Running on Empty: 2013 365 Challenge #232

I want to do more of this …

I read a great parenting post this morning, on the inspirational Orange Rhino blog, about Parenting on Empty. Not run down or depleted reserves but down deep, nothing left, red light empty. The author described the effects of running on empty:

Running on empty means I am shorter, snappier, moodier, grumpier, everything “-er” except calmer, friendlier, and happier.

It struck a chord. I’m not there yet (well, actually, looking at the above list of adjectives, I probably am!) but my fuel warning light is on.

With the extra work of editing Baby Blues, on top of the daily blog and social media (not to mention childcare and household duties!), I’m feeling stretched to my limits. I go to bed exhausted, I wake up exhausted, I cry over the smallest things (like getting locked out of my iTunes account and losing an hour’s editing time trying to fix it) and my children have stared using, “I’m just tired,” as their excuse for everything, I wonder where they learned that?

I can’t take a complete break, because of the daily blog challenge, but I think I can cut it down a bit. I’m forty pages from finishing this draft of Baby Blues and, even though the proofread has forced me to line edit at a level I haven’t done before and has revealed weaknesses in the novel I would dearly love to fix, I’m going to let it go. If I don’t I’ll either burn out or I will never finish it. Come what may, when I reach page 230 I will format for kindle and Create Space and hit approve.

… and less of this

So, I’ve marked September as my month off. With my daughter starting school oh so gradually and my son on a new schedule at preschool I won’t get much writing time.

I intend to continue with Claire, but I suspect the top half of my blog might diminish. I’m thinking of opening it to short (500-700 words), relevant, guest posts: if anyone is interested drop me a line.

I may also dig out some old poems and stories, maybe even some paintings, and give them an airing, get some feedback. It might work. It might not. All I know is I need to spend my dog walking time on Claire. So, this is a head’s up.

Hopefully October will be business as usual, although my sister is over from the States for two weeks, so maybe not! I ask for your patience! I’m off to the petrol station to fill up.

________________________________________________________________________________

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:

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked at the man opposite her, and searched her brain for a topic of conversation. A week’s travelling had told her precisely nothing about him apart from his name. She couldn’t guess his age or occupation and only assumed London was his city of origin by his accent.

She glanced down at the menu, then turned her gaze across the road to the lake. The water had shone like blue silk when they first reached the restaurant, but storm clouds had piled overhead since their arrival, and now the surface was as leaden as the sky above. Claire shivered and pulled on her cardigan, glad of the activity.

The menu might as well have been written in Greek for all she could focus on it. Neal’s proximity pulled at her gut and set her nerves tingling. She’d never met someone with so much animal magnetism. If asked, she would have said the phrase was only for romance novels of a certain ilk.

Topics of conversation drifted into her head only to be dismissed. Opening lines such as, “So, how do you like New Zealand,” or “Where do you call home,” or even, “What activity are you doing tomorrow?” sounded too lame to be uttered. Opting to leave the opener to him, given that he had driven forward all their other encounters, Claire turned her attention back to the menu and searched for something easy to eat in public.

At last their meals were ordered – Neal had chosen the most expensive dishes on the menu – and they were left with the task of making small talk. Claire sipped at her gin and tonic and watched Neal with an indifferent expression. This was his bet, let him earn his dinner.

“So, Claire, how do you like New Zealand?”

Claire sniggered at Neal’s question and he frowned.

“What’s so funny?”

“That was going to be my opening gambit but I assumed you’d have some sarcastic response at its lack of originality.”

“It’s as good a place to start as any.” His face glowered darker than the storm clouds and Claire worried she had offended him. His reaction seemed out of character compared with the Neal she thought she knew.

“I like New Zealand very much,” she responded with as much sincerity as she could manage. “It’s a beautiful country, the weather is mostly gorgeous and the locals friendly.”

“Why, thank you.”

His response made her choke on her drink. After coughing for several moments, she furrowed her brow. “You’re a local?”

“That’s right. I’m on a VIP. Didn’t you know?”

“Well, no. From the accent I assumed you were a fellow Brit on holiday.”

“Well, one out of two ’aint bad. I am a Brit, as you put it, but I’ve been over here for four or five years now. I used to work for Magic.”

The waiter brought their starters; goats cheese for her, some form of seafood chowder for him. It was the most expensive starter. Now she knew he was a bus driver, rather than a GP or a City Trader, it made more sense.

“And now you work for Kiwi? Isn’t a bit of a busman’s holiday – literally – to come round on the tour?”

“Officially I’m here to learn the new route, although I know it already. I get to travel for free and I know people at every stop. It’s more like an extended family trip.” He forked a steaming heap of fish into his mouth and Claire looked away while he devoured it.

Before his mouth was entirely empty, he continued. “And there’s usually something to add a piquancy to the trip.” He raised his eyebrows in the way that normally sent her heart jumping. It didn’t have its usual effect.

A memory drifted into Claire’s mind from her conversation with Mitch, back in the UK. As well as having a rude name for the ‘other’ bus tour, he’d mentioned an acronym to watch out for, something to make sure she didn’t become. It had been a friendly warning and she had laughed it off. He’d said “Don’t be a DAF”. When she’d asked what it meant, he’d responded, “Driver’s Available …” and had winked suggestively. No need to ask what the F stood for.

She watched Neal, as he finished his starter with a look of smug self-satisfaction on his face, and she understood. Her appeal, over that of the youngsters, was presumably an ability to buy dinner. He must have seen her iPad, phone, clothing, and figured she was loaded.

That would be nice.

Just buying her flights and bus pass had maxed-out her credit card. Paying for extras like the expensive tours, the pricey meals, was eating into her current account faster than she felt comfortable with. Mitch’s throwaway remark that she could get work in a backpacker’s bar was looking like less and less of a joke.

Something clicked as the thoughts ran through her mind, one after another.

I don’t want to be a DAF. I don’t even want to finish dinner.

Coming to a sudden decision, Claire stood up and dropped her napkin on the table.

“Thank you for your company, Neal, and for the compliment, but I don’t want to be your DAF or your little piquancy on this freebie jolly. Nice to have met you.”

Taking a bundle of dollars from her purse, Claire dropped them on the table and left the restaurant, taking the wonderful image of Neal, slack-jawed and lost for words, with her.

***

Waiting and Boredom: 2013 365 Challenge #231

Medi-ted in case of injuries

I took the children to the Farm today to use up a few parenting hours and to return the favour to my husband for my morning off yesterday.

We turned up to find it was Teddy Bear’s Picnic weekend. For the first time in ages we didn’t have the kids’ bears in the car and no picnic (mouldy bread – bad housewife!) The same thing happened last year.

Luckily, as also happened last year, my rubbish tip of a car revealed two soft toys in its cluttered depths and we were saved the expense of having to buy one.

The lucky teddies got to bungy jump, raft across a pond to the pirates and even zip wire from the top of the Mill House.

Hiking Ted and Zippy bungy jumping

Despite a distinct lack of communication amongst the staff and plenty of (mostly) patient waiting it was a great day. I’ve noticed that we parents are worse at waiting than the children. I found myself tutting at the slowness of some of the events and I wasn’t the only one. Yet the Farm does the event for free and it’s done by enthusiastic Rangers whose normal duties run to horse grooming and pet feeding, not going up in a cherry picker to drop teddy after teddy on the end of a piece of elastic. (Though they looked like they were having fun!)

I wonder why, as parents, we tut at standing in line even if our children are happy? Do we need constant entertainment more than they do?

There’s a virtue in boredom, especially for children. Mine are at their most creative and cooperative when I refuse to get out of bed in the morning or I ignore them in the bath so I can read my book. I feel guilty, yet they happily invent a game involving a jug, some bubbles and the creation of poo pie (thankfully not real).

When I first met my husband, and for too many years afterwards I’m ashamed to admit, I would berate him for laziness for just sitting. Although he would assure me it was valuable thinking time I would chafe at it, having been brought up to see it as sloth. My father liked to be busy and ensured we all followed suit. If we weren’t vacuuming or sweeping we were idle.

Zipwire ted (look for the little dot in the middle!)

I can only rest if I’m reading. I rarely even walk the dog without writing my post as I am now. Yet I’ve discovered the importance of silence. I’ve learnt that the busy waters of my mind settle when left undisturbed, and deep thoughts rise from the depth.

For too long I worried about entertaining my children, making sure they had the right educational toys, the right activities, the right correcting input from me. Now I’ve learned they do better without all that. They fight less and make up quicker. They invent incredible games that only require a little advice from me (One at a time on the slide! After the third cracked head.)

I’ve been dreading school because Aaron will lose his partner in crime and I’ll be expected to fill the gap. But I’ve decided not to sweat it. He should also learn to sit and be at peace, to entertain himself, to be happy in his own company.

Meeting Baloo the bear

I used to think a first child got all the solitude, and never understood why I – as the second child – was happier in my own company than my sister. But now I think that, in the formative years from three to five, I was alone: my sister was at school for those three years. Whereas, for those formative years, my sister had me. Only a baby but company nonetheless. Someone to fetch and carry for, run around after, laugh with. Much as my daughter has had her brother, the never-ending playmate, and he only gets me. Poor sod.

Thankfully my daughter is pretty good by herself, though not often given the chance by an adoring brother. She will read stories, play with her dolls, make many colourful things out of pipe-cleaners and tissue paper. My son, so far, is not one for his own company.

Hopefully they’ll both learn new life skills when my daughter starts school in a few weeks. And Mummy can carry on reading her book!

________________________________________________________________________________

_______________________________________________________________________________

Claire gazed into the gloopy mud, mesmerised as much by the sound as the sight. It looked like a giant vat of simmering soup; grey and reeking of rotten eggs. She’d tried to be impressed by the walk through the geothermal reserve, but it really did stink. All around her, steam rose from patches of muddy water, like a never-ending bog of eternal stench.

The Pohutu Geyser had been impressive. Thirty feet of water shooting into the sky against a backdrop of blue and green, like a fountain on steroids. The effect was rather spoiled by the heaving mass of tourists all around. Even though she was one of them, it was hard not to hate the chattering crowd of picture-snapping visitors that cooed over the sights and exclaimed against the smell.

The seven days since she’d started the bus tour felt like a month. So many sights and activities crammed into each day, there wasn’t time to process them. She longed to sit still and let it all sink in. Trying to absorb all the new experiences was like trying to memorise the phone book. Lovely as it was to squeeze the whole country’s key attractions into a few weeks, she wondered if maybe less was more.

A trilling noise from her pocket pulled her attention away from the hypnotic mud. She tried to calculate what time it was back in the UK, hoping it might be another text from Conor. Now and then over the last few days she’d found herself texting him the odd snippet from her travels; as if telling one person about them, as opposed to entertaining hundreds through the blog, made it more real.

Claire as you have not responded to my counter offer in the last fortnight I have to assume you are declining it. I must say I am disappointed and I think you’re making a mistake. I require the return of your laptop, phone and car. Julia will deal with the details. Carl.

Claire leant back against the railing and processed the words. Any temptation to accept the counter offer had evaporated with her fight with Kim and the subsequent need to get away and find a new future. Still, hearing that particular door clang shut unnerved her. What if Conor also rescinded on the job offer, while she gallivanted around expensive tourist haunts twelve-thousand miles away? She’d already failed to get funding from Roger. One by one the options evaporated, leaving her stranded.

My car too. My little Skoda. I can’t believe they’re going to take that back. It will probably end in a scrap yard.

In desperation, Claire tapped out a response to Carl, trying to buy herself some time.

Apologies for the lack of communication, I have been forced to take an unforeseen leave of absence. Would appreciate having the option to purchase the car from you at a reasonable cost. Will be in touch when I return to the UK. Claire.

She hit send, wondering if Carl had a single cell of goodness in him, or whether he would now have the car scrapped just to spite her.

At least I swapped phones already and had the sense to make sure the blog is in my name.

It was small comfort. Despite the heat emanating from the steaming pools, Claire pulled her jacket tighter and longed for a Starbucks.

***

Children’s Stories and Other Projects: 2013 365 Challenge #230

Why my first attempt at a children’s novel is about pirates and dinosaurs!

Brrr. As I write this, I am walking around a muddy ploughed field in completely inappropriate footwear (sandals because it’s still summer, right?) racing the rain clouds back home: I’m wet already as we’ve been swimming but I don’t really want the dog muddy and wet.

As is my habit, I’ve been searching my mind for today’s blog topic. It usually comes to me before I let the dog off the lead, giving me twenty minutes of walking and texting to get it written.

Today, instead, my head is full of projects (oh and now my ankle full of nettle venom, ouch. Texting and walking can be bad for your health)

This morning I signed up to an online course on writing children’s stories. I had to get my husband’s permission not because of the cost but because of the time. I’m not allowed to start the course until January. Because he had to take the children from 7am until 1pm today (it was bliss) so I could write yesterday’s post and get a tricky scene rewrite from Baby Blues out of my head.

The kind of illustrations I’d love to do!

I miss having my nursery days together: having one day to spend on editing followed by two or three days’ break in between is a nightmare because I only just about get going when it’s time to pick up the kids.

The problem today was that I worked until 1pm and then I didn’t want to stop. Not only have I got extra changes I want/need to make to Baby Blues draggng at my mind, I’ve got a dozen other projects clamouring for attention. I’m not really a completer finisher more a start and move on sort of person! Some projects I’ve managed to avoid starting, such as my overwhelming desire to try my hand at writing a children’s book.

Well today I gave into that desire, after reading to the kids for twenty minutes.

My attempt at illustrations

I’ve always wanted to see if I could write and illustrate something, although I’m pretty certain my current artistic skills are not of the children’s illustrator variety. Still, these things fill your mind when you read Tim, Ted and the Pirates for the hundredth time.

The project in my head isn’t there because I want to try and break into the picture-book market so much as because I want to write something for my children. I’ve had an idea floating in my head for ages, and I thought it wouldn’t be too hard to write it down. So I tried. Oh dear. Let’s just say I’m looking forward to starting my Writing Children’s Stories course in January.

And – If you’re based in the UK – the course was £12 on Groupon or I never would have bought it. I’ve got a bad track record with online study courses that don’t have deadlines. It’s hard to motivate yourself to work on something if nothing is driving you forwards. In this instance, it’s just as well that it’s an unrestricted course, as I can’t start for another five months! 🙂

Still, I know what next year’s blog is likely to be all about. You have been warned! Hee hee

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire stared wide-eyed as the Māori dancers thumped their feet and waggled their tongues. It was her first taste of aboriginal New Zealand and it was something to behold. From the moment the coach had collected them from the hostel they had been immersed in Māori culture. She glanced over at Neal, who had been appointed Chief of their group by general consent. From the way he stood absorbed in the ceremony, with his head high and his chest thrown out, it was clear he’d fully inhabited the role.

At least it takes his attention off me.

Claire had refused to give up her position at the front of the bus, but her profile among the other travellers had risen since the Shweeb challenge. Dealing with mostly good-natured ribbing wasn’t beyond her skills, but she had preferred her lonely anonymity.

The Māori warriors in front of them gathered to perform a haka challenge. Claire had only seen the haka on the TV before, at the beginning of the rugby matches she had endured to please Michael. The performance was much more powerful when the ground vibrated with every stomp and it was possible to look into the fearsome eyes made alien by dark tattoos.

Eventually something was laid at Neal’s feet. A peace offering, from what she could remember of the information they were given on the bus. Neal picked up the token and the atmosphere shifted, as the Māori people welcomed them into their village.

A high, long note sounded, raising the hairs on Claire’s neck. She searched for the source of the noise and saw someone blowing into a conch shell. As if waiting only for the signal, the women began an echoing call that resonated across the surrounding forest.

Claire shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, as the hairs continued to rise across her skin. She wished she’d thought to bring a jacket.

“I’ll keep you warm.”

Before she could protest, Neal was behind her, enclosing her in a bear hug. He radiated heat and Claire was soon able to push him away and admit, truthfully, that she was no longer cold. No need to tell him that the shivering had increased with his contact.

“This doesn’t count as dinner, by the way,” Neal said with a sly grin, as he dropped his arms in response to her shove. “You still owe me.”

Claire nodded and walked away without speaking, attempting to lose herself in the details of the village. She wandered through the various dwellings as if it were a living museum, taking pictures for the blog and mentally filing notes to write about later. Her mind cast back to some of the places she visited in the UK; the plague village, the Victorian town.

No wonder people would rather come here. Although some of these excursions are a bit pricey. At least I wandered around Eyam for free.

Claire’s tummy gurgled loudly and she blushed, thankful that the music from the stage mostly drowned it out. Neal, sat three seats over on her right, turned round and smirked at her and her blush deepened.

Claire wrenched her gaze back to the performance, watching the semi-clad men and women perform intricate dances that seemed to involve much thrusting of the hips and tongue. Although not overtly sexual, it made her skin hot and she was acutely conscious of Neal’s presence, despite the people sitting between them.

Glad when the performance was over, Claire gratefully followed the others to find the hangi food they had helped raise earlier from the pit. Tantalising smells of smoked meat and vegetables drifted on the evening breeze and she felt the saliva pool in her mouth.

She hesitated as the guests found their seats. She didn’t want to end up next to Neal but she couldn’t see him anywhere in the room. Not wanting to look like an idiot, at last she took a seat in the far corner and prayed he wouldn’t see her.

Why am I avoiding him? I have to take him out to dinner tomorrow, more fool me.

Claire pondered whether it was worth staying an extra night in Rotorua just to shake him off. She had a horrible feeling that he would stay too, just to torment her.

“You can’t hide from me.”

As if voicing her thoughts, the words cut through Claire’s reverie. Her heart plummeted at the sound of the too-familiar voice drawling behind her.

“Hiding in the corner isn’t going to put me off. I will have my wicked way with you.” His voice was jocular but the words cut directly through to Claire’s groin. Right then she would have followed him to the nearest bed. Sense fought with lust and sense won a temporary victory.

“You can try,” she spat at him. “I’m not yours for the taking. I’m not some gullible teenager. I don’t know why you don’t turn your attention where it’s wanted.” She ripped at some bread with her teeth.

“Oh, please. Those children? I’m old enough to be their father. Besides, where’s the fun in easy game. Like shooting fish in a barrel. Although I’ve never understood that phrase. Why would you shoot fish?”

He selected some food and chewed thoughtfully, as if they were engaging in normal dinner conversation.

Claire felt torn between following his lead and maintaining her icy silence. She realised she didn’t know anyone else at her table and it was Neal or nothing. Even as she resolved to speak to him, she realised she had nothing to say.

Have I lost the art of small talk? Have I been on the road so long I don’t know how to speak to people anymore?

She thought of all the things that weren’t to be talked of. Her sister’s illness, Michael’s blind infatuation, Kim’s anger, Josh; The jobs she didn’t want. Her family’s rejection on her last visit home.

No wonder I can’t do small talk. My life’s a wreck. Even here, on the other side of the world, I can’t get it right.

Claire stared at her plate and fought back tears.

***

Using a Thesaurus: Good or Bad?: 2013 365 Challenge #229

Can’t have too many craft books

Sometimes an idle reading of a blog post (or just about anything, to be honest) can lead me off on an hour-long internet search.

The post inspiring such a search today was Charlotte Rains Dixon’s post, Kaizen (Sort of) for Writers. I was drawn to the article because my husband used to have Kaizen days (Japanese for improvement or change for the better, according to Wikipedia) at a former place of work.

Charlotte’s post discusses ways that writers can introduce small changes for the better into their writing.

One of her suggestions was “Learn a few new vocabulary words” and included a link on ‘strong verbs’ which sent me off to read some of Charlotte’s posts from 2008 about improving writing using a thesaurus and a personal word book.

I use the online thesaurus in Word a great deal, mostly when I find the same word twice in a sentence (which happens often with something like ‘road’ – street/lane). As I edit my Claire instalments every day, and I am editing Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes at the moment, I seem to be searching for alternative words all the time. (And Word is often not much help!)

One of the many versions of Roget’s Thesaurus

Charlotte’s second post on the subject talked about a particular thesaurus called Roget’s International Thesaurus, which apparently arranges the words thematically (as Roget originally intended) rather than alphabetically. It sounded great, so I went off to find a copy to buy (not that I’m impulsive or need instant gratification or anything). There began my search, as that version appeared to be quite pricey and hard to come by in the UK. I started looking round for something similar, reading reviews to understand the differences.

Then I came across an essential review pointing out that International meant American. I already struggle with distinguishing between English and American spelling, spending too much time with a dictionary to ensure consistency in my writing. The last thing I need is an Americanised thesaurus.

So then I started looking for other versions of thesauruses, reading reviews which appeared to mostly complain that the type was too small or the book too huge. Kindle versions seemed a good idea until I realised they aren’t always searchable.

And then I came across an article on Daily Writing Tips called Hint to Writers: Use the Thesaurus with Caution. It discusses the dangers of using a thesaurus too heavily, resulting in over-complicated writing or the use of words that don’t quite fit (not all synonyms are created equal). The article mentioned Stephen King’s advice in On Writing (paraphrased, I’m guessing), that‘wherever your vocabulary is at today is fine.’

The comments on this article were as informative as the original article and ranged from complete agreement to disagreement. Philip Dragonetti suggested that, “A Thesaurus is to be used only to transfer words from one’s passive vocabulary into one’s active vocabulary.” That’s exactly it: I know the words I want to use, but sleep deprivation and too much time spent watching Cbeebies, has reduced my vocabulary considerably since my student days.

One craft book I haven’t read yet

Another article that my morning of internet searching produced was called Is the Thesaurus Your Friend? This interesting post discusses how writers are divided over the value of the thesaurus (as I had already seen in the comments on Charlotte Rains Dixon’s post above).

The post’s author, K. M. Weiland, explains that, “Some consider it their secret weapon; others regard it as a crutch.” She goes on to cite Stephen King’s opinion from his 1988 essay, Everything you need to know about writing successfully – in ten minutes:

“Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule.”

She explains that King believes the best word is the one which flows from our creative subconscious and if you have to look up a word you probably don’t know it well enough to use it.

I’m not sure I agree with that view, even from as celebrated an author as Stephen King. As I’ve already said, sometimes I know the word and can’t find it. My creative subconscious is working hard on the plot and story and isn’t too concerned with the words it uses to get the idea on the paper. As someone famously wrote (though my Google search has not revealed who – maybe even Stephen King!) A first draft is the version we write for ourselves.

I think Stephen King’s advice is about not using words we have never heard of, just because they’re a synonym for a word we do know. I would like to think writers wouldn’t do that, not least because if a writer doesn’t know the word, chances are the average reader may well not know it either, and so it ceases to function as a means of communication.

I’m still determined to get a paper thesaurus, although I might just wait until I find one kicking about in a charity shop. My sleepy brain needs all the help it can get. Besides, Stephen King probably has a much wider vocabulary than I do!

_______________________________________________________________________________

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire sat at the front of the coach and chewed her lip.

This is ridiculous. I feel like a twelve-year-old on a school trip, wondering if the boy at the back of the bus will come and hold my hand while we both ignore each other.

Since the kiss that morning, Neal hadn’t renewed his attentions. She could hear him somewhere up the aisle, entertaining his fellow travellers with an anecdote about a Soho nightclub at 2am. She knew if she turned around it would look something like the sermon on the mount, as the teenagers hung off his every word, as much impressed by his experience as snared by his charisma.

I should be flattered that he pursued me through the forest, although I could wish that he hadn’t. She could wish it, but did she? There was no doubt that it was flattering to have a man like him chase her down. If only she could figure out what he was after. Surely there were easier conquests.

There are probably a dozen girls on this bus only too happy to massage his ego, among other things.

Staring at her iPad, Claire tried to concentrate on the notes she was compiling on the morning’s activities. After the walk around the Ruakui Reserve, they had stopped for breakfast before heading to Rotorua. She’d managed to stay out of Neal’s way at the farm show and during the zorbing. No one was going to get her inside an inflatable hamster ball and throw her down a hillside.

Carl and Julia would’ve had a field day finding activities for me in this damned country. Everybody seems hell-bent on killing themselves one way or another. If it isn’t jumping off something it’s dropping into a hole in the ground or flinging themselves down a hillside. Crazy people. Crazy country.

Their next stop wasn’t likely to prove any better. Agroventures Adventure Park. I don’t even need to read the brochure to know I’m going to spend the next few hours hiding.

The only provocation Neal had offered at the zorbing place was a raised eyebrow.

Maybe he’s given up on his Chicken crusade and has accepted that I am, in fact, a coward.

Even as she thought the words she felt the heat rising in her chest. Why was it so hard to let a man like him think she was afraid?

“Right, peeps, here we are. Knock yourself out. There’s the jet boat, the freefall, the swoop, you can bungy or you can take on a friend in the Schweeb challenge.”

The driver grinned at them as they gathered in the car park. Claire felt like punching him and wished she’d paid more attention to the details of the tour before signing up. Surely there was a trip around New Zealand that didn’t involve being guilt-tripped into crazy adventures every five minutes. The old fogies tour or something. Although some of the people she’d seen climbing into the plastic zorb balls earlier that day hadn’t exactly been spring chickens.

“So, Claire. You and me on the Shweeb, how about it?”

Claire felt hot breath on her neck and shivered as the low voice penetrated into her gut. She drew air deep into her lungs before turning round. Neal stood far too close and she took a step back, causing his eyes to crinkle in amusement.

“I don’t even know what a Shweeb is. I don’t think it’s something I want to do with you.”

The primness of her tone made him chuckle and Claire cursed. That damned chuckle was going to be her undoing. It made her legs wobble.

“Come and see, fair maid. No contact required: just a straight fight, you and me. The loser buys dinner.”

He grinned and Claire felt a responding flutter deep in her stomach.

“Or if your muscles aren’t up to the challenge, you can always come swoop with me.”

Claire had seen the swoop. Plunging to earth in a sleeping bag with her arm wrapped round Neal’s was not going to happen, ever.

She wanted to walk away. The urgent message to her feet wasn’t getting through; they remained stubbornly stuck to the ground as Neal turned on his most sardonic stare.

“You’re the type of girl who does Spinning, right? An hour in the gym before work? This should be a doddle.”

Claire bristled at the accuracy of his barb. So, the Shweeb was a bike? How hard could that be? A quick glance down at Neal’s legs revealed the contours of an athlete.

The look didn’t go unnoticed and Neal put his hands on his hips before turning in a slow pirouette. “Like what you see? Think you can beat me?”

No. But, after all, it was only dinner. What harm in that? And she had to do something worth writing about on the blog. A bike ride sounded easy enough.

Claire looked up at the suspended monorail pods hanging like giant fruit on a silver vine.

Crap.

She traced the rail with her eyes, noticing the curves and corners and shuddered. Numbly following the chattering group into the launch area, she allowed herself to be guided into the glass pod.

“Your handle bars are there. The gears are here, click up and down. Stay in a low gear or you’ll burn your muscles beyond the point of recovery. Lean into the corners and good luck.”

Claire listened to the instructions as best she could through the buzzing in her ears. Glancing to her left she could see Neal grinning at her through the window.

The cage shook as someone slammed the door shut. Then she felt a shunt as she was pushed out towards the exit.

“Three, two, one, go!”

Claire almost forgot to peddle, but the forward momentum kick-started her legs without applying to her brain for permission. Clinging onto the handle bars she peddled furiously, muscles burning in reminder of the months since her last spinning class.

Just as she was about to relax and enjoy the physical sensation the pod swung out sideways, leaving her stomach somewhere behind on the curve. Claire swallowed the nausea and focussed on her breathing. She didn’t dare try and locate Neal, although she sensed the pods crossing over each other as the monorails weaved and twisted. Even though she knew there was no chance of beating him, Claire dug in as hard as she could.

Claire had lost all sense of how many laps she’d done, until she saw a flag waving to indicate it was her final time round. Dropping into a lower gear she pushed hard, determined not to be humiliated. She pictured the smug expression on Neal’s face were he to win and pedalled harder.

As the pod slid into the finish point, Claire let her legs drop from the pedals. Someone opened the door and Claire turned, relieved to be able to escape her torture chamber.

“Here, let me help you.”

Claire looked up into the face of her nemesis. His skin glistened, but there were no other visible signs of exertion. He’d finished in enough time to come and help her out her pod.

Bastard.

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Claire climbed out of the machine. Her knees buckled and she felt Neal’s arms around her, keeping her from falling.

“Good effort,” he breathed into her ear. “I believe you owe me dinner.”

He waited until she was standing upright, then brushed his hand down her sweaty back; leaving it lingering on her bottom.

Before she could protest he stepped away and was gone.

***

Why I keep it chaste: 2013 365 Challenge #228

I believe I thought only of you

Watching the last episode of the 1995 Pride and Prejudice by the BBC this morning (I can’t believe it’s nearly 20 years old), as research for my post, I realised why I don’t read or write erotica or even mildly graphic sex scenes.

The emotional tension as Elizabeth and Darcy (Ehle and Firth) walk along a muddy lane trying to tell each other they’re in love, is gripping. I feel it right through to my fingertips. It churns in my tummy. I’m fully involved in the moment, in their story and their characters.

The scene brings to mind the early tension in a new relationship. The brushing of hands, the accidental touches, maybe the gentle rubbing of feet under the table. All the anticipation and uncertainty as two people try and discover if there is mutual attraction. I felt it when I wrote the feet massage bit in Claire and was unsure where to take it next. In a modern book or movie, Claire and Neal would be in bed naked in the next scene. Maybe in real life too. It’s even happened to Claire already in the novel (although she wasn’t naked). But it doesn’t feel right for my writing.

My favourite moment in Nanny McPhee

I’m not suggesting I’m a prude or that I haven’t jumped into bed with someone I hardly knew. But with the relationships that lasted – the ones that mattered – the testing-the-ground courtship went on for longer. There was so much more emotional build up in trying to work out if my regard was requited. I guess it goes back to my post on delayed gratification. Anticipation is good.

Even though I’ve been in a relationship for nine years, married for seven, I still get goosebumps remembering some of those moments (and, sorry hubbie, they weren’t all with you!)

Erotica is too obvious for me. Yes it’s sexy. Yes I do like to read it occasionally and, as a hormonal teenager, would flick through Mills and Boon to find the naughty bits. But even they were mostly about suggestion and less about explicit description. For me a book, or a TV show or a movie, is all about working the imagination. If too much is presented, there isn’t enough opportunity to invest your own emotion into the scene. Less, in this case, is definitely more.

The power of a swoony look

There was originally a fairy graphic sex scene at the beginning of Baby Blues, but it’s since been toned down. It’s there for a reason: to show something about Helen’s relationship with Daniel. It’s not a coincidence that we don’t see a sex scene between her and Marcio. Their relationship isn’t about the physical (especially as she’s pregnant when they meet) although they are physically attracted to each other.

Even as I’m writing this I think I’m going to add a few more ‘will he won’t he’ moments, more accidental hand touches and lingering looks. Because that’s the stuff I like.

Even though I know they’ll get together in the end, that’s the stuff that brings back happy memories and makes my skin tingle. And given how many people watched and keeping watching the original BBC Pride and Prejudice I can’t be the only one who likes good old fashioned swoony romance, right?

________________________________________________________________________________

“Found you.”

Claire turned without volition, then cursed her reaction. Dragging her eyes back to contemplation of the cave in front of her, she didn’t respond to the triumphant words. She felt him lean against the rail next to her, and shivered.

“You do make me laugh. Why are you playing these games? I fancy you, you fancy me, what’s the big deal?”

Dropping her hands from the railings, Claire turned and continued on her way through the reserve. Despite the beauty of her surroundings, she barely saw the towering trees and tumbling streams. She had enjoyed the first part of her walk in glorious solitude, as most people had chosen to chill out by the bus rather than wander through the woods. Trust Neal to catch her out.

“Are you playing hard to get?” Neal gave one of his deep chuckles as he caught up with her in two strides. His hand grasped her arm and she shook him off, even though his touch left a trail of goosebumps.

“I’m not playing hard to get, I’m not chicken, and I’m not interested.” Claire ignored the rhythms of her body that belied her words and lengthened her stride. She felt the man hesitate, before catching up with her again.

He walked at her side along the path, matching her quick strides with ease. She felt her breath quickening and knew she couldn’t keep up the pace for much longer without panting. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he affected her, she shortened her steps a fraction and gazed out into the green depths.

The path ahead narrowed to a wooden bridge over a rushing stream. Claire longed to stop and take in scene. She wondered if Neal would get the hint eventually and let her enjoy the walk in peace. It didn’t seem likely.

At least he’s shut up.

He followed her like a shadow around limestone cliffs and past gorges and waterfalls. They reached a natural tunnel through the rock; the highlight of the walk, according to Claire’s guidebook. Claire eyed it with dislike. It wasn’t long, but it was narrow. She didn’t fancy being in a confined space with Neal. He was considerably taller and stronger than her. So far he’d been gentlemanly in actions, if not in attitude, but she still felt his presence like that of a predator.

Correctly interpreting the stiffening in her shoulders and the tension on her face, Neal gave a low laugh.

“Don’t fancy getting cosy with me? You didn’t seem to mind on the beach.”

When she said nothing, he shrugged. “I’ll go first, if you like.”

With another laugh, he walked round her and entered the tunnel. His broad shoulders filled the space and stole the light. Claire waited until he was almost through before entering herself.

Neal waited for her at the other end, blocking the exit. His face was in darkness and the only thing she could fathom of his mood was that he wasn’t smiling.

“Now I have your attention, let’s clear the air. Tell me this isn’t what you want.”

Before she could speak he bent down and grazed his lips across hers. It wasn’t the crushing kiss she had braced for and it unnerved her. Before she could tell whether it was welcome or not, the pressure was gone.

Inhaling deeply, Claire caught the scent of moss and aftershave and sweat. Her ears filled with the sound of her ragged breathing above the rushing of the river somewhere beside them. Neal took a step back and his face became visible. Claire looked up into his chocolate-brown eyes and tried to read the expression held within them. For a moment there was seriousness and fire. Then his features shifted and the deep laughter was back.

“Chicken,” he murmured. Then he turned and strode away along the path, leaving her standing confused and alone.

***

Books and Films: 2013 365 Challenge #227

Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle. Swoon

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about books versus films. There seems to be a lot of chat about it on Facebook and Twitter – I guess it’s a perpetual source of debate. It isn’t a subject I have a clear view on. I’ve watched movies of books I adored and been disappointed. I’ve read books after seeing an amazing film and hated the written work. Some books – like ET or Abyss – are almost like study guides to the movie, adding in so much back story and depth to an enjoyable two-hour visual experience.

One thing that has solidified in my mind, if not always born out in my emotions, is that film and book should always be viewed as separate pieces of art and each be judged on it’s merits. I say not born out in my emotions because – as a former historian – I like accuracy. I like to know a piece of historical fiction is based on some level of fact. I hated that Memoirs of a Geisha was presented as truth and yet was entirely fabricated.

So when I watch a film of a book I know well – especially if I’ve read the book recently – I get irritated by what seem to be arbitrary changes. Re-watching Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire this weekend, I remembered that Dobby helped Harry with the second challenge, not Neville Longbottom. However, since becoming an author, I found the change no longer bothered me (much). On the whole the conflict was the same. Harry couldn’t do the task and, at the 11th hour, was saved by a friend. The story arc was unaffected by the change in detail, and lots of unnecessary animation was avoided.

The old ones are the best!

It can be much the same way when writing a novel: dialogue can be moved from one character to another, gender can change and even locations be shifted when revising a first draft and yet the original story remain intact. I’ve changed character’s ages, nationalities, hobbies, I’ve killed off siblings and parents, sacrificed no end to fulfill a story. (Today I had to change the details of Claire’s story when I researched glow-worm tours and found out they were done in a boat.)

To a certain extent such changes are inevitable from book to screen. You can’t cram five hundred pages into two or three hours – no matter how much a picture tells a thousand words – without changing something. Also books are unique in their ability to present internal motivation. Without the ability to see inside a character’s head, some elements have to alter to allow the character arc to be accountable.

The hardest thing I find when watching a movie version is casting. If it doesn’t match my mental image (or if they change white skin to black, Pelican Brief I’m looking at you) it’s too hard to process. I couldn’t watch the Twilight movies because none of the characters looked as three-dimensional as I had imagined them in my mind. (Sorry, terrible first book aside, I loved the whole series.)

The best of all worlds is seeing a movie poster before reading the book so the right people are in my head while I read. With big fantasy movies like Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings, watching the movie (a suitable time after reading the book, so the memory is flawed!) enhances my re-reading of the novels. I’ve never been very good at imagining big castles or battle scenes in detail.

No kisses in Jane Austen: adding them is good!

The same goes for costume dramas of the long BBC sort. I’ve just finished re-reading Pride and Prejudice (finished it at midnight last night. Pass the coffee, please) and I enjoyed it all the more for the ability to visualise the rooms, settings and characters more fully than Jane Austen’s words ever offered. We don’t learn much about Elizabeth except that she has fine eyes and a muddy skirt. While I read, I had the lovely Jennifer Ehle in mind as well as the delectable Colin Firth. It’s the best of all worlds.

As ‘research’ for this post I got to watch the last episode on YouTube. I love the marriage and carriage scene at the end, with the beautiful chaste kiss. No such thing in the book, but who doesn’t love a wedding? The book and TV series combined to generate a deeper emotional experience.

As an aside, I’ve had people say my Dragon Wraiths front cover helps to visualise Leah and set the tone for the book. Maybe that’s why it’s such fun casting actors for your own works, so you can assist others in seeing what you see. For example Colin Egglesfield is Marcio in Baby Blues and Wedding Shoes. Oh yes.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire sat motionless, every nerve, every inch of her skin alert and listening. The dark closed in around her as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Eventually a pinprick of light shone in the black. Then another, and another. She heard gasps around her, and craned her neck to see.

There, up above, like the stars being revealed by the setting sun, hundreds of tiny green lights blazed across the roof of the cave. The space was larger than she had imagined: the lights emphasised the vastness, as their eerie glow illuminated the contours of the ceiling.

The motion of the boat rocked Claire’s senses, calming her agitation. The walk through the cathedral cave had left her prickling with tension as she’d sought to keep her distance without giving away her unease.

Claire felt movement behind her and stiffened, waiting. She thought she could feel hot breath near her cheek. Resisting the urge to turn around, or brush at her face as if shooing a pesky fly, Claire gripped her seat and continued to focus on the glow-worms. Her ears filled with the sound of breathing, punctuated by the dripping of water. Waitomo. Water cave. Focussing on the facts, on what she would write in her blog, Claire casually leant forwards to get a better look at the luminous universe above her head.

As if the movement freed her, Claire felt the hoops release from around her lungs, letting in dank, stale air. Suddenly she needed oxygen. The boat became a prison. She wanted to push at the people around her, jump over the side and swim for the exit visible in the distance. Digging her fingers into the seat until it seemed her knuckles might cut through her skin, Claire concentrated on breathing in and out. She thought she could hear a chuckle behind her, but she refused to turn round.

At last the boat bumped against the shore. Claire scrambled forwards, not waiting for the guide’s offered hand. Almost tipping the boat in her haste, she gave a sob of relief as her feet touched solid ground. Without looking back, she strode up the slope and into the light.

Claire rested her back against the damp stone and gave a shaky laugh. When will you learn, missus? You should never have got into that pool.

The last twenty-four hours were a blur of panic and hiding. She’d fled from the beach pool as soon as the guide told them it was time to get back on the bus, draping her sarong around her tingling skin and practically running off the beach. If the driver had been surprised to see her sit at the front of the coach he didn’t comment, although she sensed something pass between him and Neal when the latter boarded a few minutes later. He’d chuckled as he walked past, setting her heart racing.

Claire had gone straight to her room at the hostel, not even leaving for the legendary fish and chips when the rest of them did. In the morning it was more of the same, and at the gold mine too. Constantly sticking near the guide, paying attention to the tour, taking notes and pictures. The perfect image of an enthusiastic tourist. All the while her brain had churned, trying to make sense of her emotions. That she was attracted to Neal was undeniable. That he was dangerous, equally so.

He’d beaten her in the tour; climbing into the boat when she was already seated, and taking a place just behind her. He had breathed one word during the journey, a whisper of a sound that she heard as, “Chicken.” His voice, more than the word, had set her pulse racing.

What do I do now? I don’t want to stay in this town longer than necessary, but that means getting back on a bus with him, checking into another hostel and knowing he’s sleeping down the corridor. Why me? I’m not exactly his type.

As she thought the words she knew they weren’t true. Neal had watched her since day one. Not flirting, not making advances. Just watching. Like a panther in the long grass.

Claire shivered. The caves had been cold and she’d left her jacket on the bus. Realising the rest of her tour had gone back, Claire hurried away, not wanting to be left behind again.

When she arrived at the bus it was full and the driver was just beginning his head count. A quick scan of the interior showed her there were only a few free seats. She took one at the front, next to a middle-aged man wearing glasses and a tank top. She could almost feel Neal’s smirk from his position towards the back of the bus.

Feeling like a cornered mouse, waiting for the pounce of soft and deadly paws, Claire pulled out her book and pretended to read.

***

Books as Films (girlsheartbooks.com)
The other way around (P&P challenge #4) (dutchwitch.wordpress.com)
Sometimes, The Book Isn’t Better (booksofjobe.com)

Guns and Swords: 2013 365 Challenge #226

My son trying to impale his sister with his wooden ‘gun’

My children have reached that stage I’ve been dreading as a parent: gun role play. They must have learned it at nursery because we don’t let them watch anything remotely violent on TV (we even fast forward through big chunks of movies like Lion King and Jungle Book. Time enough for violence when they’re over five).

I hate gun play. It makes me edgy. I know that it isn’t guns that kill people: people kill people. But it’s a lot easier to do it with guns than fists.

So today, when I discovered my son ‘gunning’ his sister with a three-foot flag pole and laughing every time he ‘got’ her, I suggested they play something else.

My attempt to change their focus ended up in a game of knights and swords – the children love Mike the Knight (on Cbeebies: I think he’s a selfish, whining brat). I thought that would be safer than running around with a three-foot stick, as the ‘swords’ were light plastic and they were wearing their knights’ helmets.

I was wrong.

Swords. Wasn’t much of an alternative!

Shooting siblings happens (mostly) at a distance, but you get up close and personal for sword play. Within seconds they’d whacked each other on the arms and both ran to me screaming.

I’ve suggested they make a den out of the climbing frame, and they’re cooperating for now, but I think some days they’re just out to hurt each other one way or another.

I feel like the kill joy. I feel like the meanie. I stopped a game on the chance that someone might get hurt (see the picture where my son’s trying to impale his sister on the pole) only to instigate a game where someone did get hurt.

I don’t know what to think about guns. We don’t live in a neighbourhood where gun crime is likely. Guns are used for shooting pheasants, and only hold two cartridges (although two would be plenty to hurt or kill someone). Not many swords around either, although I suppose there are knives. I don’t like to think about it. I want to keep my kids in the garden and protect them forever, though of course that isn’t possible.

What’s the answer? Suggestions welcome. Is gun play okay? Do I need to lighten up and buy them some Nerf guns instead? A sort of ‘if you can’t beat them, at least provide them with soft foam bullets’ sort of solution? Sometimes I wish I’d just had girls.

Son is happy because he ‘gunned’ his target

P.S. After I finished this post I looked for related articles and came across this great one: Keep Kids from Toy Guns – How one mother changed her mind. I have completely changed my view.

I love the thoroughness of this article – how it explores the necessity of role play and rough play for children (particularly boys) and the suggestion that depriving them might hinder their growth. It also explains that violent role play doesn’t mean the same to a child as it does to an adult.

A friend on Facebook suggested that forbidding gun play just makes guns taboo and exciting, meaning the children are more likely to seek them out. All great advice.

So I will try and ignore my son’s fixation with guns and just make sure he’s using something other than a three-foot flag pole!

P.P.S One of the schools we looked at for our daughter offered fencing lessons. I think that’s a great idea! Teach the right way of doing things. Might look out for a class if the school we’ve chosen doesn’t also offer it.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire followed the driver down to the beach, shivering in the evening breeze.

What am I doing in my swimsuit and a sarong at 6pm in autumn? Even if that is a New Zealand autumn and it’s probably as warm as a British summer.

The driver carried a bundle of spades and Claire hadn’t yet found the courage to ask what they were for.

When they reached the beach Claire felt like she’d arrived on the moon. The charcoal-grey sand was littered with dozens of craters, some tiny, some several metres across. Steam rose from the nearest ones and Claire could see scantily clad people lounging in the water as if they were at a spa.

“Okay, guys, grab a spade. Watch out, sometimes the water can get too hot, you know?”

Hot Water Beach

With that the driver dropped the spades and sauntered off. Claire hung back as her fellow travellers surged forwards. As she’d hoped, there were soon no spades left and she felt able to wander down to the shore.

Claire walked along the sand, splashing her feet in the lapping waves, and staring out at the horizon. Behind her she could hear shrieks and yells as people jumped into hot pools or shoved their friends in. She heard someone call out, “That one’s too hot,” followed by a confident denial, then a loud scream. Claire smiled.

The night air brushed at her skin, raising goosebumps and making her shiver. It was no good, if she didn’t get in the hot water soon she would freeze.

Claire turned and walked back up the beach, hoping to find a small pool that had been vacated because it was not required rather than because it was scalding hot. As she made her way through the pools, avoiding eye contact and ignoring the giggles, someone called out her name.

She turned and saw a dark shadow lying alone in a large pool. Visible only by the whites of his eyes and his shimmering teeth, Claire recognised her nemesis and cursed herself for responding to his summons.

“Come and join me, Claire?” Neal patted the sandbank next to him in invitation. “Water’s lovely.”

Claire hesitated, but shivered again as the sun dropped lower in the sky, taking its warming rays with it.

“Chicken?” Neal’s voice dripped with provocation.

Not wanting to give him an opportunity to goad her further, Claire took a step away from the edge and scanned around for another empty pool.

“Come on, don’t be shy. I don’t bite. Not unless you want me to.” His deep chuckle rolled through the dark, doing strange things to Claire’s insides.

Realising she was getting strange looks from the people in nearby pools, Claire tugged off her sarong and slipped into the water as far away from Neal as she could. She sat upright, but the contrast of hot and cold made her shudder, and she was forced to slide in deeper.

It was bliss. Claire realised she hadn’t had a bath in months. Hostels didn’t have baths and when she was staying with her sister there had never been the time for the luxury of deep hot water. Kinks and knots in her back and neck shifted under the heat and she squirmed to find a more comfortable position.

Claire felt a pressure on the ball of her foot and kicked out in panic. Her action led to another deep chuckle, and she realised Neal was massaging one of her feet, his thumbs digging deep in soothing circular movements.

She wanted to pull away, to protest, to get up and leave the beach, but somehow she couldn’t. Not wanting to think about anything other than the heavenly sensation, Claire laid her head against the sandbank behind her and closed her eyes.

***

Keeping Kids From Toy Guns: How One Mother Changed Her Mind (theatlantic.com)
Local churches offering ‘Toy Gun Exchange Day’ throughout St. Louis area (kmov.com)
Kids and Swords (phoenixswords.wordpress.com)

Harvest: 2013 365 Challenge #225

Tractors on the road (wasn’t driving when took this!)

It’s harvest time here in the UK. I love the harvest. Despite the late nights, the noise, the dust, the traffic, the “mummy, a tractor, look!” a hundred times a day, it’s a wonderful time of year.

I followed a tractor and trailer home this afternoon, driving at 30mph. Normally travelling at that speed would have me cursing, dithering as to whether I should try and overtake, especially on a nursery day, when time is precious. But because it was a harvest tractor I sat back, listened to the radio, and enjoyed the rest. Every half a mile we pulled over to let another tractor through – our country lanes not being wide enough for two cars in places, never mind two tractors.

The drivers smile, even though they’ve probably had five hours’ sleep a night this week. They drive into the dark; their wide headlights lighting the hillside.

You can spot a combine harvester by the dust. Even though it’s a common sight, it still makes me smile. There’s something so essential, so powerful, about watching the beast of a machine sweeping up the fields, leaving bareness behind and disappearing in a cloud of dust like a camel running through the desert (not that I’ve ever seen a camel in the desert. That’s how I imagine it might look, anyway.)

Fields with a haircut

Soon the fields will be ploughed in; changing from wheat-yellow to dark brown. The dog will come home filthy and some paths will be impassable. It looks like a better harvest this year. Last year’s wheat, especially, was devastated by the floods. Farmers lost half their yield and the price of bread shot sky-high.

As the land is managed on a three-field crop rotation, we’ve had some set-aside and some oil seed rape in the local fields this year. Maybe next year it will be potatoes. My favourite crop is barley. As Sting famously sang, the fields come alive in the sunlight and wind, rippling like a bran-coloured ocean.

I can’t imagine living somewhere with no harvest. It marks the turning of the season like no other event. My step-father used to work on a farm and harvest time we never saw him. He would be driving until 2am and – in the days before mobile phones – my mum would go out armed with a field map and lunch box to take him his dinner.

It’s an energetic time. Activity everywhere. On the roads, in the fields, round the farms and the storage barns. Scurrying mammals bringing in the food before the winter. We’re all squirrels at heart.

Harvest means the end of summer, too. The end of the school holidays in sight. The year running away like sand in an hour glass. This year is particularly poignant as it’s the end of preschool life for us. Harvest reminds us that the seasons change, the year ebbs and flows, life goes on. Hopefully I’ll feel like that once school starts in September!

P.S. I used pictures from my NZ honeymoon to write today’s Claire installment so had to include them below. There might be other NZ pictures in Claire posts for the next few weeks! Any excuse. 🙂

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire leant her head against the window in what was becoming her preferred position. A night spent back in Auckland had restored her equilibrium after the sand-boarding experience, although she had bruises on her bruises, and muscles she didn’t previously know existed still burned.

Amazing views, Coromandel

Outside the window rolling, undulating, forest views sped past too fast as the driver negotiated hairpin bends and steep drops. Claire was glad she’d slept rather than followed the others out drinking the night before. She suspected it might have otherwise been hard to keep food in her tummy with the swaying of the bus and the changes of scenery from green to blue, dark to light, forest to sea.

They arrived at the hostel all too soon and Claire reluctantly left her window seat to go and check in. Some of the group were leaving immediately to kayak round to a place called Cathedral Cove.

Deciding her muscles had received enough of a pounding for a few days, Claire had opted out. Gazing now at the blue skies still smiling above, she wondered it if was too late to change her mind.

“Any folks wanting a lift round to the Cathedral Cove, I’ll be leaving in a while. Come and meet me back at the bus after you’ve checked in, and bring your walking shoes.”

Claire gave the driver a smile and he grinned back, flicking his eyelid in a flirtatious wink. It had been a huge relief to get on the bus that morning and discover a new driver would be taking them down the east coast. Whatever had sparked the previous driver’s antagonism towards her, she obviously hadn’t made the same mistake this time. If anything, this one was too charming though she wasn’t going to complain about that. Not yet, anyway.

The view from the car park made Claire stare in wonder. Even though she’d watched the views out the window all day, nothing had prepared her for the brilliance of seeing it without glass. At first glance it was only sea and trees; but the depth of the colours brought out by the afternoon sun made the whole panorama shimmer.

They followed the narrow footpath down towards the cove. Every turn, every few minutes’ walk, revealed a new view. The sea changed colour continuously, from navy blue to steel grey and back to aquamarine. Islands lay scattered across the bay like Russian dolls.

Gemstone Bay

A few minutes further and the scene changed again: this time, white cliffs could be seen between lime-green ferns. The water in the bay below shone turquoise, whilst further out to sea jet skis carved brilliant white crescents against the pthalo blue. Throaty engines echoed in the silence, but the roar of the machines couldn’t break her peace. Her heart sang.

Following sign posts, Claire took a detour to find gemstone bay. She came through the trees to discover a pebble-strewn beach lurking beneath a rocky bluff. The stones shimmered red and green in the water like the precious gems the bay was named for. Snapping some pictures, Claire returned up the path, groaning at the pain in her calf muscles.

Right. No more unnecessary detours.

Eventually they reached sea level. All along the beach, tourists stood with cameras ready, trying to capture the perfect image. The cathedral itself was a hole in the rock, like Durdle Door – on Claire’s list of things to visit in Dorset, before she’d decided to run away to the other side of the world.

Why do I keep comparing things to Dorset? As if anything that county has to offer can come close to the Coromandel scenery I’ve witnessed today.

Cathedral Cove, Coromandel

Claire waited by the natural stone archway, trying to take a photograph with no people in sight. It took too long and eventually she settled for figures in the distance. Sometimes trying to take shots she could use for the blog tried her patience.

Ahead she heard the sound of laughing and splashing and she strolled through the tunnel to investigate. On the next beach, a group from her bus were paddling in the sea. One person had stripped off and was swimming out to a distant rock.

Claire kicked off her shoes and dipped an experimental toe in the water. It was freezing. She joined the others to discover who the crazy swimmer was. As he waved from the rock and dived back into the water, she watched his progress with a sinking certainty.

Neal. Of course, I might have known.

Not wanting him to catch her watching, Claire hurried back through the cathedral and made her way to the bus. Halfway up the walk, she paused to catch her breath. A strange impulse caught hold of her, like a shift in the weather. She took out her phone and tapped a text message, hitting send before she could change her mind.

Conor, it’s Claire. Just wanted to say hi and thanks for the text. I’ve just been to see a place that reminded me of Dorset. You’d love it. There will be pictures on the blog tomorrow. Sorry if this wakes you. Claire.

Without stopping to analyse her actions, Claire stuffed the phone back in her bag and continued her walk to the bus.

***

Delayed Gratification: 2013 365 Challenge #224

Thankfully it’s not all screen time

I love technology.

I love that my kids are both watching the TV show they want to watch before bedtime, one on each ipad, downloaded from cbeebies (although I’ve just realised one of them is about to stop working because we don’t have the internet bandwidth to stream two programmes simultaneously. Poor hubbie, glad I’m walking the dog.)

I love that I listened to cricket on my ipad today whilst also reading a free copy of Pride and Prejudice. (Though I also have a paper copy for when the kids are using my tablet.)

I love that my children don’t watch adverts very often so, until they start school and see what their friends have, they’re not bombarding me with requests for toys, gadgets or trips out to expensive theme parks. I love that I can play Swashbuckle in the car and it’s the same length as the time it takes me to get to the supermarket, and I can bribe them back into the car with promises of more on the way home.

iPad art by Amber Martin

I love having access to blogs and emails wherever there’s wifi, often writing my post in a coffee shop or service station. It amazes me that I can Skype my sister in America and see her house, her kids, her office (though I rarely do, I’m ashamed to say, because I hate Skype. It’s almost impossible to have a conversation without sounding like a bad news report on a delayed satellite link.)

But I do worry about it all. I worry about my children’s need for instant gratification. They rarely have to wait to see their favourite TV show because if it isn’t on the sky plus box or iplayer it’s on YouTube. They don’t have to wait weeks for photographs to be developed and arrive in the post – often pictures are on Facebook within seconds of being taken. They don’t have the anticipation of waiting to see a movie or saving to buy a song on vinyl, it’s all iTunes and DVDs (or it’ll be on the TV in a month).

The same is true for publishing. My holy grail has always been a traditional publishing deal. It still is. I would feel I had ‘made it’ if I even got an agent never mind selling a book to a publisher.

Except you don’t get whopping advances any more, you still have to do all your own social media and marketing, you’re expected to have a near-perfect manuscript before you approach an agent, and – worst of all – you have to wait TWO YEARS sometimes to see your book on the shelves.

Two years? When Baby Blues is finished, it’ll take me two weeks to have a print and ebook version. Two days if I find the time. I’ve sussed the formatting so I only need to tweak it for any change in pagination after the final edit. I’ve had a print proof delivered already so I know what changes I want to make to the front cover. My marketing won’t be ready, but that’s because I’m spinning too many plates and probably shouldn’t be releasing Baby Blues until next year.

Shooting hoops

But there’s the rub. Like my children I’m used to instant gratification. I buy things when I want them, most of the time, second-hand where possible, thanks to eBay. I eat what I want when I want, mostly, thanks to supermarkets being open 24-7. I listen to music where and when I want, I check email anywhere there’s phone signal and I log on to Facebook anytime I want to catch up with my friends.

But there’s a downside, and I can explain it with chocolate. Chocolate used to be a treat. Now I can buy it when I like – and I refuse to diet so I eat it when I like – it’s lost its magic. It just doesn’t taste as good. Birthday’s too, aren’t that exciting because I don’t want for anything (I don’t generally, anyway, except the things money can’t buy, like time and sleep). The children also aren’t that excited because they don’t want big toys and they buy little ones with their pocket money.

Is anything exciting anymore? We have to search harder and harder for that sense of gratification that used to come after a long wait. I often eat chocolate and feel only disappointment. What about my children? Will there be anything left to thrill them by the time they’re ten?

By self-publishing, am I missing out on the excitement of reaching the end of that two-year wait and having a big launch? Maybe one day I’ll find out. For now the only delayed gratification I have is the wait to 9pm, when the kids are asleep and I can have a glass of wine, or 12am, when I’ve written my daily post and can finally have some guilt-free time reading my book before gratefully hitting the sack. Or the wait for the next nursery day, so I can get some editing done in peace. That’ll do for now!

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire stood at the top of the dune and laughed; a bitter, snorting, you have to be kidding I’m going back to the bus, laugh that masked fathomless fear. One by one, her fellow travellers grabbed their three-foot boards of foam and launched themselves down the hill, leaving a trailing screaming sound in their wake. It did look fun. And insane.

“You going?”

Claire looked over at the guide, then down at the boogie board in her hands. No. Not in a gazillion years. It was hard enough climbing up this damn hill. Her thighs still ached from the ascent, with every step forward taking twice the effort as her feet slipped in the loose sand.

A thought popped into Claire’s brain: If I don’t slide down I’m going to have to walk. Bugger that.

She looked speculatively at the board in her hands and wondered if it was possible to sit on it. Amanda, Janet and Emily had talked of toboggans. That would be better. Sitting upright and holding onto a rope, with the illusion of being in control.

“Can I go down on my bottom, rather than my tummy?” Her face flushed as she waited for the guide answer.

As expected, he guffawed. “No, sweetheart, not on a shark biscuit. You need to do as the others are doing. Don’t be a coward.”

Claire bristled. I thought Kiwis were lovely and friendly? Trust me to get the arsehole. Glaring at the back of his head, as he turned to banter with the people climbing up for a second go, Claire wished she’d gone with the other bus company. Or hired a car. Or stayed in the UK.

While she stood watching, most of the group clambered up the slippery yellow dune and threw themselves down again. Laughter, swearing and panting echoed round her as she remained frozen by her thoughts.

Bugger it, why not?

Without allowing the thought to settle, Claire crouched down, placed the board beneath her and took a deep breath. With the guide’s advice to “keep yer bloody mouth shut” echoing in her mind, she pushed herself forwards and closed her eyes.

The sand whipped at her face as she plummeted down the slope. She could feel it scratching her knuckles where they gripped tightly to the front of the board. Risking a quick glance, Claire realised she was hurtling up behind someone else who had slowed down. With a roll of her shoulders, Claire avoided a collision but came off her board. Sand filled her nose and mouth as she continued down the slope with the board bumping along behind her.

At last the momentum ran out, and Claire ended in a crumpled heap, sobbing with adrenalin and relief. Everything ached and she felt like she’d swallowed a beach.

“Well, that was one way to do it.”

Claire looked up into the black eyes of the man she was starting to see as her nemesis. He held out a hand and, after a moment of hesitation, Claire reached up to take it. His grip was firm and he hauled her to her feet as if she were a child.

“Thanks.” Claire brushed the sand off her shorts, hoping the man would be gone before she looked up.

“Name’s Neal, by the way.” Forced to face him, Claire saw his hand held out in greeting. She shook it reluctantly. “Claire.”

“Well, Claire. Are you coming?”

Claire furrowed her brow. “Coming where?”

“Back up the hill.” He nodded past her at the people climbing back to the summit only to dive down again. Claire looked longingly back at the line of footprints in the sand, marking their route from the bus. Then she saw the glint of amusement in Neal’s eyes, and her hackles rose.

“Sure. Bring it on.”

***

To My Children: 2013 365 Challenge #223

My growing up too fast girl

The idea for this post was ~~stolen from~~ inspired by Scary Mommy’s blog post and, like her, I have ensured that both sections have the same amount of words!

To my favourite daughter

You struggled into the world and stole my heart. I love your pixie face, your glowing eyes that change colour with the light and your mood, from grey to the amber you were named after. I love your creativity, how you can make things from pipe-cleaners and tissue paper; a cow, a motorbike, a swing. You are the most caring person I know; you share willingly and your empathy is endless.

I love how easily you make friends, how you adapt to the games they want to play and how you are always smiling. I love your mischievous face, your singing, the way you sit and play beautiful music on the piano. I love the way you throw yourself fearlessly into the swimming pool or do forward rolls on the lawn. I love the way you say, “Bring it on!”

First born, precious moment

My baby girl, you have grown so fast; I am so proud of you. My little cherub, you helped me learn to be a mother and you are still teaching me, every day. Your wisdom exceeds mine often, yet you are still my little girl, running to me for cuddles.

I love your interest in the world; your deep questions about evolution and the living planet. I love how you care for babies even though you say you don’t want any of your own. How you sing “You’re a pink toothbrush” to yourself at night when you can’t sleep, and how you make up stories for your brother. I love that he is the first person you want to see in the morning and the last person you want to hug at night. Seeing the two of you play together so beautifully makes me the happiest Mummy on Earth. I love how you tell me you love me out of the blue. You are my favourite.

My laughing boy

To my favourite son

You rushed into the world, into my arms and into my heart. Your smile lights my day and your hugs warm me to the very centre: There is no happier place than inside your cuddle.

Your sense of fun is endless and you teach me to be silly and how to laugh. Your changing faces, your changing moods, mean I don’t know who you will be next, but I love all the people you can be.

You are charming and cheeky and disarm the grumpiest Mummy with a glint of your chocolate brown eyes. The world comes alight with your happiness and you share your joy willingly.

A day old and already making me smile

You can kick a football better than I ever will and you run and climb and jump like a goat. When you fall, you get back up again and grin.

You paint in beautiful colours, especially yourself. Your piano playing make me smile, as you loudly sing Baa Baa Black Sheep. I love how you dance while you play the harmonica and how much you adore Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It makes me proud that you love reading and stories almost as much as I do.

I love how you do everything at a hundred miles an hour and how your grumpy moods can change like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

I love your kisses and the way you stroke my arm when you’re tired. I love how you giggle when you watch Peppa Pig. I love how you play with your big sister and declare that she is your best friend. I love that she is the only person you want to play with in the morning and the main one you want to hug goodnight.

I love the way you say “I love you” and throw your arms around me. You are my favourite.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire sat in the dust on the side of the road and wept. How could I be so stupid. The driver said we were only there for half an hour and he wouldn’t wait for stragglers. I should have realised he wasn’t joking.

Her first reaction had been to call someone. That was when she realised she’d left her bag on her seat on the coach. All she had was her camera and a headache.

The sound of wheels crunching on the unsealed road dragged Claire back from the abyss. She leapt to her feet, ready to welcome the returning bus with open arms. It seemed to take forever for the sound to turn into a vehicle. Claire watched the road until her eyes watered. At last a cloud of dust announced its arrival. As she glimpsed red, instead of the green she hoped to see, Claire slumped back down and dropped her head into her hands.

The sound of wheels slowed, then stopped. Looking up, Claire saw a small red car parked next to her on the road. There were three people inside and the driver – a blonde girl around Claire’s age – was winding down the window.

“Are you okay?”

The sound of an English accent lifted Claire’s spirit. She gave a shrug and shook her head.

“What happened?”

“I missed the bus.” Saying it out loud made Claire realise how stupid she was. How do you miss your bus when you’re in the middle of nowhere? What an idiot.

“Tour bus? Green one? We just passed it, it can’t be far behind us. Do you want a lift?”

Claire’s heart leapt and she jumped to her feet. “Would you? That would be amazing. But you’ve only just got here. I don’t want to ruin your day too.”

“Don’t be silly, we can’t just leave you here, can we girls?” She turned and faced her passengers. Claire heard a chorus of negatives as the other people in the car agreed with the driver.

“Hop in. You’ll have to climb in the back, it’s a bit of a squeeze.” The driver undid her belt and got out of the car, tipping her seat forward to let Claire in, before dropping the seat and returning to her position. Within moments she was executing a painful three-point turn, and they were on their way.

“You’ll have to excuse her driving,” the passenger in the back said conspiratorially, “she doesn’t much like the unsealed roads. We might just catch up with your bus before it gets to Auckland.”

“Oi, I heard that, Emily! Cheeky cow. You come up here and handle this tin can on these roads. Or better still, you ring and tell your parents how I drove you off a cliff two weeks after meeting you.”

“Chill, Mand. It’s fine.” The passenger in the front spoke.

Claire turned to face the girl, who sounded like she might be Irish. “Are you all travelling together?” The good-natured banter between the three women was infectious. She imagined they had a laugh, although the girl driving seemed more serious than the other two.

“We met in Auckland,” the driver called over her shoulder. “For some bizarre reason I asked these two lovely ladies if they fancied coming north with me.”

“And for some unknown reason we thought it’d be a good craic.”

The girls all laughed and Claire found herself joining in.

Progress was slow along the dirt track and Claire itched to get in the driver’s seat. When she peered out the window, and saw the long drop down to the sea, she changed her mind and was thankful she hadn’t seen how narrow the road was when they were on the bus.

“Do you know where the green machine is going next?” The driver called out.

Claire leaned forwards. “Er, I think we were going to a beach – Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Claire.”

The girl clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m rubbish at introductions. I’m Amanda, this is Janet,” she nodded to her left, “and you’ve met Emily there in the back. Don’t ask her what part of the States she’s from and you’ll be fine.”

Claire had already guessed that Emily was Canadian, but she laughed nonetheless.

“I think I might know the beach,” Amanda continued. “The woman at our hostel gave us some directions and mentioned a place where the buses stop to let the passengers go for a paddle. We’ll try there first. Otherwise we can take you up to the dunes, as apparently the buses all stop there too. We’ve got some toboggans.”

“What?” Claire was thrown by the apparent non-sequiter.

“Toboggans. For the sand dunes. Didn’t you know?” This was from Janet. “It’s meant to be a right laugh, tobogganing down. Though I think you guys use boogie boards.”

Claire thought about all the high-adrenalin activities that Julia had thought up to make her life miserable. Even Carl’s PA couldn’t have come up with diving headfirst down a sand dune.

“Bugger that. I’ll watch. Assuming we catch up with them.”

They drove for a while in silence, until Amanda pulled the car off the road and down to a secluded bay. Claire’s heart gave a skip of relief when she saw the familiar green bus parked up ahead of them.

“Oh, god, thank you so much. I really owe you. Wait here while I grab my bag and I’ll give you something for petrol money.”

Amanda parked the car. “Don’t be silly,” she said as she pulled her seat forward to let Claire climb through. “It was a pleasure to help a fellow Brit. Do you want to go and make sure that’s your bus.”

“Would there be more than one?”

Amanda shook her head as if to say, “no idea.” Claire strode towards the bus and tried to get on, but it was locked. Scanning the beach, she saw a group of people a short distance away, having a picnic. As she walked towards them, she recognised one or two faces from earlier.

“Ah, the missing lady returns. Well done.”

Claire turned to face the driver, ready to give him a piece of her mind; but the sardonic look on his face stopped her. What was the point. He clearly knew he’d left her behind and either didn’t care, or intended to teach her a lesson. Whatever the reason, there was little to be gained from antagonising him further.

As if interpreting her silence, the driver grinned and nodded at the food. “Grab some lunch.”

Grinding her teeth, Claire walked over and took some food. Getting on her high horse would only leave her hungry.

“Sorry, lady. I did try to tell him you’d been left behind, but he didn’t listen.”

Claire turned and saw the English man she had passed on the path earlier. “Thanks for trying. I’ll make sure I’m first on the bus in future.”

“Here’s your bag. You left it on the seat. I thought it might be safer with me.” He passed over her handbag. Claire resisted the urge to check the contents. Instead she nodded her thanks and headed back to her new friends. Suddenly, hiring or buying a car seemed a million times preferable to travelling round by bus.

***