Endings and Beginnings: 2013 365 Challenge #242

The Changing Faces of Time

So, there it is. My daughter is no longer a ‘preschooler’.

She doesn’t seem bothered. I think the staff were more sad at her leaving than she was. I was just grumpy that they thought the 20 chocolate chip cookies I took in this morning were for the staff, rather than for the children. I mean, what did they think the flowers, cards and all were for? Sigh.

Still, thankfully another child was also leaving today and her Mummy brought in cakes, so my two didn’t notice the mistake.

I’m glad I waited until the last possible moment to take her out of nursery. Since we got home she has asked how many days until she starts school at least a dozen times. I might record it, so I have evidence for week two, when the novelty has worn off and she doesn’t want to go back!

That’s my ending. My beginning is my beginning as a ‘proper’ author, because I finally applied for my EIN today. Those non-writers following this blog won’t realise the significance of this, but it’s a BIG THING. I did actually even call the number in the States (plucking up courage again!), to apply on the phone and hopefully come away with the precious digits today. But the automated voice told me it was a minimum 30 minute wait, and – at 20p a minute or whatever our phone company charges to the US – I didn’t fancy it. In the end doing the paperwork to complete the SS-4 Form took twice that long, although it was less scary.

Mind-Numbing Paperwork

I have decided to fax the forms, as it’s supposed to take only 4 business days. That meant also finding an internet company to send and receive international faxes (I mean, who has a fax machine any more?) but, hopefully by next week, I’ll be able to tell you whether it’s all worth the effort! I wouldn’t have done it at all but Amazon sent me an email reminder, gently suggesting I get my tax forms sorted or they might take my books off sale. Funny how that motivated me when 30% of very little withheld in tax hadn’t!

I also spent today listening to my book on the laptop. It turns out that Adobe will ‘read’ out a PDF. It’s laborious and mostly done phonetically, which can lead to some odd pronunciations and virtually no correct cadence. But I’ve spotted several typos I wouldn’t have caught any other way, so I’m happy (except at the slow progress: I’m only 15% through).

The funniest part was the voice changing Mia (the lead male’s ex fiancée) to Missing In Action, every single time. She does go MIA in the novel, so it rather tickled me. A nicer proofreading experience than the five queries my hubbie found on page one, when I gave him a copy to check. Given his propensity to tear things apart I’ve had to insist that he keep his comments to typos only. I can’t face another huge rewrite!

Anyway, I’m submerged in a riveting book (Thanks, Rinelle), as well as wracking my brains for an August finale for Two Hundred Steps Home. As September’s only 2 days away, I need to come up with one soon! Best get on …

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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 stumbled as she exited the lift. Three more staggering steps took her to the door. Even though she had been on dry land for over an hour it still felt like the earth was moving beneath her. Catching at the door frame, she swiped the plastic card and cursed at the red light. After several more attempts the light shone green and she opened the door.

She vaguely registered an en-suite to her left before going through to the bedroom. Without bothering to shut the curtains or undress, Claire climbed beneath the covers and curled into the pillow. Within moments she was asleep.

When she woke, several hours later, her mouth ached with dryness and her body called its urgent need to pee. Claire rolled off the bed, just managing to get her feet to the floor before the rest of her followed in a heap. Feeling the worth of every penny it had cost to stay in the hotel, Claire staggered to the en-suite.

The face in the mirror looked like something from a zombie movie. Claire shut her eyes in horror and reached out to pull on the shaving light, before switching off the harsh overhead spotlights. Ten hours on a ferry had taken their toll. Eyes half closed against the still too-bright light, Claire brushed her teeth and drank some water. Her tummy rumbled but she guessed it was late in the night and her budget didn’t stretch to raiding the mini bar.

A piercing headache stabbed in the base of her skull, intensifying when she accidentally turned on the main lights. Turning them off again, Claire walked to the window and looked at the view of the harbour beneath her. The water appeared calm and, although the sky looked cloudy, it wasn’t raining. It was as if the hellish weather of the last twenty-four hours had ceased to exist, reinforcing the sense of it all being a bad dream.

I’m in Wellington instead of Picton; that alone tells me it wasn’t all some terrible nightmare.

Despite the refund on her ticket and the offer of compensation, Claire wondered how the ferry company could replace her stolen time. She needed to be on the South Island, ticking off tourist sites and making her way to Christchurch and a flight back to the UK. Although she hadn’t yet decided to accept Conor’s job offer, there was no doubt she couldn’t travel for much longer. Every time she used her credit card she waited with in held breath for it to be rejected. When that happened she wanted to be on the right side of a thirty-hour flight home.

Unaccountably wide awake, Claire located her iPad and tried to check her emails. The hotel WiFi was priced for business guests and Claire snorted at the cost. No expenses for her anymore.

I’ll have to wait until morning; go find a café with free Internet. It won’t hurt me to be disconnected from the world for a few more hours.

Claire looked around the large, pristine, hotel room and felt guilty for not offering the spare bed to Bethan. Her friend had opted to return to the hostel, when Claire had declared her intention to treat herself to a proper bed for the night. It had been on her tongue to offer, but a combination of tiredness and a yearning for silence and solitude had held her back. Now it seemed unnecessarily mean.

I’ll find her tomorrow, buy her breakfast.

Feeling her eyelids sinking once more, Claire changed into her pyjamas and climbed into the second bed, enjoying the sensation of clean, tucked in sheets.

***

The Never-ending Edit: 2013 365 Challenge #241

Paper flowers (Mummy to the rescue!)

Today is my daughter’s last day at nursery. A sad day for me, an exciting day for her.

We spent yesterday shopping for flowers for her nursery staff, writing cards and making tags. Little man wanted to get involved, so – after some frantic searching of the craft drawers and a few tears – we also made paper flowers for his key-workers, as he moves rooms now he’s nearly three.

Today also marks my last full nursery day, ever! Readers of this blog will know I view this with fear: I like my eight-hour days twice a week to have some head space and get my writing done.

Knowing this is the last one, I want to make it a productive one. Of course it won’t be. What I really wanted to do was finally to put Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes to bed. Hmmm not sure that’s ever going to happen.

Flowers and tags

In my two hours of preschool time yesterday, I finally finished going through the proof reader’s amends on the Baby Blues manuscript. Hurrah! you might think. Except it wasn’t. Because I’ve realised why you normally have an editor and then a proofreader go through your manuscript.

My lovely proofreader, Sarah Nisbet, actually did more of a light edit than just a check for grammar and spelling errors. As a result I ended up rewriting scenes. Which leads to more potential errors.

I happily loaded the new manuscript to Smashwords just as I was about to collect the children from preschool, only to immediately spot two typos. Given how tired I’ve been for most of August I’m sure there are plenty more. So now I have to read it through again and try to spot mistakes, which is fiendishly hard in your own work! I’m also scared to read the book through again, as I’ll want to change more and more things. I know this isn’t the best book ever written and, following on from the free book debate, I feel like I’m letting down every other self-published author if I publish a book that isn’t outstanding.

I long for the day when I can afford a structural edit, a final edit and a proof read, though I can’t see when it’s coming.

Shopping for flowers

The general view on the cheap and free book debate was that it goes hand in hand with the poorly-edited mistake-ridden books of the self published author and how both are potentially career ending. Maybe I should have published under a pseudonym, thus giving myself the option of a fresh start should it all go wrong.

In the meantime I’m seriously considering having the book converted to an audio book so I can at least save my eyes when I run through it again. Has anyone ever done that? I’d be interested to hear your views. I have so many books I want to read right now, mine just isn’t one of them. I know how it ends for a start!

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All around was chaos. Children screamed, parents shouted and still the ship rocked. Claire dug her fingers into the arm rests and concentrated on not vomiting. She sensed Bethan looking round, calmly assessing the situation, trying to ascertain what was going on. A tiny part of Claire’s mind envied the girl’s calm, while the rest was grateful for it. At least one of them could stay together in a crisis.

Eventually Bethan got up and went to peer out of the window, gripping onto chairs for support as the boat pitched around like a fairground ride. Claire closed her eyes and waited for her new friend to return. When she felt a touch on her arm she jumped, and Bethan’s squeal made them both laugh.

“Sorry, you scared me,” Claire said through gritted teeth. “What’s happening?”

“We’re in Picton, as far as I can tell, but we haven’t docked. It looks like we might have hit the wharf. They’re scurrying around out there like rats.”

Claire glanced around the ferry. “Not much difference in here.”

She stopped talking as a voice came over the loud-speaker. Straining to hear the words above the hubbub, Claire groaned as they sunk into her foggy brain.

“We apologise for the delay. We are unable to dock due to some damaged sustained to the docking equipment. Please remain seated and we will keep you updated.”

Dropping her head back against the seat, Claire heaved out a sigh.

Great.

Two hours passed, and then three. The same announcement came across the tannoy, asking them to remain calm, informing them that every effort was being made to allow them to disembark. The children around them had mostly fallen asleep, or were plugged into iPods and tablets. Claire was surprised no one was handing out free drinks or food, not that she could have eaten anything. Despite its lack of forward motion, the ferry still rolled around until Claire had forgotten what it meant to be still.

When the tannoy crackled into life again, Claire barely heard the words, until one stood out.

“… Wellington. Once more we sincerely apologise for the inconvenience.”

The cabin erupted. All around her, adults began talking, gesturing, demanding to see a manager. People talked of missed appointments and events. The children, sensing adventure, came to life, adding their yells and screams to the mayhem.

Claire turned to Bethan for more information and saw the girl grinning. Is she ever bothered by anything?

“Why is everyone so upset?” Claire stretched, conscious of just how long she had sat in the same chair, without food or drink. “Aren’t we getting off? I need to pee.”

“No, we’re not getting off.” Bethan laughed, quietly, drawing frowns from the passengers around her. “We’re going back to Wellington.”

***

Yet another self-publishing guide: Editing (amykeeley.wordpress.com)
Is Anything Ever 100% Perfect? (joannegphillips.wordpress.com)
Editing Adventures in Vonnie-Land (lesbianauthors.wordpress.com)

The Unexpected Good Day: 2013 365 Challenge #240

Bungyjumping toys

Today I had one of those marvellous things known as the unexpected good day.

Normally by day five with no break from the kids I’m ready to quit and the shouting has started before breakfast (especially after a long bout of insomnia such as I seem to be having at present).

But, thanks to my gorgeous hubbie taking the kids until 8am and bringing me breakfast in bed, leaving me to read my new Rinelle Grey book, that didn’t happen.

The day got better.

One of my very good friends was free to come over with her two littluns, thus motivating me to clean my house for the first time in a fortnight. I even did the upstairs, even though we close the stair-gate when she comes, as she has a baby. I did have to jump in the shower as she arrived, but husband got back to fill the breach in manners.

Butter wouldn’t melt!

The kids were amazing.

Normally my daughter ignores her friend and plays with the baby, leaving my son to be the gentleman. But the baby was going through a Mummy-or-bust phase and, instead of being upset, my gorgeous daughter went and played with the others. They were quiet. For a whole hour. We kept checking on them but they were squirreled away in the top of the playhouse.

We fed them, they still didn’t come down. We offered frozen yoghurt. They came and ate them, then went back out.

I haven’t had such a good gossip in ages. Even the baby sat in the high chair and ate fruit. I think they were bewitched. I offered to tidy up their toys in gratitude for my morning chat, and discovered two sleds, two scooters and three helmets in the playhouse loft. I’m quite glad I found out after!

In the afternoon we made cakes as a thank you for their excellent behaviour, then they played some more while I did ironing. I hate ironing! But I enjoyed the sense of getting ahead of myself while watching them play circus games through the window.

Monkey tricks

Tea in front of the TV – another thank you gesture from me – and they went off to play music with Daddy while I responded to the great ‘free book’ debate sparked by yesterday’s post.

Now I’m walking the dog, dodging tractors, and later I’m sending hubbie to pick up Chinese as I’ve forgotten to buy food this week. A perfect end to a perfect day. I’m enjoying the moment, seeing as it doesn’t happen very often!

Wishing you all a happy, productive, perfect day soon x

P.S. In case you were wondering what bad karma would hit me for speaking of my great day, it came in the form of the Chinese. Our favourie and second favourite takeaways were both closed after the bank holiday and the only other one in the town isn’t the best! Still, a hot meal I didn’t cook and that didn’t generate washing up is alright by me. Prawn cracker anyone?

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Claire gripped the arm rests and closed her eyes. The feeling grew stronger and her eyelids flew open again. The nausea was easier to control if she kept her eyes fixed on the seat in front. Next to her Bethan chuckled.

“You’ve gone green. I don’t think I’ve actually seen anyone go green before. Do you need a bag?”

Claire didn’t dare speak through her gritted teeth so she shook her head; the tiny movement made her head swim. She was only grateful that Bethan wasn’t taunting her for declining her offer of seasickness tablets when they left Wellington. It was too late now. Even if there was time for them to start working, Claire was certain she couldn’t open her mouth long enough to swallow anything: the only thing preventing her from vomiting over the seat in front was the clenched grip of her jaw muscles.

“It’s a shame the weather’s so bad,” Bethan said, as if they were waiting at a bus stop in the rain, “because the crossing is really beautiful. Normally you can stand on deck and envy all the bastards living in the tiny cottages dotted about the sound. Some of them have meandering paths down to the water, with a boat moored up for that essential trip to town.”

It was fortunate that her new friend seemed happy to chatter without getting a response, because Claire only heard half the words. The guide book had waxed lyrical about the beauty of the Queen Charlotte Sound. Frankly Claire was only interested in reaching dry land and never getting on a boat again.

Another wave crashed into the row of windows ten metres in front of them. The wave soaked the glass from top to bottom as if someone had chucked a bucket of soapy water at it. Around her, Claire heard children whooping and laughing.

This isn’t a fairground ride. Honestly, how can people let their kids run riot. Never mind how annoying it is, they might get hurt.

As if to prove her point, the ferry pitched forwards as it dropped into another hole in the ocean. One of the younger children fell sideways and bumped her head, letting out an eardrum-bursting shriek. Part of Claire, the part not consumed by the urge to put her fingers in her ears and sob, felt sorry for the child’s parents. The thought of taking such a journey with Sky brought to mind a whole new level of hideousness.

The bucking bronco boat ride seemed to be nearing its end. Out the window Claire could just make out the rising cliffs of the sound. Hope surged in her breast and she began to gather her things.

“Don’t be fooled. We won’t be there for ages yet. Even on a calm day it takes time to negotiate the sound. Although the water will be calmer, the journey will be affected by the weather. You don’t want us to crash into the cliff, do you?”

Bethan laughed and Claire found herself going off her new friend. Maybe it was being the right side of twenty-five, or maybe it was spending her life travelling, but Bethan was far less fazed by things than she was. She glanced at her watch and was surprised to see they had already been travelling for several hours.

Today is not a day I would choose to be longer at sea than necessary. Maybe I should have checked the forecast before agreeing to go south with Bethan. So much for her intention to stay in the capital: she has more changes of plans in a day than I have cups of coffee, and that’s saying something.

Claire looked over at her travelling companion. Bethan had headphones in and her eyes closed. A smile flickered on her lips as she bobbed her head in time to silent music. In a strange way Claire felt comforted by her peacefulness.

Trying to follow Bethan’s lead, Claire risked ducking her head to find her phone deep in the recesses of her bag. After the third attempt she located it and selected the most soothing music she could find. With a cello concerto filling her ears, drowning out the raucous cries of the pack of wild children, Claire felt the flutter of agitation start to settle. She rested her head against the seat and was just drifting off when the boat lurched suddenly and listed to one side.

Claire’s eyes flew open. “What the hell happened?”

Bethan took her earphones out and looked around. With a shrug that only served to increase Claire’s panic, she said, “I think we hit something.”

***

Should Books ever be Free? 2013 365 Challenge #239

The Inflatable Slide

There’s an ongoing debate amongst self-published authors (potentially all authors but I can only speak for Indies) about the merits of making an ebook cheap or even free for a short period of time.

For an unknown author, making use of something like the KDP Select Program, with its five free days every three months, can be a great way to get your name out there.

Even if no one reads your book after they’ve downloaded it for free – and I’m sure the majority don’t (I only ready about 10% of those I download for free) – the giveaways increase your Amazon rankings and make you appear in the ‘also bought’ section at the bottom.

The more relaxed Bouncy Castle

Whether this gives you sales you wouldn’t have achieved anyway, with self-belief and patience (not traits I have in abundance), is possibly debatable, but I know I wouldn’t have sold 7 copies in Germany this month if I hadn’t appeared on some German website during my last free promo. Dragon Wraiths reached No 1 in Fantasy during the three-day promotional period and it boosted sales tremendously, if only for a short time.

The effect of the other element – pricing cheaply – is harder to grasp. Authors like Amanda Hocking have made their fortune with a 99c price point, but only through lots and lots of hard work, promotion and through writing lots of books.

Equally I have heard compelling arguments to say pricing too cheap can affect people’s perspective of your credibility as an author. It’s hard to utilise free alongside low pricing, as the KDP Select Program prevents you from pricing as low as 99c, so I have little direct experience of a low price point.

In another dog show

Therefore these are not questions I have answers to. Catherine, Caffeinated has a great post on why Indie authors need to price low, even though she also wrote the post above about why you should charge as much as you can. If she does’t know the answer, with her wealth of experience, I’m certainly unlikely to figure it out. I imagine it is different for every author, book and personality type (ie how much patience is on offer).

The reason it popped into my head today was due to a trip to our local village fete. The kids wanted to go on the bouncy castle and the inflatable slide. The castle was £2 for as long as they liked. The slide was £1.50 for three goes.

Most parents and kids came away from the busy bouncy castle feeling happy that they’d received value for money. We all came away from the half-empty inflatable slide, and the miserable lady ushering the kids off after their three goes, feeling grumpy and hard done by.

Our Young Handler, 4th place

Just because the castle man was giving away more, it didn’t devalue the experience. I suspect he made more money even though the kids were on the castle for ages for their two quid: there’s nothing like a castle full of giggling bouncing children to entice others to have a go. No one went on the inflatable slide twice, they just went elsewhere.

Part of being an author is about building a brand. If you give your book for free, so what? It means people have a chance to read your book who probably wouldn’t otherwise. If people like what they read they’ll come back for more, even if it isn’t free. If they don’t like it, you’ve lost nothing. Yes you get bad reviews but you get those anyway (or I certainly do)!

Anyway, these are just my thoughts! What are your views on cheap and free? Does it make you think the book won’t be worth reading, or does it encourage you to discover new authors?

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It surprised Claire how much more fun it was wandering around a museum with someone else, particularly someone knowledgeable who also had a sense of humour. Bethan proved herself well versed in the history of the country and the Maoris, adding snippets of information and reducing the amount of sign-reading Claire had to do.

The Te Papa museum was vast, with everything from Maori dancing to space exploration. Claire’s feet throbbed and her mind swirled with the myriad of information crammed into it. And it was free! When she thought about the money she’d spent on tours and experiences since arriving in the country, and here was this amazing facility at no cost. Even so, it was definitely time for a break, before her legs dropped off.

“Enough! Don’t you ever stop?” Claire stood with her hands on her hips as Bethan tried to drag her outside to see the ponds.

“We’ve only seen about half. Come on, wus, don’t stop now. What else is there to do? It’s tipping it down outside.”

Claire smiled at the strangely English colloquialisms coming from the Asian face in an America accent. Bethan’s history intrigued her, not least because she hadn’t shared a single thing about herself apart from the stay in the States.

“A coffee, please? Just a coffee break. I need caffeine.”

“It’s not good for you, you know? Much better to drink fruit juice or, better still, water.”

Claire pulled a face. “I wouldn’t live longer, it would just feel like it. Okay, I’ll have a latte and you can drink green tea.”

It was her turn to drag Bethan, as she towed the girl towards the coffee shop. It was crowded, like the whole museum, and Claire sincerely hoped they would find a seat.

Trust me to be in the capital on a bank holiday weekend. Why couldn’t I have been in river valley or somewhere else devoid of people? Rain or no rain, I might have to brave the Cook Strait crossing tomorrow.

As if reading her mind, it was Bethan’s first question when they eventually found a seat. ”When will you get back on the bus? Are you taking the ferry or flying to the South Island?”

“Ferry, I guess. Whichever is cheaper.”

“I wouldn’t fancy flying in this weather. It’s a nasty crossing on a good day.”

“You sound like you’ve done it before?” Claire sipped at her coffee and felt the warmth and caffeine spread through her body.

“I have. This is my second tour of the country. I did it all too quickly the first time round.” She blushed and Claire wondered what the story was. She raised an eyebrow, inviting confidences, but Bethan only shook her head and laughed.

“Are you staying in Wellington for a while?”

Bethan smiled, seemingly glad of the change of subject. “I should. I need to work. Funds are running low again, and it will be easier to find a job here in the city.” She frowned. “I’d rather not, though. One city is pretty much the same as another after a while. I miss the mountains.”

Remembering something Mitch had said, Claire asked, “Couldn’t you get work at one of the ski resorts, or down in Queenstown?”

Bethan shook her head. “I don’t ski. Besides …” She hesitated and Claire again suspected there was a story there.

Maybe she’ll feel able to tell me later.

It felt good to have some female company, to gossip – even if it was a bit one sided. Claire had told Bethan about Carl and Michael, work and Kim. Something about the way the girl actively listened made Claire share her life history with her.

Sitting with Bethan, laughing at silly things that they had seen or done during the morning, Claire felt a pang of sadness. It felt like old times with Kim. She wondered if she would ever have them again.

***

Introvert Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #238

Definite Extrovert

A while ago on Facebook, my husband’s cousin shared this great comic strip about How to Live with Introverts, with the joke line “this has saved my marriage.” (I haven’t posted the comic here as I don’t know about copyright, but do go and take a look or this post won’t make much sense. Come back though, please?)

For those of you who haven’t just read the cartoon, it starts with the statement, “Introverts live in a human-sized hamster ball” of personal space. It goes on to discuss how extroverts get their energy from being with other people, while introverts give energy to others and need to be by themselves to replenish it.

It then lightheartedly explains how to interact with introverts – who do like company, but don’t want to waste their precious energy on ‘bad’ company. It ends with some top tips including, “Don’t take silence as an insult – it isn’t!” and “introverts get lonely too.”

My favourite line is the last one: “Be sure to hug your introvert today! (with permission of course)”

I loved it so much, because it explains who I am in a nice way rather than in an ‘I’m an abnormal anti-social freak’ kind of way. It also explains me and my husband: He is both an introvert and an extrovert. He feeds off company, but needs time alone to replenish. He has his own personal bubble but he thrives off continual physical contact.

Possibly both, like her Daddy

It also explains (possibly) why I find parenting so hard. I don’t know if this applies to all introverts, because actually I would guess most of my friends are extroverts, but for me it makes sense.

Being with children continuously, fielding questions continuously, going to baby groups, play dates, soft-play centres, with chatter and noise and stimulation, continuously, uses up all the precious energy. And there is no time to replenish.

I snapped at my kids today, “No more questions, please!” It’s been relentless recently, from both of them, and husband has retreated into his bubble, which leaves me giving out all the non-existent energy. I don’t often get a chance to read and replenish (or sleep and replenish) and so am constantly frayed and exhausted.

This is particularly bad when hubbie isn’t working. Much as I love him, I need space away from everyone – him included – to truly feel refreshed. Even if he’s pottering in the garage and I only see him at lunch time, that isn’t the same as being in the house by myself. The vibe isn’t the same. The battery doesn’t charge as well.

I feel, instinctively (without a shred of evidence) that the introvert/extrovert might explain some of the difference between the parents who write on Facebook about how much they love spending every minute of every day with their children (making me feel like a bad parent) and the ones who ask if it’s bedtime yet.

Are there any other introvert Mummies out there to help me prove or disprove my theory? Answers on a post card (or in the comments will do!) please. 🙂

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“Wait up, Claire.”

Claire turned, surprised to be called by name. She recognised the girl from breakfast at river valley, the one with the long black hair. Searching for a name, her brain threw up a card.

“Bethan. Hello.”

Bethan fell in alongside Claire as she walked from her room to the kitchen.

“You staying in the Windy City for the weekend, too? It’s the Queen’s birthday, so there’s bound to be loads to do. Shame about the poxy weather.”

Claire glanced over at the girl, trying to work her out. She looked to be about twenty and Claire guessed she must be from Thailand or the Philippines or somewhere in that part of the world, although she had a blended accent that was hard to pinpoint. Not having visited the East, except for beach holidays, she had a very loose understanding of the area. With a shrug she decided it didn’t matter: the girl spoke English.

Bethan gazed at her expectantly and Claire realised she hadn’t answered the question.

“Yes, I’m here for at least one more night. Why do they celebrate the Queen’s birthday here? I don’t think we even register it in the UK.”

“Oh, they’re big on the Royal Family in New Zealand. She’s still head of state, and they love all that pomp and ceremony. They laugh at them too, but they wouldn’t be Kiwis if they didn’t.”

“You sound like you know the country quite well.”

“I’ve been here for a few months; you pick up a lot travelling round.”

The girls arrived in the kitchen, and Claire searched her meagre supplies for something to eat. There never seemed to be time to buy food and the hostels didn’t always offer a cooked breakfast like they did in the UK. She watched in envy as Bethan located a frying pan and pulled out the ingredients for pancakes.

As if sensing her jealous observation, Bethan turned to Claire. “Do you want some? I got totally addicted to them while in the States and they’re dead easy to make when you’re travelling.”

Claire nodded, “Yes, please.”

Bethan turned back to the stove and Claire sought for a topic of conversation.

“How long were you in America?”

“Two years,” Bethan called over her shoulder. “I was studying for the first year, and then I stayed on to do some travelling.”

The information surprised Claire. Bethan didn’t look old enough to have been away from home that long, or to be travelling by herself. She felt a stab of emotion which, after a moment’s analysing, she realised was disappointment at herself: so many people had achieved great things before she’d even left university.

I’ve lived a safe existence. Good grades, good degree, good career, for all the good it did me. Where’s the adventure? Where’s the living life?

Bethan came to the table with a bottle of syrup and a stack of thick pancakes. She loaded several onto a plate and slid them across to Claire. The two girls sat munching in companionable silence until the plates were empty.

“What about you, Claire, how long have you been in New Zealand?”

Claire looked up from scraping the last of the syrup off her plate. “What day is it today?”

“Saturday. It’s the 1st of June.”

“What, already?” Claire’s eyes opened wide. “Then I’ve been here–” She did a mental calculation, “–nearly two weeks. Gosh, is that all? It feels much longer.” Then she realised how much further there was to travel and that she’d only planned to be away for a fortnight, and her stomach lurched.

With a sigh, she said, “I guess I probably shouldn’t stay in Wellington too long. I need to get home.”

Bethan looked sympathetic. “Have you got to get back to work? I’m so lucky I don’t have a job to go to.”

“Neither do I.” Claire didn’t feel that lucky. She wanted to ask Bethan how she afforded to travel without work, how many places she had visited, even how old she was. The young girl intrigued her. Her British reserve forced her to hold her tongue, and silence fell.

Eventually, Bethan stood up and went to wash the dishes. Claire grabbed a tea towel and while they worked, Bethan asked, “What plans do you have for today? The weather’s meant to be rubbish. I was going to go to the Botanical Gardens on the cable car, but I think I might go to the museum. Do you want to come?”

It felt strange, making her own decisions. Claire had got used to the bus driver telling her what the next activity to do or place to visit was. A museum sounded a bit boring, but at least they’d be out of the rain. And it would be nice to have some company.

“Sure, why not.”

***

Introverts: A Field Guide. (elephantjournal.com)
The Introverted Traveller (theorientnomad.wordpress.com)
Susan Cain: The Power of Introverts (fora.tv)
23 signs you’re secretly an introvert… (huffingtonpost.com)
Are You An Introvert Or An Extrovert? What It Means For Your Career (fastcompany.com)
15 Unmistakable, Outrageously Secret Signs You’re an Extrovert (gawker.com)
The Secrets of Introverts (thechemistryguy08.wordpress.com)
Mama Is Hiding Under the Bed Because She’s an Introvert, and It’s August. (jessieclemence.com)
5 Things You Should Know About Introverts (lifehack.org)

Rainy Day Play Again: 2013 365 Challenge #237

Getting soaked in her best dress

It’s a rainy bank holiday weekend here in the UK. Bank holidays don’t mean much when you’re self/unemployed. The only impact it has on us is that the children won’t go to nursery on Monday and I will get a little bit further behind on my writing.

I remember looking forward to bank holiday weekends in the days when I did work for a living. Who doesn’t love a free day off, even if it means battling home in crazy traffic on a Friday night?

I love the August bank holiday the best because it’s when the summer fêtes are held.

As a child we went to the same summer fête every year – to a place called Wisborough Green in Sussex – even though it was an hour’s drive in the camper-van (a long way to go to a ‘local’ event!).

Loving the wet slide

My father often went to the village on holiday as a child and it held an almost magical appeal to him to the day he died.

These days we go to our local village fête. We’ve even entered things in the craft competition before (certainly not in the produce section: plants come to our house to die).

My husband won his category for his ‘man knitting’ – one of his many mini obsessions. His knitting was six foot wide and about eight foot long, in a dozen different colours and textures. It had to be displayed on a curtain pole.

This year we had hoped to enter something of the children’s but time keeps slipping away from me. We’ve got 24 hours to figure something out!

I’m a bit wet, Mummy

I feel sad for office workers when it rains on a bank holiday weekend – particularly when the preceding weather has been great, as it has been this month. So frustrating to be stuck inside with restless children or, worse still, travelling any distance in the car when it’s raining. We went to see my father-in-law for lunch today and I’ve never seen so many flashing blue lights during a thirty-mile journey.

When we got home I slept on the sofa for two hours with my son, making up for some of the sleep lost through last night’s thunder-storm. Our poor dog came upstairs at 2 a.m. – an unprecedented event which showed just how upset she was – and I went to sleep on the sofa to keep her company and feed her cheese every time the thunder rolled.

After my nap, I managed a few games of Guess Who? and Snakes and Ladders before we all started getting cabin fever. Unfortunately my youngest is still incapable of sitting still for the time it takes to play a board game and my daughter hates to lose. Not a great recipe for harmonious game playing!

My daredevil boy!

Come five o’clock, bedtime seemed too far away, so I decided if you can’t beat the weather you have to join it. I let the kids outside without waterproofs, as it’s still very warm, and they had immense fun getting as soaked as they possibly could. Sometimes you have to go with the flow!

Anyway, sorry for the rambling post. The dog didn’t get walked today (the heavens opened just as the kids came in for tea and I don’t have any wellies, although that’s a story for another day!) and I find blog ideas only come to me when I’m walking.

I hope you like the pictures instead!

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire awoke as the coach stopped moving. Rolling countryside had been replaced by sprawling suburbia and she realised, with a sinking heart, that she’d slept through the entire drive from river valley.

I’m never likely to come to this country again and I couldn’t even keep my eyes open for a few hours to admire the scenery. I’m not much of a travel writer.

Blinking away the sleepy fog clouding her sight, Claire tried to take in her surroundings. It had started to rain at some point in their journey and all she could see through the windows were hulking grey shapes distorted by the streams of water running down.

She survived the check-in routine on auto-pilot. When she reached her room, Claire looked at her bed and felt an almost irresistible urge to climb under the covers and close her eyes again. But, even though she planned to spend an extra night in the capital, it was a waste of opportunity and dollars to sleep when she could be out exploring.

It was my choice to travel in winter, she thought, as she pulled out her raincoat and waterproof shoes. The weather’s only going to get worse, the further south I go, so I might as well get used to it.

Her wandering feet took her down towards the water; wild and white-topped in the squally weather. Claire huddled into her anorak and tried to appreciate her location. Up ahead she could see a stone sign on the harbour wall. Intrigued, she headed over to read what it said.

The rain made it necessary to peer close at the black letters, but when she read the words, Claire’s face lit in a smile. Taking a picture for her blog, she thought about the words:

It’s true you can’t live here by chance, you have to do and be, not simply watch or even describe. This is the city of action, the world headquarters of the verb –

She bent down to read the inscription at the bottom: Lauris Edmond. The words played on repeat in her mind. New Zealand was certainly the country of the verb. To do, to jump, to ride, to move, to live, to love.

Her thoughts took her on a meandering path that led through uncomfortable recollections and images. People left behind, people still in touch. Another text had arrived from Conor that morning, asking her when she was likely to return to the UK. No mention of the job, although she imagined he was under some pressure to fill the role. She was grateful for his forbearance.

The text from Josh – already memorised – churned round and round as she tried to plan further than the next few days. Visiting him felt like indulging a guilty pleasure or potentially opening Pandora’s box. Again. Claire shivered and bent her head into the wind.

Oh, what a mess. Six months ago I had all the answers. They were answering the wrong questions, but I didn’t know that. Now what? Where the hell do I go from here?

As the rain pattered relentlessly on her hood and crept in through the crevices of her coat, until she felt damp inside and out, Claire trudged through the headquarters of the verb and wondered what her future perfect should be.

***

Rainy Day (mindthatneuron.wordpress.com)
Rainy Day (hjsphoto.wordpress.com)
Bank holiday showers as 14 million plan getaway (telegraph.co.uk)
Let’s have a baby. (madmumof7.com)

It’s all in the Voice: 2013 365 Challenge #236

My gorgeous son

Today is my 300th post! Wowee I can’t believe it! Thank you to everyone who takes the time to read, like and comment: it makes it all worth it. Here’s to 300 more! 🙂

I had a wonderful hour this afternoon with a good friend (and one who obviously reads my blog from time to time) and I realised something important.

A while I go I wrote on this blog about how my friends never laughed when I spent time with them. It concerned me, because I don’t want to be Miss Bates (Emma by Jane Austen), rattling on without humour and driving everyone crazy.

After a lovely time with my friend today, talking about my books, my blog, my love of writing, I felt on top of the world, despite feeling rubbish all day due to lack of sleep. I sent a thank you text with a quick apology that we were late meeting – I’d forgotten about the bank holiday traffic.

Yo Ho Ho Pirate Daughter

In response my friend said “I had a great time you are on fine form and I laughed loads”. An odd thing to comment, which is why I think she reads the occasional blog post (and if you’re reading this, thank you! You have no idea how much it means to me!) as it felt like a direct response to my previous post about making friends laugh.

When I got home I also read a post on Kristen Lamb’s blog about author’s voice. Putting the two together, I realised that friendships are like novels: either you relate to someone’s voice or you don’t. The enthusiastic five-star reviews of the novel you couldn’t stand? The one-star diatribe against your favourite author?: it’s all about voice. Genre too, and characters and plot, of course. But, underneath it all, is the voice.

Poor grammar, typos, even bigger problems, are all forgiven in a book that captures our interest. But the most polished, crafted, well written novel in a style you can’t stomach is unlikely to be read to the end, certainly not more than once.

And you can no more say why you love an author’s voice than you can explain why an hour with one person will have you both laughing, and with another can feel like the first time you’ve met.

So, as an author, if someone doesn’t like your book when most people do (not just your doting Great Aunt Maude) don’t change your voice, change your audience.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire rolled off her bunk and groaned. A day’s hiking followed by grade five white water rafting for three hours meant her muscles had turned to mush and her bones to jelly.

All I want to do is crawl on the bus and sleep. Next stop Wellington.

The smell of fresh bread wafted through her room, and Claire paused in her packing to soak it in. A gurgling response from her tummy made her speed up her progress and, before long, she was striding down the corridor with her rucksack bouncing on her bruised shoulders.

“Good morning.”

Claire looked up and smiled at the girl eating breakfast by herself in the kitchen. She recognised her from the Tongariro Crossing and had a vague feeling she had been on the rafting expedition too, although not in her testosterone-laden vessel. The last thought made her scowl and she had to force the feelings away before her fellow traveller took offense.

“Feeling sore?”

The girl interpreted her grimace as one of pain. Nodding in agreement, Claire helped herself to some food before sitting gingerly at the table.

“Me too,” the girl mumbled around her toast. “Name’s Bethan, by the way.”

Claire introduced herself and gave off her companionable silence vibes. They didn’t work.

“Are you going on the horse trek this morning, before we leave?”

With a shake of her head, Claire tried to kill the conversation. A combination of pain and memories had kept her awake for too much of the night and now it felt like someone was trying to deliver her brain by ventouse.

“I thought I might try the spa,” Bethan continued, oblivious to the wall of silence on the other side of the table. She flicked her long black hair over her shoulder and looked around the room with a grin. Claire hated people who were happy before 8 a.m.

“I didn’t know they had a spa,” she murmured. Actually a spa sounded perfect, to ease the muscles with some hot water and a massage. But money was getting tight and she couldn’t afford to be frivolous.

“No, I think it better be the horse riding,” Bethan continued, debating her options out loud. “I can go to a spa at home, but I can’t ride an unbridled horse across the hills.”

“Bareback riding? You’re brave.” Claire had struggled enough with the pack pony in the New Forest and that had been a slug.

She flushed as Bethan laughed. “No, not without a saddle, just without a bit and bridle.”

“How do you steer?” Claire looked around, desperately hoping a vat of steaming coffee might appear from nowhere.

“They have rope halters to guide them. Apparently you get to canter if you want to and everything. It sounds awesome.”

Claire wasn’t convinced, although the scenery around them was beautiful. Unfortunately she hadn’t realised how expensive all the extras would be, on top of the coach ticket. She was starting to feel that hiring a car and finding her own way round, able to choose her own activities and accommodation, might have been a more frugal and sensible option.

At least I can write authentically for the backpacker market. I can’t afford it this trip, even with my salary: how do the youngsters who’ve never worked a day in their lives, apart from pulling pints in the student bar, afford their gap year? She thought for a moment, and shrugged. Same way as me, I suppose. The not-so-flexible friend. I think my plastic my snap if I bend it any further.

She finished her breakfast and wandered out to find what time the coach was leaving, and to see if it was possible to pass a couple of hours without spending any money. Some how she doubted it.

***

My Day Off: 2013 365 Challenge #235

My ‘out and about’ paint kit: I didn’t feel up to getting the big box out!

I took the day off today. I didn’t really have any choice. Despite skipping writing my post so I could have an early night, I barely got any sleep. Instead I lay awake half the night, interspersed with having bad dreams (ironically stressing that I wouldn’t be able to finish my edit today – my second-to-last nursery day before school starts).

As a result I barely managed to write my post when I woke up, suffering from a splitting headache and eye strain. When I finally published it at 11am – an hour later than I aim for – I felt done in. I have no idea what I wrote about!

It seems I have spent too much time staring at a screen recently: reading on the iPad, editing, writing, even working on cover designs. My eyes feel like they’re being sucked out of my head by a plunger.

Rough title page

I tried to sleep. But I’m not very good at sleeping in the daytime. Even if I manage to nod off I wake feeling like I’ve got the hangover from hell. In the end I decided to do some more work on my sketches for the picture book I want to write for my son for Christmas.

After getting hubbie out of the office to find my paints in the loft, where they have lain unused for five years, I sat myself down in front Sense and Sensibility and had a wonderful, creative afternoon.

I think it will take a lot more work, but I feel like I might be able to come up with something passable as a gift. Now I just need to work on the words. This is my current opening:

Aaron and the Cow Pirates

Aaron walked along the beach kicking at shells. He was bored. It was the school holidays and there was nothing to do.

My son! 🙂

“Boring!” he said, as he looked across the flat blue sea. “Boring!” he moaned, as he stomped along the flat white sand. “Boring!” he muttered as he kicked at an old plastic spade lying abandoned on the beach.

“Oi! That’s my spade!”

Aaron turned to see who was shouting and jumped.

Peering at him from behind a rock, tears and snot running down his miserable green face, was a dinosaur.

“Argh!”

“What?!” The dinosaur searched fearfully around to see why Aaron had screamed. “Are they here? Are they back?”

“Who?” Aaron recovered from his fright and took two steps towards the dinosaur.

“The Cow Pirates. They stole my bucket.”

The Cow Pirates and the Bucket

The dinosaur, whose name was Jack, began to cry. Big, wet tears rolled down his cheeks and landed with a plop on the sand.

“Cow Pirates?” Aaron’s eyes widened. “Here? Nothing that cool ever happens here. It’s bor-ing.”

“The Cow Pirates aren’t boring, they’re scary. They go Yo Ho Moo! and steal stuff. They stole my bucket.” Jack said again, sniffing loudly.

“Then we will steal it back!” Aaron declared bravely.

“We?” Jack cowered behind the rock. “Not me. They make me wobble like a jelly.”

Jack the Dinosaur

“I will get back your bucket.”

Aaron climbed onto the rock and looked out to sea. “Where did they go?”

“They wanted my bucket to carry their treasure. They said they were going to bury it at pebble beach.”

Aaron knew the way to pebble beach. He went there with his grandma and grandpa to look for crabs in the rock pools. “There’s no time to lose.” He climbed up Jack’s tail and sat with his legs around Jack’s broad neck. “Come on!”

Still sniffing and grumbling, Jack took Aaron along the shore to pebble beach.

Aaron jumping in fright and the cows at pebble beach

“I hope they’ve gone,” Jack muttered. “I don’t want my bucket back anyway. I want my Mummy.” And he began to cry again.

That’s about as far as I’ve got. When I tell the story to my son, it tends to end, “So Aaron and Jack went to the beach and stole back the bucket, the end.”

He always introduces a character called “Berty Werty Pooey Berty” so I might have to incorporate that too. Let’s just say, the money I spent on the Writing Children’s Stories study course for next year was probably well spent! 🙂

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire fidgeted with her wetsuit as she waited by the shore. The neoprene was getting rather intimate and the life jacket felt like an unwelcome hug from a frisky drunk. There had been too much time to regret her hasty decision, since signing up and arriving at the river. She blamed Josh. Ten minutes after a text from him and she had agreed to risk her neck in a crazy activity.

I could have been hacking across the hills, letting the horse take the strain. I must be nuts.

The way the guide had described it, the rafting seemed like a fun way to spend the afternoon, with a chance to see some different scenery and have a story to tell. She’d figured they wouldn’t let a tourist get hurt. The river apparently boasted grade five rapids, but the number hadn’t meant much to Claire. If anything, she had figured, on a scale of one to ten, five sounded quite mild.

Then she’d seen a sign in the literature describing what Grade Five meant.

Very powerful rapids with very confused and broken water, large drops, violent and fast currents, abrupt turns, difficult powerful stoppers and fast boiling eddies; with numerous obstacles in the main current. Complex, precise and powerful sequential manoeuvring is required.

A definite risk to personal safety exists.

The words had made her feel sick, but it was too late to turn back. She could almost hear Neal’s hated voice whispering “chicken” in her ear. Besides, there were other girls there; women that looked less fit than she was.

If they can do it, so can I.

Standing next to the rushing torrent of the river, watching the other rafts drop over rapids and skim the jagged rocks along the canyon, she was swiftly changing her view.

Looking around, Claire realised she was the only woman in her raft. The five other crew members gathered by the bank were not all hulking athletes, but they were all men. She stood slightly separate from them, as they were given instructions by their guide.

In a bored voice the guide, who looked about twelve years old to Claire, explained what to do if she fell out, how to protect herself from the rocks, how to swim to safety, Claire’s nausea grew. She liked swimming but it wasn’t her strongest suit. Deciding that, if necessary, she would cling to the raft rather than paddle, Claire focussed all her energy on listening to the lecture.

Once in the raft, with her close-fitting helmet blocking out a chunk of the noise, the river didn’t seem so wild. The rushing water played a constant background accompaniment as the guide yelled out orders.

The first task was to discover how they all pulled together. The four of them at the back of the raft, with Claire in the middle on the right, pulled in unison. The two guys at the front, however, rowed to a syncopated rhythm all of their own. Claire sensed the guide’s growing frustration. Eventually he ordered Claire to swap places with one of them so that the weakest person was surrounded by strong oars.

And then they were off. Time lost all meaning and Claire had no chance to take in the scenery. Her whole world closed down to two things: following the guide’s commands to the letter and concentrating on staying in the raft. She dug her oar in on demand, she held onto the rope and ducked, she raised her paddle into the air and cheered.

During the brief respites between the swirling rapids, Claire drank in the scenery. Sometimes the banks dropped low, and she could see the dark hills all around. Other times the canyon walls closed in and it felt like they were drifting through a craggy, moss-encrusted tunnel. She could imagine she was floating on an Elven vessel along the Anduin river.

With still half of the trip to go, Claire felt she had found her stride. The oar fitted into the palm of her hand, her body seemed to understand what she was asking it to do. Despite the spray stinging her face and the wetsuit clinging to her body, her skin fizzed with energy.

A yell from beside her caused her to look across. The man next to her had dropped his oar, and a quick turn of the head showed it floating away behind them. The guide didn’t hesitate. He gestured to Claire to give up her oar, and told her to sit and enjoy the rest of the ride.

You stupid, misogynistic, chauvinist pig. I am pulling my weight as much if not more than him. How dare you!

All her enjoyment vanished in an instant. With a face full of freezing water and nothing to do but hold on and seethe, Claire felt every endless minute of the rest of the journey. Her face burned with anger and humiliation. She’d heard that Kiwi men had a tendency towards chauvinism. This was her first experience of it and it left her blood surging like the rapids of the Rangitikei River.

***

Celebrate Talk Like a Pirate Day (wholesalecostumeclub.com)

Not an Aspiring Writer: 2013 365 Challenge #234

Staycation chez Martin

One of the challenges I’ve discovered with being a self-published author, or I suppose a writer of any kind, is expecting others to see it as a real job. After all it doesn’t pay well (or at all), you have no one imposing deadlines but yourself, and you spend all day dividing your time between gazing out the window, researching random things (skydiving in New Zealand anyone?), designing the odd front cover or giveaway bookmark, and playing on social media.

It’s all work, it’s done with purpose, but compared to a teacher, doctor, project manager or business director, it’s all a bit nebulous.

A friend recently asked my husband, while they were at a kids party together, if I get paid for doing the blog. Tee hee wouldn’t that be nice? I think it was because I couldn’t join my baby group one day in the café as I was racing to get my post live by my 10am deadline (which I’m going to miss today, unfortunately, due to a bout of insomnia). I probably should have missed my post that day and joined them for coffee. But, to me, the self-imposed deadlines, the deliverables, the targets, are all very important. I need to feel like I have a job, a career, or the sacrifices I ask my family to make would not be worth it.

No, I’m not getting paid, but my friend did seven years of university training to be a doctor without getting paid. This is my post-grad creative writing degree taken at the university of life. I’ve never been more serious about a career before or enjoyed one as much.

My creative daughter

I often read posts on Kristen Lamb’s blog about the importance of not calling yourself an aspiring writer, (her latest is Are You a “Real” Writer? Is This Even the Correct Question?) . I am a writer; a published author. My sales are no fewer than the vast majority of even traditionally published books, which apparently rarely exceed 100, and I don’t think I’ve sold any to friends and family, so they are all genuine sales. (In 2004 c.80% of books sold fewer than 100 copies: The Ugly Truth about Getting Your Book Published. These figures might be out of date but I have read a similar figure recently, just couldn’t find the source!)

In a week or two my second novel will officially go live, in print and e-book format. Then I’ll start on revising my third novel, Class Act. Maybe I will rough draft the sequel to Dragon Wraiths during November’s NaNoWriMo if there’s a scrap of spare capacity. I’ll churn out my 1500 words of blog post and Claire instalment every day, with a couple of pictures, and I’ll answer every comment. I’ll squeeze in some social media and read a dozen posts from my online community sometime during the week. It’s a 40-hour week that drains me and leaves me exhausted.

Despite all of this, I’m never asked about my ‘job’ as a writer by people I know. It’s not taken seriously as a career. Thankfully my husband believes in me, as do my online friends. That’s why I love my blog. The daily challenge is one of the most satisfying things I’ve ever done. Every ‘like’, every ‘been there’ comment tells me I’m not crazy, tells me I belong somewhere, tells me I’m on the right path. I believe I’ll make an income one day, when I’ve written enough words, published enough books. I just have to keep working. I am a writer.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire climbed down from the bus and wandered a short way into the bush. After five minutes the pain was too great and she looked around for somewhere to hide with her book for a while. Every part of her body ached, as if she had spent the day before stretched on a rack rather than hiking through volcano country. When the bus driver had told them the morning schedule was for a two-hour walk to see the waterfalls, she’d nearly turned round and gone back to bed.

And as for river-rafting this afternoon, I think I might just opt for the horse riding or discover a love of golf.

It was a satisfying ache; the pain of a body pushed to its limits. But without a hot bath to sooth the muscles, she felt like a wooden puppet every time she tried to walk. At the hostel, some of the other travellers had gone to a natural spring in the river, and raved about the novelty of sitting outside in the autumn while soaking in hot water. It had almost tempted her to go herself, but the thought of the walk put her off.

I miss my car.

Pushing the thought aside, Claire searched for her place in the paperback she’d picked up at the last hostel, and allowed herself to be transported to a different world.

The trill of her phone wrenched her back to reality. Assuming it was either a nasty message from Carl, or a random text from Conor, Claire was tempted to ignore it. Only the vague hope that it might be from Kim made her put down her book and find her phone. The message wasn’t from a number she knew, and she frowned as she opened it.

Hi Claire, long time no speak. I caught up on the blog recently and saw that you’re in my neck of the woods. Are you planning a trip over to Oz while you’re here? It would be great to catch up. Josh.

Claire read the message several times, until the words no longer made sense. Of course she’d thought about him, but she had put all thought of seeing him to one side. Fiona wouldn’t like it, and some scars were best left to heal before they were put under any stress. Would he think it rude, though, if she fobbed him off?

Claire rested her head against the tree and closed her eyes, trying to analyse her emotions. It seemed that every time men became involved in her life it became uncomfortable and complicated. Easier to push on with her travels and concentrate on the blog. And yet …Yet what?

It’s not like I have so many friends I can afford to lose one. What harm a quick visit?

In the end she settled for a non-committal answer, carefully worded to leave her an escape route.

Hi Josh, lovely to hear from you. Yes, I’m touring NZ at the moment: it was meant to be for a job, but that fell through. Now I’m here, though, I thought it worth gathering things for the blog. I’m on a Kiwi bus for the next few weeks. Budget willing, I can fly home via Oz. Will let you know. Cx

She hit send and tried to pick up the thread of her book, but the words kept dancing on the page. With a sigh, Claire packed it away and walked back to the bus.

***

Blast from my Past: 2013 365 Challenge #233

My hiking buddy for the Tongariro Crossing

I was looking through an old travelling journal this evening, hoping to find something on the Tongariro Crossing that Claire will undertake today.

Unfortunately I appear to have lost my journal from the North Island. However, I did find my South Island diary, and found it interesting to read bits of it for pretty much the first time in a decade.

I always assumed it would be dull or full of angst (as most of my diaries are), particularly as I was suffering the side effects of coming off antidepressants when I travelled round NZ, leading to panic attacks and low periods.

I did some crazy things, though, and generally I have fond memories of the three months I spent travelling. If I had come straight home, rather than screwing up my head living with a Kiwi for nine months, I might have been saner and richer. But such is the twenty-twenty power of hindsight. And actually I don’t much regret that either. It all adds to life’s tapestry.

Anyway, this was the excerpt I found at random, written just after undertaking the Inland Pack Track on the West Coast. (I write it verbatim, including punctuation!)

The Inland Pack Track

27th March 2002

“Have taken to checking my phone for the date – I at least know it is Wednesday – 2 weeks since I arrived in the South Island and maybe 8 or 9 since arriving in NZ. I don’t know why that’s important – time has really ceased to have much meaning – especially out in the ‘sticks’ without internet & phone!

“Well, I completed my first overnight hike, footsore but triumphant. Actually if I had read a little more about the track itself I wouldn’t have touched it with a barge pole. But 40km in 2 days with a full pack, on a track I would grade medium, has proved to me that I can do it. I was going to write about the track now, but I want to do it justice so I guess it will probably wait until tomorrow, as I am heading off to an ‘all you can eat’ $3 bbq – and as I am going with a human being of the opposite sex, have inexplicably (or perhaps not) decided to ‘make a bit of an effort’ – despite said male seeing me sleeping in an orange survival bag, wearing a wooly hat and no shoes! Weird.”

I hope I can dig out the other journal. I find it hard reading too much of my naval-gazing words, but it is fascinating to pop in from time to time and visit the me from eleven years ago. I haven’t changed much!

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire stretched out her stride and quickly left behind the others from her group. The early morning air that stung her face was welcome, after a pre-6 a.m. start and an hour and more on the bus with other sleepy hikers.

The bus driver had cautioned them about the mountain weather, especially in the autumn, and Claire reluctantly had her full pack, albeit without most of its usual contents.

If I’m going to do any more hiking here I might have to get a day sack.

The weather gods had decided to be kind; holding off the predicted snowfall. Claire gazed up at the empty blue sky and prayed the snow would stay away for at least another day. Getting stuck up on the mountain was not a welcome prospect, hut or no hut.

The forecast for the whole week was indifferent and Claire had faced the prospect of missing the ‘Greatest one-day hike’ in New Zealand or staying in Taupo an extra day or two, time she could ill afford.

Getting back on the bus with Neal today was not an option. Thank you, weather gods, for giving me the perfect excuse.

Chaffing at the slow pace of the hikers in front of her, who had come clad only in shorts and t-shirts and wearing trainers, Claire wondered whether to push past or stop to take pictures. According to the guide sheet, the hike should take at least six hours, and she didn’t want to be running for the bus.

Her dilemma resolved itself as the slow walkers stopped to take their own snaps. Claire wondered if she would see them at the finish.

They’re more likely to end up in hospital if that’s all the clothing they’ve got.

Claire resisted the urge to lecture them in mountain savvy: after all, she was still a novice and had made her own mistakes. Instead she pushed on, keen to stretch her calf muscles in a decent climb. It had been too long.

Tongariro Crossing looking back

Half way up the Devil’s Stair, Claire regretted her impetuosity. More of a scramble than a hike, the path up the cliff face was beyond steep, and littered with rock. Sweat dripped off her forehead, trickled down her back, pooled in her bra. Every muscle in her legs burned in agony as she forced herself to keep moving, however slowly. Stopping would only increase the pain.

At last, exhausted but triumphant, she reached the top of the evil climb and paused to admire the view. The desolate plains stretched out beneath her and it was easy to see why it had been the perfect place to film Tolkien’s masterpiece.

Mount Ngauruhoe loomed behind her, looking every inch the mountain of doom from the movie. A chirpy green sign invited her to climb to the summit but it took less than a second to decline the offer.

I might miss the bus, she thought with a smile. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

During the climb it had seemed that Devil’s Stair might be the worst of the ascent. It wasn’t. Claire groaned silently as she followed the path with her eyes, as it rose higher and higher. It was one thing knowing it was a high-altitude alpine route and another to see it stretched out before her.

With nothing to detain her, Claire pushed on, enjoying the solitude amidst the groups of people strung out in front and behind. It was comforting to see them. Despite the white markers and poles, she felt it would be easy to get lost.

After what felt like hours Claire reached the red crater. It was hard to absorb the sheer scale of the volcanic gash in the mountainside, full of rubble and undulating rock formations. Snapping a few pictures to appreciate later, over a strong coffee or a gin and tonic, Claire pushed onwards, wanting to crest the worst of the climb before lunch.

With a last push, Claire hauled herself out of the red crater and then reeled at the wall of stink. Beneath her, the emerald lakes twinkled prettily in the midday sun. The stench from their sulphurous content tingled in her nostrils and seared her throat. Panting heavily from the climb, Claire was forced to cover her face and take shallow breaths. She dropped back down into the crater and pulled out the picnic provided by the hostel.

It should have been lonely, sat alone in the land of Mordor as giggling groups walked by. Claire looked out over the endless panoramic view and felt her soul take flight. After all the nonsense with Neal, and the turmoil at home, there was a freedom to being somewhere no one could find her.

Replenished, Claire took a deep breath and tackled the descent past the lakes. She stared at her feet as she walked; partly to ensure a safe footing on the loose shingle and partly to avoid focussing on the steep drop beneath her. The descent was worse than the ascent. One false step and she would land at the bottom in a jumble of broken bones.

Gradually the scenery became softer and more welcoming, as green vegetation replaced the relentless red and grey rock. Entering the humid forest, Claire marvelled at the extremes of terrain covered in such a short time. The forest deadened the sound of the thousands of other hikers, allowing her a sense of seclusion. Despite the aching limbs, Claire felt energised.

You can keep your zorbing, bungy jumping and swooping. Give me a day pitting myself against nature and every cell comes alive.

The walk out to the car park was too long. Around her, smiles diminished and laughter disappeared. Weary walkers trudged the last few kilometres to their bus, longing for a hot bath or at least somewhere to sit. Claire barely noticed the lake or the hills framed by the setting sun. Dark clouds gathered behind her, promising the bad weather. At last the bus came in sight. Claire felt she might kiss it, but settled instead for a small cheer.

***