thought it was possible to climb up and see the ice caves?”

The man behind the desk shook his head. “Not any more, love. Terminal face collapsed last year. Access by ’copter only.”

“I can’t afford the heli-hike.”

“There’s always Fox.”

“I can’t get to Fox, I’m on the bus. It’s here or no-where.”

The man in the tourist info shrugged, as if to say he was out of options. Bethan came to stand next to Claire.

“Come on the heli-hike, it’ll be worth it, if the weather is okay. Once in a lifetime experience, Claire. Worry about the money when you get home.”

“That’s easy enough to say,” Claire responded, “but if I don’t reign in my spending, I won’t even make it home.”

“Why don’t you get a job? A few weeks in Wanaka pulling pints will restore your funds.”

Claire laughed without humour. “I’d have to pull more than pints to fill the hole in my bank balance. Any rich sugar daddies in Wanaka?”

Bethan’s expression grew sombre. Then she gave a shake of her long black hair and the smile returned as if nothing had happened.

“Why not decide in the morning? See what the weather’s doing. It’s not like it’s peak season, you might get on.”

With a sigh, Claire agreed, and let Bethan guide her back to the hostel.

***

Tips For Writers

Just write.

The Belle Jar

Write because you have something to say.

Write because you’ve always wanted to.

Write because you only just realized that you might die next week, or tomorrow, or five minutes from now, and you want to leave something behind for posterity.

Write because you have a secret fire burning inside of you and the only way that you can fan the flames is by sharing your thoughts with someone else.

Write because you’re bored and don’t have anything better to do.

Write for yourself.

Write for other someone else, or maybe everyone else.

Write because you love seeing your stats counter surge every time you post something. Write because nothing satisfies you quite so much as seeing others share what you’ve written. Write because you like the attention; there’s nothing wrong with liking the attention.

Write because it fills the emptiness in your heart or your soul or your pancreas…

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Formatting and Covers: 2013 365 Challenge #256

Manuscript Paper Planes

Phew. I have spent the last two days updating my Kindle and Smashwords files to include Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes under ‘other titles by’ and to add Twitter and Facebook links. I am formatting blind. I had to load each file half a dozen times, because I kept missing things. A case of more haste less speed.

Even now I know there’s an error in each of my Two-Hundred Steps Home files (a link that doesn’t work). I wasn’t going to reload them all, and start the ‘premium catalogue’ clearance again, except I’ve had to resubmit for clearing after linking all the books as a series (even though Smashwords said it wouldn’t affect premium distribution).

When I updated my kindle file for Dragon Wraiths, I also got the Facebook link wrong in that, and now I have to wait for Amazon to publish it before I can upload it again. They could learn a thing or two from Smashwords. My head is spinning with all the details, remembering what quirks Kindle has compared with Smashwords, and remembering to link to my other books on the right platform (Smashwords will reject a file for having Amazon links within it).

Spot the difference!

I also tinkered with the Dragon Wraiths cover today, to try and incorporate the dragon pendant from the first cover. I’m not 100% happy with it, but it needed to be done. The current one, much as I love it, doesn’t say ‘fantasy’ or ‘dragons’ enough.

What’s the point of this ramble? Not much, except to say I think writing a book is about 20% or 30% of the actual graft of being a self-published author. All the other stuff is so time-consuming. More than you think it should be. My ‘two minute’ job on the cover took two hours and nearly made me late to pick my daughter up from school!.

And you have to be super organised and logical and all those things I’m not to keep track of it all. At least I’m learning I guess. I could probably format a file for Smashwords in my sleep (and get no autovetter errors) and I’m not far off knowing how to do a Kindle file without referring to the notes. If the author thing doesn’t work I guess at least I could make money doing that! 🙂

________________________________________________________________________________

“What are we searching for exactly?”

Claire looked across the racks of clothing to Bethan, who was holding up various items against her and contemplating her reflection in the mirror.

“Fancy dress.”

“I gathered that. I meant, what are you going as? And what the hell can I wear?”

“The theme is anything beginning with P. So I thought I might go as a prostitute.” She grinned at Claire’s shocked expression. “Too much? What about a princess? You should do that, you look much more Disney than I do.”

“I don’t know, you could be Pocahontas.”

“She was Native American, not Thai.”

Claire blushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you, it was a stupid thing to say.”

Bethan laughed. “That’s alright, I know you didn’t. You’re not likely to be up on the Disney princesses unless you have a four-year-old girl hidden about your person.”

The flush deepened. “Well, actually I did spend a few weeks with my niece recently, but all those princesses muddle together after a while. There was an Oriental one, now I think about it.”

“Mulan. Chinese. Closer but still offensive.” Although Bethan spoke with laughter in her voice, her face looked brittle.

“Sorry.”

Bethan looked up and her face became more sympathetic. “Oriental is a racist term in America, is that not the same in England?”

Claire shook her head. “Not that I know of. Better than calling someone Chinese when they’re really from Japan or Thailand, surely?”

“In America you use Oriental for things, not people. Asian is a better word.”

Claire swallowed and nodded, feeling like she’d been told off. Wanting to change the subject, she ran through other fancy dress ideas beginning with P. “Right. Not princesses then. Pigs? Paupers? That shouldn’t be a problem; I’m going to be poor by the time this trip is over.”

She glanced at Bethan and saw a flicker of disapproval flash across her face.

Now what have I said?

They had been travelling together for a week and this was the first time Claire had sensed anything but happiness in Bethan’s demeanour. The moment passed and Claire searched her mind for a simple fancy dress costume that wouldn’t cost the earth or humiliate her. Not that there was anyone left on the bus whose opinion she cared about apart from Bethan, and she’d already offended her twice.

Bethan held up a sequin covered top and some sunglasses, all trace of censure gone. She grinned. “How about pop stars?”

“Do you want another drink?” Bethan yelled over the music.

Claire shook her head and then wished she hadn’t. “No,” she yelled back, “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Bethan nodded, downed her drink in one, and grabbed hold of Claire’s arm.

Claire let herself be towed through the writhing bodies, the music pulsing in time with the throbbing in her head and drowning out all attempts at rational thought. The dinner of steak and venison, delicious at the time, sat heavy in her stomach. She really didn’t want to see it again.

Outside, the music still filled the air but left some space to think. The chill autumn wind rushed over her bare skin, raising goosebumps and drying the sweat. Claire slumped against the wall and gripped her head with both hands.

“You okay?” Bethan squatted beside her and peered under the mass of back-combed hair that concealed Claire’s face.

“I think so. What time is it?”

Bethan checked her watch. “1 a.m. Apparently they’ll chuck us out at 2 a.m.”

“I’m not going to last that long. I need to go to bed.” Claire slid down the wall, ignoring the damp seeping through her tights as she sat on the floor. The events of the evening swam through her mind like a movie montage.

“Did I do a drinking game?”

“Yes. You were very good.”

“Snog the driver as a forfeit?”

“’fraid so.”

“Dance on the tables?”

Bethan shrugged. “It was Bon Jovi and you’re dressed as an ’80s pop star. I thought the balloon in a bottle as a microphone was an inspired touch.”

“Are there going to be pictures of us on the wall, like all the others?”

Bethan nodded and laughed as Claire groaned. “Look at it this way, who do you know who is ever going to come to this dirty motel in the middle of nowhere and scour thousands of Polaroids to find your embarrassing photo?”

Claire grunted in agreement but it was small consolation.

Bethan laughed again. “Relax, Claire. This is all part of travelling. You joined in, made some new friends, drank some shots. You won’t remember most of it in the morning and I promise not to remind you more than, ooh, once an hour?”

“Thanks.”

“Are you coming back in? It’s freezing out here and I’m starting to sober up. I need a drink.”

Claire gave a tiny shake of the head. As Bethan stood up, Claire risked raising her head to make eye contact.

“Bethan, can you do me a favour?”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Can you show me where my bed is please?”

With a giggle, Bethan pulled her to her feet and led her to the dorm rooms.

***

Art of Self-publishing eBooks (hibakhan.info)
How does social media help writers? (stephanie-hurt.com)

Serious Blogger? 2013 365 Challenge #255

There goes the diet again!

I went into my blog today without realising I wasn’t logged in, and was surprised to see an advert within my text. I guess I knew that WordPress made money somehow from free blogs, but I hadn’t thought much more about it.

Apparently it costs $30 a year to remove the adverts, and now I’m wondering if I should pay it. When I clicked on the advert it said “you may be seeing this ad because the blogger is making money from their site” or words to that effect. Oh I wish I was making money from my blog! Then I wouldn’t feel guilty at the time it takes away from my family or from writing my novels. Not that I would give up writing my blog for anything.

One of the posts I linked to yesterday was When Blogging Doesn’t Work – on the Writing by the Seat of my Pants blog. It challenged the widely held belief that authors need to blog; explaining that it isn’t always necessary, particularly if you are blogging just for the sake of it rather than because you enjoy it. This was my comment:

Baking cookies with my girl

“I started my blog without really understanding why, except that I needed one if I wanted to be an author. Then this year I started a daily blogging challenge – writing a novel in daily installments on my blog – and even though it’s been a right pain at times, I have enjoyed it immensely. It probably hasn’t given me a huge surge in blog followers, but it has improved my ability to write to a deadline and copy-edit quickly: benefits I hadn’t envisioned in the beginning. In fact, I may even do it again next year (although I suspect my family may beg me not to!!)”

I forgot to add that, through my blog, I have met such an amazing group of people and that my blogverse feels like a happy place where I enjoy spending time.

So, should I let advertising intrude on my happy place? Should I let you, my followers, think that I’m trying to make money from you, when I’m not (unless you want to buy my books, and then of course that’s just fine!)

Is it worth $30 a year to keep my blog pure? I’ve toyed with the idea of buying the full package and having my own domain name, but until now I’ve been perfectly happy with the free blog. I guess it’s just one more question in the long list of queries associated with self-publishing and being a writer: and one more thing to add to the list “Things I would do if I had more money”!

What do you think? Are the adverts annoying? Do you even see them? Am I worrying over nothing? Do tell.

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Claire gazed out the window as the ocean crashed against the shore, raising spray that would envelop the bus were they just a bit closer. She’d heard that the west coast was nicknamed the wet coast, and that seemed about right.

The heavy grey skies and angry sea soothed her, as if their rage forced her to be calm. Rain poured down the windows, enhancing rather than marring the view. Claire could see tree-covered hills climbing upwards from the other side of the bus. She curled in towards the window and let the weather entertain her.

The bus slowed and Claire roused herself to see why they had stopped. The driver explained that they were at a seal colony and anyone who fancied braving the rain was welcome to have a look around.

Claire uncurled herself and searched in her bag for a raincoat. Making her way to the front of the bus she realised she was the only person getting off. She was about to sit back down when a giggling couple from the front also disembarked. With a twisted smile, Claire decided she would run, if need be, to get away from them.

Outside, signposts led her down a walkway, slippery in the rain, towards the seal colony. All around her tall spiky plants stabbed at the sky.

There was no one else around as Claire followed the path to the viewing platform. Wind dragged hair across her face and the rain blew in sideways.

This was a stupid idea. I should have stayed on the bus. Knowing my luck they’ll leave without me.

Blinded by her wet hair, Claire almost walked into the railing. She rested her hands on the wood and searched the rocks for seals.

If they’ve got any sense they’ll be hiding in a cave somewhere out of the weather. Even if they are there I’m not going to see them through this.

Heaving a sigh that was swept away on the wind, Claire turned to walk back to the car park. Her stomach roiled like the pewter-grey waves and an almost overwhelming urge not to get back on the bus swept over her. The rigid routine, the upholstered seats, even Bethan’s unending good humour, felt like a cage that she was finally free from.

Claire pulled her hood tight around her face and leant in to the wind. With no seals to see, she knew there was no option but to go back and get on with her trip. Retracing her steps she didn’t notice the sign until she walked into it.

Who puts a bloody signpost in the middle of the footpath?

She rubbed her head and looked up at the offending pillar. It was one of the tourist signs, like she had seen at Cape Reinga, showing the distances to places near and far.

London 16,286km. I don’t think I wanted to know that. I might as well be on the moon.

It was a long way home

Back on the bus, Claire felt like she’d gate-crashed a party. All the passengers who had decided to stay warm and dry were gathered in groups, chatting and laughing. Claire sidled up the aisle to her seat and slid in to skulk by the window.

“Claire, you’re back!”

Claire turned as Bethan bounced onto the seat next to her.

“How were the seals? Nice and dry I see.”

“Ha ha. What did I miss? Feels like a festival in here.”

“Everyone’s discussing their fancy dress costume for this evening.”

“Fancy dress?” Claire groaned. Now she really wanted to get off the bus.

“Yes, apparently we have to source our outfit in town later, before we get to the Poo Pub tonight.”

“Poo Pub?” Claire felt like a parrot, but she didn’t know what else to say.

Maybe I sent Josh away too soon. Fancy dress and silliness are much more his thing than mine.

Claire wrapped her arms around herself and curled into the window. It was going to be a long day.

***

Write More Books: 2013 365 Challenge #254

What I was doing today when I wanted to be writing!

I keep reading blog posts on the importance of writing and releasing new books to boost sales of existing works. Posts like this; Marketing: “Why Isn’t it Working?” by Chris McMullen (point 12) or this, Why Slow is Good for E-Publishing by M T McGuire or this How to Sell a Million Books, suggest that one of the key things an author needs to do to succeed is to write more books.

A post by August Wainwright, guesting on the blog No Rules Just Write, explains how an author need not sell books on the scale of Stephenie Meyers, Suzanne Collins, E L James, J K Rowling or Amanda Hocking (yes my choice of female authors is deliberate – read this post) to make a career out of being a writer. Mostly one needs to be prolific. As the post states: “Slow growth is the sustainable way to success as an author”

I’d rather be writing

The key is to write good books and keep writing them. A sale a day (I aspire to a sale a day!) doesn’t sound like a lot until you multiply it by ten or twenty and project it over a thirty year curve, knowing digital books can be in print forever.

I love reading these things because they support my own goals and ambitions. I don’t actually want to be the next “insert big name here.” I want to earn enough to consider writing a career and still be able to do the school run. I’d have to be selling thirty books a day to come close to even a modest income (not factoring in editor/proofreader/cover costs). That feels a long way off. But entirely doable.

In the post, August Wainwright talks of writing novellas, which makes it easier to write the projected 8 books a year his figures are based on. Reading the post it seems tempting to write novellas but it’s not my current skill set. (That doesn’t mean I can’t learn!)

Egg-box alien

However, when I look at the words I’ve accumulated for Two-Hundred Steps Home this year – currently approaching the 200k mark – on top of editing Baby Blues and marketing Dragon Wraiths, suddenly writing three books a year feels possible. Whether they’d be good books is another issue and one I’m not in a position to judge. But it gives hope.

The problem is it also makes me fish out an in-progress manuscript (Class Act!) whenever I have five minutes to myself, instead of writing my next Claire installment or readying Baby Blues for print format, or any of the other tough things that need doing. It gives me justification to do what I love, which is to write stories and have them read.

Like every other writer in the universe; this gal just wants to write.

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“What will you do?”

Claire stood in front of Josh and drew circles in the dust with her toe. She’d come down to breakfast to find him waiting outside the hostel with his bag.

“I’m getting a shuttle to Christchurch in about half an hour. I can catch a flight from there back home.”

Without looking, Claire imagined the hurt in his eyes: the sense of betrayal. She couldn’t blame him. Having lain awake most of the night reliving her diatribe, she was certain he couldn’t hate her more than she hated herself. Words of apology filled her mouth but refused to be spoken, in case they broke her resolve. Wrapping her arms around herself against the early morning chill, Claire looked down the road past Josh.

“What about your tour ticket? I didn’t even ask whether you bought a package for the bus? I know how extortionate the prices are; are you out of pocket?”

“Nah. I chucked the driver some dollars, said I was chasing a pretty lady. Guess he figured we’d sort it out one way or another after a few stops. He was right, wasn’t he?”

Claire turned involuntarily to face him, and wished she hadn’t. His pale face and the dark circles beneath his eyes told their own tale. Hugging herself tighter, Claire resisted the urge to run her hands through his unkempt hair. No matter how much she knew she was doing the right thing, it still hurt like hell.

“What will you tell Fiona?”

Josh’s face twisted into something between a grimace and a sneer. “I’ll have to tell her the truth, I guess. It’s not like anything happened.” The bitterness in his voice tore at Claire and she inhaled, ready to defend herself.

“No, don’t bother.” His voice softened and he rubbed at his face as if scrubbing away his ill humour. “I’m being an arse. I deserved everything you said last night. I am being a child. Fiona was always there for me, you know, before the kids. I suppose I came to rely on her. Now she needs me, and I’ve done nothing but cause her agro.”

“Do you need to tell her all the truth? Don’t hurt her just to ease your own guilty conscience. Why not tell her you needed time away to think?”

Claire wasn’t sure if advising Josh to conceal the complete truth was a brilliant idea. But she didn’t relish the notion of Fiona seeking revenge, or throwing her husband out for something he hadn’t done; even if he’d wanted to.

Josh didn’t respond, but Claire was rewarded by seeing a hint of colour return to his cheeks.

“You always know the right thing to say or not say,” he said eventually. “Have you considered a job with the UN?”

Claire felt the seriousness pass, heralding a return to the lightness of friendship. She welcomed it. “Me a diplomat? Not likely: I don’t have an ounce of tact. I’m going to have to think of something, though. I can’t be an unemployed traveller forever. Not least because the money’s going to run out soon.”

“What will you do?” Josh echoed Claire’s question from earlier.

She laughed. “I have no idea. Go home, I guess. Find a job. Go and work for Conor. Who knows? Maybe I’ll set up a bus tour in the UK, so there are fewer unsuspecting girls offering lifts to strangers.”

She wished the words unsaid as soon as she uttered them.

“Do you regret it? Coming to the observatory? Giving me a ride?”

Claire shook her head, unable to speak around the lump in her throat. She winced as the movement aggravated the sore muscle in her neck. Josh reached into his bag and brought out a small white box.

“Diclofenac. For the pain. It’s the least I can do.” He held them out to her and, after a moment’s hesitation, Claire took them.

“Thanks.”

“There you are. Ridding you of two pains in the neck in one go.” He smiled his lopsided grin and Claire felt tears sneak out and dribble down her face.

The sound of an approaching vehicle made them both turn.

“That’s my lift,” Josh said, “the hostel manager’s taking me to the shuttle.”

They stood together watching the car approach. Too soon it was parked in front of them, and it was time to say goodbye.

Claire stood with her arms hanging by her sides as Josh threw his bag into the foot well. He turned and tilted his head, peering under her mane of hair until she met his eyes.

“No hard feelings?”

Claire shook her head.

Josh held out his arms. “Hug?”

With a nod, Claire stepped into his embrace.

“I’m going to miss you,” Josh whispered into her hair.

“Me too,” Claire mumbled, before turning to walk slowly towards the hostel. She waited for the sound of the car door, the rev of the engine. As the wheels span in the dust she turned and watched the car drive away.

***

When Blogging Doesn’t Work (writingbytheseatofmypants.com)
Successful Writer of Books, Articles, and Scripts Launches New Service to Help Others Write, Publish, and Promote Their Books and Other Materials – from Changemakers (prweb.com)
Guest Blog: My Writing Path (amberskyeforbes.wordpress.com)
Definition of a writer (writemybrainsout.wordpress.com)
Bottom Dwelling E-Book Authors Rise Up (stevevernonstoryteller.wordpress.com)

Life’s Curve-balls: 2013 365 Challenge #253

My son’s first full day at preschool

Today was a good reminder that, no matter how tough you think life is, it’s always worse for someone else (and it can always get a little harder for you, too!)

When I texted my friend last night, to find out what her daughter was wearing to school, she said she might not even make it to school as she’d had a tumble from her scooter and they were off to hospital. Sure enough, my daughter’s best friend broke her arm and missed her first morning at school. We didn’t tell my daughter, as expecting her best friend to be there was the only thing keeping her calm. As it was she was fine. She ran in smiling and says she cried a little bit when she realised her friend wasn’t there, but she soon made a new friend and came running out still smiling (I, on the other hand, nearly sobbed with pride!)

We stopped off to see the poorly girl after school and my daughter found that much harder: it’s the first time she’s had a friend incapacitated by illness or injury.

To begin with she was brilliant, playing nurse, letting her friend choose the games and telelvision programs. After a while though the novelty wore off. When we left she started crying and said, “Mummy I want my friend back, she can’t play with me properly.”

So what should be such a fun and exciting time for both of them is going to have an extra challenge for a few weeks. And my poor girl, who didn’t want to have to worry about looking after someone at school (having looked after her brother at preschool all summer) has now been asked to look after her friend.

I’m off, Mummy, bye!

Of course it’s nothing to what my friend must be going through. I can’t express how bad I feel for her. After seven years, to finally be within hours of having both children at school, only to have to stay home from work and nurse a distraught child after leaving A&E at 3am. It put my tiredness – after little man was up 1am-3am last night – into perspective. Of course it didn’t stop me being grumpy and leaving childcare mostly to my hubbie this afternoon. Sometimes, even if another’s lot is worse than yours, it doesn’t make yours any easier. It just made me pray that one of our kids doesn’t break something. Fingers and toes crossed.

P.S. I have an author interview live today, over on Paul Western-Pittard’s blog, That Thing I Said. It was fun to re-read it, as I wrote it a few months ago (it says that Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes is on hold as a project – shows how much things can change in a short period of time!)

It would be lovely if you could stop by, not least because there is loads of great stuff on Paul’s blog.

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“For God’s sake, I told you not to go.”

Josh rushed towards Claire as she walked away from the jet, dripping wet and clutching her neck. She immediately dropped her hand and forced a smile. Irritation fought with gratitude at the look of concern in his amber-flecked eyes. She longed to bury herself in his arms and have him smooth the pain away. At the same time, her hackles rose at his disapproving frown.

“What do you mean? It was excellent fun!” She looked down at her sodden clothing. “Do you mean this? I’m not as wet as I was this morning. I’ll know not to sit at the edge another time.”

Josh fell in step as Claire and Bethan waddled back to the bus to retrieve dry clothes. Claire willed her friend to stay with them as chaperone, but Bethan seemed oblivious to the brewing trouble, as she chatted to a couple of lads from the bus. Claire realised she was on her own.

“I’m not talking about you being drenched, and you know it. You were holding your neck, I saw you. You’ve given yourself whiplash, haven’t you?”

Claire went to shake her head, thought better of it, and folded her arms instead. “It’s fine. Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix.”

She heard Josh tut in annoyance, but he held his tongue.

Claire managed to avoid Josh for the rest of the day. She knew it was putting off the inevitable, but she couldn’t face a showdown. Her body ached with spent adrenalin and pain stabbed from her neck to her fingertips if she moved too quickly. A lecture from Josh would only exacerbate the already-blinding headache flashing in her head.

She was grateful they’d been allocated different dorm rooms and she had almost made it to bed undetected, when he finally tracked her down.

“Claire, please stop avoiding me. We need to talk.” He hurried after her, and she stopped in the corridor, not wanting him to follow her all the way to her room, which – judging by the raucous drinking going on elsewhere in the hostel – was likely to be empty at this early hour.

“Can’t it wait until the morning? I’m beat.”

“Do you need painkillers? I have some prescription strength ones that will help. I know you don’t want me mollycoddling you, I get it. But stupid to suffer in silence.”

“I told you, I’m fine. I took some ibuprofen earlier. What I need now is sleep.”

Josh rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. Something about his body language raised the hairs on Claire’s arm. She felt a declaration brewing, and didn’t want to hear it.

“Claire I–”

“Don’t say it.” She held up her hand. He reached forward and took it in a gentle grasp.

“No, I have to say it, before I chicken out. I haven’t had nearly enough beer.”

“Then go drink some more and let me go to bed.”

“I love you.”

The words rushed out and fell like rocks into her empty heart. Behind them a shout of laughter broke above the general hubbub, emphasising the silence between them. Claire felt acutely aware of his hand holding hers, as she stared at the floor and waited for it to open and rescue her.

After what felt like an eternity Josh spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

“Tell me you don’t love me. I won’t believe you.”

She looked up then, and saw a mixture of hope and assurance in his expression. She needed to speak, to end this. Short and sharp, like pulling off a plaster.

“I loved the idea of you: Josh the adventurer, Josh the husband and father. That’s all.”

“I can be those things again.”

He pulled her towards him but she tugged her hand free and folded her arms.

“You still are those things, just not with me. You have a wife who loves you, children who adore you. Don’t throw it away.” Claire thought about all she had lost. Her best friend, her boyfriend, her job, her family. There was nowhere she truly belonged.

“Don’t give up your readymade life for a pipe dream. What if we did get married and have kids? Life wouldn’t be any easier. Far harder, in fact. I’m not a natural parent like Fiona. You think it’s hard now, with her focussing on the baby? You’d be booking me into rehab after a week of looking after three children while my husband sodded off to England to nurse his guilty conscience.”

Suddenly her head crowded with the thought of all the pain this gorgeous man had caused, with his misplaced guilt and his refusal to take responsibility for his life. As he gazed at her like a puppy seeking praise, she felt a hundred years old.

“My advice to you, Josh? Appreciate what you have, before you no longer have it. Go back to Fiona. Beg forgiveness. Try harder. Hire a babysitter and take her out to dinner. Bring her breakfast in bed once in a while. Take the kids to the park so she can read a book or have a bath. And, for pity’s sake, grow up.”

As she walked away Claire remembered another conversation, a lifetime ago, when she’d said the same to Michael.

When am I going to find a man who wants a partner not a parent?

Puzzling over the impossible riddle, Claire headed to her room.

***

Baby’s First Day: 2013 365 Challenge #252

First Day in the World

I realised today, as I sobbed in fear over the ironing board and my daughter’s new uniform, that I’m just as stressed about her starting school tomorrow as she is. And for all the same reasons.

I’m scared about getting something wrong, being told off, wearing or saying the wrong thing, not knowing anyone or where things are.

It’s like going back to school myself, only not, because I loved school. It was where I didn’t get shouted at for being lazy or making a mistake, unlike at home.

I was a Straight-A student, helped by being an October baby so one of the oldest in the year. I liked getting stuff marked and I loved learning. I was bullied, but I hid in the library or worked through my lunch break. I had plenty of friends, well until we all discovered boys.

Daddy’s little girl (even when she’s crying)

Actually I think I only lost my self-esteem and confidence when I started dealing with boys and humiliated myself left and right – having never worked out how to make my father happy. Hopefully my little girl won’t have that problem at least (she has Daddy wrapped around her little finger).

But now? I’ve spent a year listening to the mum’s at coffee morning sharing horror stories about school – returning forms to the wrong place and getting shouted at my the receptionist or told off by the teacher, miscommunication between staff over bullying, needing to escalate problems to the Head.

These are not things that play to my strengths. If the receptionist tells me off, I’ll cry. I’d rather pull teeth than make a fuss (though maybe if my child is being bullied I’ll grow a backbone) and I’m rubbish at forms and fitting in.

First Day at School

Also it’s a C of E (Church of England) school and I couldn’t even bring myself to go to family service today. I’m not an atheist but I’m not a huge one for organised religion either (I do like C of E schools, though, for the sense of community and doing the right thing).

Needless to say, hubbie is taking our daughter in on her first day tomorrow, thus avoiding me increasing her nervousness by my own fear, or upsetting her by getting defensive when she tells me I should have let her wear a skirt (as I’ve discovered her best friend will be.) Evil Mummy only bought pinafore dresses because I thought they’d look smarter and she wouldn’t have to keep tucking herself in. Guess what I’ll be doing tomorrow?

(In my defense, especially as she hasn’t got the blue cardigan she wanted either, there was meant to be a second-hand stall in the summer but I got no communication about it and I didn’t want to buy anything else new!)

Ah well, life is about conquering our fears. I just never realised there would be so many as a parent! I couldn’t home school (my daughter refuses to even let me teach her how to write her letters) so there aren’t many other options. And she’ll love it, I know she will. It’s probably just as well we decided against the public school for now. At least I’m not wondering if I should be wearing Boden when I pick her up at lunch time!

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“Come on, Josh, I want to go on the jet boat. Where else can I go in a boat that works in only centimetres of water? Stop being a worrywart, I’m fine.”

Claire tugged at his hand, feeling flashbacks of trying to convince Sky to do something she didn’t want to do. Seeing the stubborn look on his face, she dropped his hand and folded her arms.

“Fine. Although I’m surprised that someone who laughed at me for not jumping off a waterfall is worried about a stupid speed boat. You’ve got old and boring.”

She turned away, but watched him out of the corner of her eye; trying to analyse his expression. She hadn’t even been that interested in doing the jet boat ride – that afternoon’s suggested high adrenalin activity – until Josh said he thought she should give it a miss. In his best preachy doctor voice, he had advised her to rest after her near-drowning.

Despite explaining at length that she hadn’t been anywhere near drowning, he had insisted. It was like being with Michael all over again.

Why do people feel the need to wrap me in cotton wool? I’m not such a pathetic or fragile creature.

“You coming, Claire?” Bethan called, as the group split into those going jet boating and the ones remaining behind to horse ride or catch up on sleep.

Claire threw one last look at Josh and, ignoring the knot in her stomach, ran after Bethan. “Definitely. Sounds like fun.”

As they walked away, Bethan turned to look back. “Isn’t Sir Galahad coming? I thought Aussies were as keen to try and kill themselves as the Kiwis are?”

“He’s sulking because I won’t follow his doctor advice and rest after my near-death experience this morning.”

Bethan threw her head back and laughed, her long black hair flying out behind her. “Near death? You capsized a kayak in three feet of still water. Oh dear, he has got it bad, hasn’t he?”

Claire pursed her lips and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

Claire screamed as the boat swung close to the rocks; the gorge towering overhead and blocking out the sun. Spray splashed over them, drenching Claire and drowning out her laughter. She clung onto the seat as the driver twisted the boat away just as it seemed about to crash. Her head jerked with the motion and she felt a sharp pain as something pulled in her neck.

Damn, don’t let me get whiplash, I’ll never hear the end of it from Josh.

Gritting her teeth, Claire massaged the muscle then quickly grabbed at the seat in front as the boat span three-hundred and sixty degrees before tunnelling through the water across to the other side of the gorge.

Ahead she could see the driver grinning, his teeth flashing bright white against his dark tan. Wraparound shades covered his eyes and he had one arm resting along the side of the jet boat, as he nonchalantly span the wheel.

Walls of white rose on either side as the boat bumped over the river; every jolt running through Claire and ripping at her neck, until tears mingled with the spray on her cheeks.

Around her the landscape unrolled in brilliant detail: the deep blue river stretching like a ribbon through the high walls of the gorge, the colours rendered sharp by the afternoon sun. It was a far cry from sea kayaking with seals that morning.

Although I think I’m probably as wet. Maybe Josh was right, maybe this wasn’t such a great idea, though I’m not going to tell him that.

Warming her torn muscles with one hand, Claire clung on with the other and willed the ride to finish soon. Only the knowledge of having to face Josh and his smug “I told you so” when they got back made her glad to still be in her seat.

My trip of a lifetime is starting to turn sour. I can’t get off the bus, because I can’t afford to travel any other way now. I can’t seem to get rid of Josh, which a few months ago would have been amazing, but is now a literal pain in the neck. I just want to go home.

Letting the spray conceal her tears, Claire gave in to the wave of self-pity washing over her.

***