Running out of Words: 2013 365 Challenge #222

Shooting hoops in a makeshift basket

The challenge part of my daily blogging adventure is now starting to bite. Finding something new and interesting to write about every single day, then finding something new and interesting for Claire to experience, is proving tricky.

When my life is a monotony of childcare, writing, editing, housework and dog walking, it’s tough to find the new. I’m re-reading old familiar books (Pride and Prejudice at the moment) because I don’t have the time, energy or mental space to start any of the dozens of new books on my ipad. Between editing Baby Blues and staying on top off Two-Hundred Steps Home, I’m full.

It seems even I have a finite amount of words. Me! The girl whose mother still complains she talks too much, and now thinks the same of her children. Me, the girl who famously accompanied her father on a road trip from Sussex to Scotland (around twelve hours), talked non-stop and apparently didn’t repeat herself once. Until the day he died my father wouldn’t let me forget it. Ironic now that it’s my children’s incessant talking that drives me batty.

Football girl

It seems strange that it took me so long to realise my career needed to be built around words, rather than numbers. Thousands upon thousands of words are always in my head, jostling for space, clamouring to be heard. But it seems that, finally, the well is dry. Maybe not of words but certainly of ideas.

It’s a common piece of advice for writers that the well must be replenished. Rest, holidays, reading, getting out and experiencing new things, are all essential to a writer to keep them fresh. I long to take a break from blogging, a break from Claire. But with Baby Blues clogging up my free days (it has to be finished by the end of August or it won’t happen this year) I barely have time to research each daily post, never mind getting ahead.

So apologies if this blogging challenge is dragging for you, too. I’ve reached the soggy middle, with 143 posts left to reach the end. I don’t regret starting it for a moment, anymore than I regret getting married or having children. That doesn’t mean that, sometimes, a break (or a full night’s sleep) wouldn’t be welcome.

Maybe it’s time to take a leaf out of Claire’s book and run away to a hostel for a bit. Call it research. Ah, if only! Still at least I can write about it and re-live the time I did just that.

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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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The alarm rang through Claire’s pillow and she let out a groan. The barbeque had gone on until late the night before and, although she’d observed the shenanigans over the top of her iPad, it had been entertaining after a fashion; watching the bronzed and beautiful people from the bus slowly drink themselves out of their clothes and into the hot-tub.

She’d torn herself away when the spectacle threatened to become x-rated. Despite only drinking one or two stubbies, as the Kiwi’s called their small cans of lager, her head still felt like it was wrapped in bungee-cord.

Beneath her and across the room two more alarms set up their caterwauling. One a thumping beat of a pop song, the other a clanging bell. More groaning and fumbling around to silence the evil machines followed, and Claire smiled.

If my head hurts this morning, that’s going to be nothing to what those guys are going through.

Trying to remind herself why she’d opted for such an early start, Claire crawled out from beneath her covers and made her slow way down the bunk bed ladder.

Thank goodness I thought to pack last night.

She pulled on the clothes laid on top of her rucksack and stuffed her night things into a pocket. Within five minutes of her alarm waking her, she was outside the room and ready to search for coffee.

The queue for the bus was the sorriest sight Claire had ever seen. A dozen ashen faced, subdued, teenagers stood with heads low and earphones in. As she’d already consumed one coffee and was on her second, Claire was able to smile indulgently at their suffering. She was looking forward to the day trip: twelve hours of doing exactly as she was told sounded perfect after a night of little sleep.

Claire climbed on the bus and sat near the window, ready to be wowed by the scenery she had read so much about. Caffeine kept her eyes open, even though the motion of the bus did its best to lull her to sleep. Looking around, she could see that most of her fellow passengers were already snoozing.

What a shame, to miss out on so much.

At the first stop some people didn’t even make it off the bus. Claire walked past them to visit the forest where they were going to “hug a tree”. It seemed a bit hippy, but she’d given herself permission to be a tourist sheep for the day.

Walking through the forest, Claire felt the muscles in her neck straining as she continually gazed up at the enormous kauri trees towering above her. Their trunks stretched smooth all the way to the sky, forming a canopy of leaves high above. Behind her, she heard the guide tell them that hugging a tree would bring good luck.

I’m not hugging a tree; I’ll look like an idiot.

Glancing round, Claire saw people wrapping their arms around the giant kauri trees, their hands not even reaching halfway round the circumference. Soon, she was the only person not embracing the rough bark.

Oh, what the hell. I could do with some luck.

Claire stretched her arms wide and inched her fingers across the ridges in the tree’s surface. Closing her eyes, she rested her face briefly against the bark and listened to the sounds of the woodland. Behind the chattering of the tour group, she heard the busy silence of a forest living a life separated from people. She could almost feel the sap rising under her fingers and the pulsing life of the soil beneath her feet.

Surprised to find tears under her eyelashes, Claire pushed herself away and hurried after the group, who were already heading back to the bus.

At last they reached the Cape at the top of the peninsular: the place where the Tasman Sea met the Pacific. Climbing up to the summit, Claire felt as if she were ascending right into the heavens. The sea stretched all around, only slightly darker than the sky. A tiny white lighthouse and a signpost showing how far away they were from the places of the world, were the only evidence of human life.

Beneath them, the two oceans crashed and fought, one light aquamarine, the other royal blue. A long line of white waves marked the clash of their meeting and Claire could feel the power from where she stood, high above the sea.

Leaving the group, she walked towards the point where the grass fell away into nothing. Near the edge, a narrow footpath wound down the cliff side. It reminded her of the tiny path above Old Harry, where she had seen the family gather to say their last farewells to a loved one.

Something drew Claire’s feet forward and she inched her way to the edge, swallowing hard at the sight of the steep drop. She was about to walk further when she heard the sound of someone coming up from below. As she waited the English man from the bus came into view, pulling himself up with his hands on the grass.

“I wouldn’t go too far, it gets pretty lethal down there.” He smiled and, before she could respond, was gone.

Claire sat on her bottom and scooted down the path far enough to be out of sight of the cliff top. The man was right; she could see the dust and rubble of the path below her. Settling herself on the grass, Claire made do with her little place of seclusion. She stared at the sea and allowed herself to get lost in her own thoughts.

It was the silence above that alerted her. With a fluttering heart, she turned round and scrambled back up to the top of the bluff. The lighthouse stood alone and proud with no people in sight. Her heartbeat picked up, and she ran to the other side of the building and all the way down to where the bus had been parked. She looked frantically left and right, and ran a little further down the road. But it was pointless.

The bus was gone.

***

Depression and Parenting Doubt: 2013 365 Challenge #221

Sometimes I want to hide under a blanket

I had a debate recently, in the comments of one of my favourite blogs, that forced me to reevaluate my parenting style. Again.

It doesn’t take much for me to sink into doubt that I’m doing the right thing when it comes to motherhood. Do I have in place sufficient boundaries? Do I give freedom to grow and chances for my children to make their own choices but still give them the security of knowing I’m ultimately in charge?

I’m a peacemaker. I learned to apologise for the world and my place in it so that people wouldn’t be mad at me. I’m not great at being in charge.

Interestingly I read a masterful post of what it feels like to have depression over on The Belle Jar this afternoon and I could relate to every word, even though I feel I have my depression under control. So maybe I don’t.

Another blog post that came my way is this one by Becoming Supermommy, about the impossibility of ever being the perfect parent, called Dear Less Than Perfect Mom. (Read it, it’s brilliant). I know I’m not a perfect mother, I know I never will be, but just when I think I’ve wrestled my demons into submission I read something, or am told something, or something happens, that causes me to believe I’m doing it all wrong. That my depression, my tears, my indecision, my laissez faire parenting, means I’m not a safe harbour for my kids. That maybe my daughter’s insecurities are caused by too many choices and too few boundaries.

My children at nursery

It makes me want to go back to work full time and leave the child-raising to the professionals. After all, my kids don’t have tantrums or breakdowns at nursery. As the school era approaches, I review the last five years with fear, much as New Year’s Eve makes you relive the preceding twelve months and realise you wasted them. That those pristine resolutions from the January before lie dead in the dust at your feet.

I was going to be the strong parent, the one with boundaries; the rock. Calm, patient, kind. I almost managed it when I just had one child. The second blew it all out the water.

I look back now and see parenting failure left and right. But I look back through a mind reasonably clear, in a body that actually had six hours of uninterrupted sleep at least once this month. I critically review the actions of a person I no longer am. Sleep deprived, hormonal, depressed. I judge her and find her wanting.

Even now, I evaluate my day with the hindsight of two sleeping children and a glass of wine, and judge who I was this morning with 8 hours work to fit into 3 and two hyper children to entertain. As the pain of childbirth can never be understood after the event (or you’d never have more than one baby) the body lives in the now, when the mind does not.

So I need to stop evaluating and second guessing my parenting because it leaves me confused, like the centipede that’s been asked which order it places its feet and as a result forgets how to walk. Is my daughter’s insecurity caused by my depression and lack of authority? Possibly. Do I need to be firmer and offer my kids fewer choices? Probably. Do I think I can do that every day when it’s not in my nature? Doubtful. Does it matter? Only time will tell for sure.

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Claire turned her face to the window and allowed the sea breeze to caress her skin. Around her, people filled the tiny ferry; everyone eager to visit the nineteenth century sea port on the other side of the bay. She recognised one or two faces from the bus and nodded in greeting before swivelling her eyes back to the water.

Outside, the same tree-covered hills she could see from the hostel crowded round protectively. In some ways it felt like Swanage bay, although those cliffs were of grass and rock, worn away by years of weather.

Unsure what to expect, Claire searched eagerly ahead for a glimpse of the town, reputed to be the first European settlement, and once known as ‘The Hell-hole of the Pacific’. She couldn’t imagine anywhere in New Zealand earning that epitaph.

The town nestled into the hillside, buildings dotted through the trees like a herd of deer trying to conceal themselves, with only their antlers visible through the green.

The ferry pulled up alongside the pier and Claire joined the queue of people waiting to disembark. To either side, a long beach stretched in a line of copper sand, while boats bobbed about on the water like excited children wanting to play.

Armed with a map and some instructions she’d picked up at the hostel, Claire opted to walk up to Flagstaff Hill and take in the views of the islands. It felt good to be walking away from the crowd.

Within twenty minutes, Claire was glad it was autumn in New Zealand. Even the cool sun drew sweat and cursing from her, as she toiled up the hill towards the flagstaff. Maybe I should have taken the bus. If I was here in my Skoda, I could just have driven up. Who knew what freedom a clapped out car could bring?

By the time she reached the top, her face and throat burned. Claire stared up at the tall white flagpole and wondered what was so special. She reached into her bag for her water bottle and turned to take in the view for the first time. The water bottle fell, forgotten, back into the depths of her handbag.

“Wow!”

The view stretched all around: flat patches of sparkling aqua water surrounded by undulating hills, receding in shades of blue to the distant horizon. Beneath her, the pier bisected the bay she had walked along, prodding into the water; the only straight line in a scene of curves. Even the clouds served to enhance the vista, as their flat bottoms emphasised the horizon and marked the many miles visible from her standpoint.

Claire inhaled and spread her arms wide. She felt like she could swan-dive off the hill and swoop like a bird over the islands below.

Wandering away from the flagstaff, and the people snapping shots before getting back on their buses, Claire sought a peaceful spot to rest. As she settled on the grass, her phone trilled the arrival of a message.

Who can that be? It’s the middle of the night back home.

She only knew one person in the same time zone as her. Excitement fizzed along her veins. She quickly searched for her phone and opened the message. It was from an unknown number.

Hi, Claire. Hope you don’t mind me texting you. I checked it would be a good time. Your blog says you’re in NZ. I got your email, saying you were declining the job. I understand, but I hope you’ll reconsider. Have a great holiday and give me a call when you get back. Conor

Claire didn’t know whether to be irritated or flattered. She’d never been so actively and personally pursued for a position before. As the thudding in her chest subsided, a warm feeling spread through her. Annoying as he was, it was nice to know someone in the world cared if she ever went home again.

***

Talking with Children About a Parent’s Depression (alaksblog.wordpress.com)
Child Happiness (iamjadajackson.wordpress.com)
Brittany’s 7 Tips for Coping with Parent’s Diagnosis (brittanymoso.wordpress.com)
Strength, Respect and Parents. (writtenmad.com)
My Testimony – LOVE (bowmanphoto.wordpress.com)

Learning to be Brave: 2013 365 Challenge #220

Picking strawberries

One of the benefits of parenting is learning to be brave. Yesterday I touched a moth (ugh!) as I had to remove it from a trampoline and flick it into the grass. I hate moths. Ever since I left the light on and window open in my bedroom as a child, and went up at bedtime to find the ceiling plastered with giant moths (I grew up in the country) I have hated them. But, being brave for my children, I must deal with my fears.

This is especially appropriate after reading a post on Rinelle’s blog yesterday, about applying for an EIN number as an indie author.

This is probably only of interest to self-published writers, but there is a great article on Catherine, Caffeinated’s blog about how to get this holy-grail number (needed to stop Amazon.com withholding 30% of profits in tax).

Where are those juicy strawberries?

I haven’t made any money from my books yet. Certainly not enough to go through the pain of calling the US to get an EIN number. I’ve had Catherine’s helpful article flagged in my inbox FOR A YEAR. Making that call has been on my to-do list for 12 months!

I hate phoning people that much.

In the UK, the HMRC (Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs – in charge of tax etc in this country) have a phrase that says, “Tax doesn’t need to be taxing.” But it is. I always fill out my tax return at the 11th hour, even though, these days, there are no earnings and no tax to pay. The idea of calling the IRS and trying to get something out of them fills me with quiet horror.

After reading Rinelle’s post I decided to gird my loins, pluck up my courage, and make the call. I motivated myself by how great it would feel when I’d done it. How I could write a comment on Rinelle’s post thanking her for her encouragement. I could write a thank you comment on Catherine, Caffeinated’s post too. I could move forward and take this irritating thing off my perpetual to-do list.

Found one!

I wrote out all the information I would need. I set up Skype on my iPad and found my headphones, ready to make the call (apparently you can be on hold for ages!). I loaded up the world clock, to see what time it was in Philadelphia, where I would be calling.

6am.

Bugger. I have to get the kids from preschool in twenty minutes. So, I won’t be making that phone call today, even though the adrenalin is still pumping and the knots in my stomach are still clenched tight. But I was nearly brave. That counts for something, right?

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As the bus stopped at yet another hostel to pick up passengers, Claire looked at the pack of papers the driver had shoved into her hand when she boarded. They included a check-in form for the hostel that evening, extra activities to add on, travel dates and so on. Claire groaned.

I have no idea. I just want to go back to sleep. It seemed that travelling by tour bus was a different beast to meandering around in her clapped-out Skoda.

I’m not used to people telling me what to do. Except Carl and Julia, of course, and they were easily ignored.

Claire tried to decide how many nights she wanted to stay at the first stop, Paihia. It looked like a pretty town, but she had a feeling now was not the time for long periods of idleness and solitude.

Best keep moving.

Forms completed, Claire rested her head against the juddering glass of the window and tried to find sleep.

She awoke to the hiss of brakes and the lurch of the coach coming to a halt. She looked around, trying to decide if they were finally there. They’d stopped so many times, to pick people up, or to allow for toilet breaks or breakfast, she didn’t want to get her hopes up. From the shuffling and clamour, she decided they had actually arrived.

Stifling a yawn, Claire gathered her things and joined the slow procession off the bus. She looked at the place she would call home for the night. It was a low-level building surrounded by palm trees. Over to her right she could see tree-covered hills, framed against a blue sky dotted with clouds. After the air-conditioned bus the air felt warm and smelt of the sea.

It felt bizarre, checking in with two-dozen other travellers. Her journey in the UK had been mostly solo and, though occasionally she might meet someone else at the reception desk, her check in had been swift and painless. Waiting in line for her turn, Claire listened to the bubbling conversation around her – happy teenagers planning their afternoon – and felt like a rock in a river, standing proud and alone above the noise.

From the chatter she discovered that the hostel had a rocking bar full of locals, a pool and a hot tub. Two girls behind her were giggling, assessing their chances of pulling fit Kiwi blokes during the evening barbeque, which came as part of their accommodation. Claire decided to make sure she had her book with her.

At last she was at the front, and discovered she was sleeping in an eight-bed dorm.

Thank god I decided just to stay the one night.

Claire took her key and wandered through the hostel, past a group of lads playing cards, and a bank of red sofas full of people ignoring the TV. Although the facilities were no different to the hostels she’d staying in at home, everything felt alien. Not unfriendly, exactly. But something made her skin prickle.

As she retrieved the things she would need for the afternoon, before stuffing her rucksack onto her bunk, Claire tried to put her finger on what felt wrong.

They’re all too young. That’s what it is. It feels like Fresher’s Week at uni, surrounded by people just released from the confines of home, looking for their next drink, shag or adventure.

The hostels back home had been mostly full of families, school groups, or couples. She’d met as many retired people travelling, alone or in pairs, as she had under-twenties.

I guess the UK isn’t really where people go for their gap year of fun before becoming proper grown-ups.

Beginning to understand where Mitch’s uncouth nickname for the green bus had come from, and conscious of a growing sense of homesickness, it was with a heavy heart that Claire left the hostel to go in search of lunch.

***

My Left Brain Princess: 2013 365 Challenge #219

The movie I bought for my daughter (!)

I bought Enchanted on DVD for my children today. Well I say for them but, as it has Dr McDreamy (Patrick Dempsey) in it, it might have been a tinsy bit for me too. I have seen it before I think, certainly the end, but the DVD wasn’t expensive and I thought my daughter would love it. I was wrong.

She’s possibly too young for a movie with violence (my son didn’t seem to mind though we did skip bits featuring the evil mother) but I thought the singing and the dress and all the things I love, like the happily ever after, would appeal to her too. Hmmm. Not so much.

I’m beginning to realise why I don’t always connect with my little girl. She has too much of my left brain and not enough of my right brain. Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. She is very creative, loves telling stories and creating masterpieces out of pipe-cleaners. But she is also extremely analytical and cuts through illusions with her razor-sharp questions. Maybe she is actually too much like me in all ways!

I love a happy ending, although I know they don’t often happen. I believe in a good world full of good people, though I know it isn’t always that easy to find. I am creative, with writing and art and photography, but I used to work as a number-cruncher and write analytical essays. When you get those charts saying, Left Brain or Right Brain? I am both.

I used to describe myself as a pessimistic optimist, expecting the best and fearing the worst. (Like the herd of young deer currently in the field to my left, warily keeping pace with us, although the dog thankfully hasn’t yet seen or heard them, lord knows how. They think they’ll be spotted but they’re hedging their bets. They should have stayed put or legged it as they’re actually following us up the field. Anyway I digress).

Twenty-First Century Princess

My daughter it seems is realist all the way. I already suspect her of seeing through my fairly pathetic Father Christmas lies. She’s four. When we talked about going to Disneyland, we first had to explain what it is (because I try not to let her watch TV adverts!). Once she’d grasped it, she said, “Mummy I think they’re probably people in costumes.” Oh dear. No magic dream there then.

I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyland, but only with a wide-eyed child to vicariously experience their awe and wonder. I suspect she’d rather we spent the four thousand pounds on a swimming pool. And she might have something there. Magic is all well and good, and the memories might last a lifetime with the right supporting evidence, but a pool’s a pool. We currently choose childcare and Mummy’s writing over an annual family holiday. I might write happy endings but I chose my husband on the Internet and as much with my head as my heart (you need to read Do You Like Jelly, if I ever get around to publishing my short stories!)

So, while I envied Giselle her magnificent ballgown and her dishy McDreamy, my daughter was asking me to play Guess Who. Like Patrick Dempsey’s character in Enchanted, I don’t want my daughter be so wrapped up in fairy tales that the real world disappoints her (like me with my ten-year search for my Georgette Heyer hero). But I’ve never discouraged her from reading Disney stories or watching the movies (okay, I edit out the bit in her fairytale book where the princess answers her marriage proposals with “Yes please.” I mean, really?) But somehow my practical, stripped bare, world view has rubbed off.

It makes me sad. I never intended or sought to take away the magic of being four. I wanted her to go to Disneyland and be wowed. Unfortunately this isn’t Miracle on 34th Street and Santa isn’t going to make her dreams come true. I’ll have to settle for writing HEAs and let my little princess carry on in her left brain world.

P.S. Daddy tells me she is starting to ask for girly stories at bedtime, so maybe I just need to wait a bit longer!

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The cold air made Claire’s eyes water, as she waited, shivering, outside the hostel. A few paces away a cluster of people stood, giggling and shoving each other. They were a disparate crowd, although they all looked under twenty. Claire heard a range of accents, American, Irish, at least one that sounded Japanese. She wondered where they had met and formed such a close bond, and how they’d found time to come travelling together.

Feeling like she would give her left kidney for a hot coffee, Claire stared at her itinerary and tried to tune out the laughter and banter. It brought back too many unhappy memories. Why are youngsters so noisy? Don’t they know it’s before 7am? She glanced up at them, with their glowing, tanned, skin and happy smiles, and felt ancient.

I’m not even thirty, I’m not old. With a quick mental calculation she realised she was probably a decade older than most of the group.

They were probably all born in the nineties. Ugh.

It made her want to get on the next plane home; to go back to a normal life, with a job and a car and her own circle of friends.

Except I don’t have any friends.

A large green coach pulled up outside the hostel as the dark thought flashed in her mind. Feeling like a four-year-old on her first day at school, Claire shuffled nearer to the bunch of people as they jostled and scuffled good-humouredly to be the first on the bus. They greeted the driver by name, and he gave one or two of them a high five.

Wait a minute. Isn’t this the first stop on the bus? How come they all know each other?

Now it really did feel like the first day of school, except this time it was high school, when her parents had taken her away from her friends and launched her into private education. All her new classmates had come through the junior school together and she hadn’t known a single person. Character building, her parents had said.

With a shudder, Claire presented her ticket to the driver without looking up.

“Claire Carleton. Hmmm.”

The man scanned his list for too long. Claire felt her stomach clench on the empty space where breakfast would have been if she could have managed it.

“Are you sure you’re booked on?” He looked again, then flicked the paper over. “Ah, yes, there you are. Alright, Claire, on you get. Leave the sack with the others.” He cast his eyes towards the mountain of luggage by the side of the coach and then looked behind her, dismissing her from his mind.

Claire hadn’t heard anyone else approaching and was surprised to hear a deep English voice wishing the driver good morning.

At least I’m not the only solo traveller.

She chanced a quick glance as she added her rucksack to the pile. The newcomer was a dark man in his forties she guessed, by the grey sprinkled through his hair. His voice, low and smooth, sounded like a cello cutting through the chattering violins in a Brahms concerto. It resonated deep in her gut. He seemed to feel her eyes on him, and turned to meet her gaze. She flinched at the electric shock that ran from her head to her groin.

For goodness sake, girl, you’re like a dog on heat. You’re here to write travel stories and come up with a plan for the future, not eye up every sexy stranger like a child in a sweet shop.

Hiding her blush with her curtain of hair, Claire scurried past the newcomer and the driver, and went in search of an empty seat. The bus must have been half full on arrival, as nearly every seat was taken. At last she located an empty one at the back, and sank to the seat, placing her handbag on the spare seat, lest anyone get any ideas.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man climb aboard and languidly scan the bus before sauntering up the aisle. He had the grace and power of a panther.

Claire felt her heartbeat quicken as he came further down the bus. Oh crap, he’s going to sit next to me. Please don’t. She turned to look out of the window, following his progress with her ears.

She heard his deep voice say, “Good morning, may I join you?” It sounded slightly further away than it should. Turning her head a fraction, she saw he had stopped two seats away and was talking to a pretty redhead, who giggled and patted the seat next to her.

Slumping back into her seat, Claire closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

***

Proofreading Blindness: 2013 365 Challenge #218

Proofreading Pain

Today I finally bit the bullet and opened my proofread manuscript. I’ve been putting it off, not because I’m scared of the contents, but because it’s been hot and editing gives me a headache. And I know there are around 3400 revisions to review.

By the end of the day, I managed to get through 35 pages out of 230 (and cleared 630 revisions). I can barely see straight! Laptop blindness.

Unfortunately I still have days of work left and only 7 nursery days before I lose them completely. My daughter finishes nursery in 3 weeks.

Once my daughter starts school full time in October (she’s only part time in Sept), the longest time I’ll have child-free at home on any given day will be around 5 hours, give or take school run traffic. And then only for 1 or 2 days a week during term time. I’m about to really and truly appreciate how spoiled I’ve been with my two 8 hour days to spend on writing (and walking the dog, household chores and all that other stuff).

As is always the case, I am already wishing I’d worked harder, appreciated my time more, over the last four years. The truth is some days I’m so tired I manage less than two hours’ work in an 8 hour day. Anyway, it is what it is. I will adjust.

I feel like these are our last carefree days

Maybe hubbie will get another job soon and we’ll be able to afford for little man to do an extra day at nursery. In another year my daughter will be able to stay to after school club and I’ll be able to stretch the day. In two years they’ll both be at school, not that I want to wish that time away.

(Actually, I wish I could relive the first four years of their lives with the knowledge I have now and a bit more sleep!)

Maybe once they’re both at school, I’ll get so much sleep I’ll manage five productive hours and the words will fly from my fingers (as will the pigs across the sky!)

In the meantime I’m trying to juggle keeping up with Claire and getting Baby Blues ready for release. I really want it out by end of August, for obvious reasons (September-December are going to be HECTIC), but it’s looking unlikely. In the meantime I’m having fun looking over my old photo albums of New Zealand and hoping not too much has changed in ten years (apart from Magic Bus Tours being taken over by Kiwi Experience! Oops)

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“You wanna book on the Magic Bus? Not a good idea. Best go with Kiwi.”

Claire wondered if the lad behind the desk ever spoke in full sentences. She picked through his words and frowned as they eventually made sense. “I heard the Kiwi Experience wasn’t as good as the Magic Bus.”

The man shrugged, as if the relative merits of the two tour services mattered little to him. “Same thing. Or will be. They’ve bought them out. It’ll all be green bus from July, so you might as well start now.”

“I won’t be here in July. I’m only here for a few weeks.” Claire felt the panic rise again. She couldn’t remember much of what Mitch had told her, but something made her not want to travel with the Kiwi Experience. Wasn’t he a driver for Magic, though? Maybe he knew his job was at risk and that’s why he didn’t like the green buses?

Resisting the urge to dash back to her room, Claire looked the man in the eye and said, “I think I’d really rather go with the Magic Bus. It was recommended to me.” She didn’t add that the endorsement came from a random stranger in a bar who happened to work for the company.

With another shrug, the man tapped away at his computer. “Have it your way. Are you doing just North Island or South as well?”

“How far will I get in two or three weeks?”

“How far do you want to get?”

“I want to see everything. I don’t know; I only arrived yesterday. Or was it the day before?” Claire wanted to kick out at the desk. Am I being unreasonable? Is it me? Surely she wasn’t the only person to turn up without knowing why she was there?

“Why don’t I give you some brochures, so you can choose your pass?” He gathered up a selection of paper leaflets and passed them to Claire. She noticed that they were all green. Then he looked over her shoulder and made eye contact with the next person in the queue.

Claire turned round and saw five people waiting behind her at the desk. She scuttled past and almost ran back to her room.

Opening the door like a member of the bomb squad, Claire nearly wept with relief to find the room empty. She flung herself on the bed and pounded the pillow. It felt stupid to have a tantrum but she was too tired to cope with the feelings swirling out of control inside her body. Her emotions choked her too tightly to even allow tears to break through. She lay, face down, and waited for the surge to subside.

Eventually, conscious that her roommates might return at any moment, Claire sat up and looked at the leaflets in her hand. As suspected, they were all for the Kiwi Experience.

“Oh, what the hell,” Claire said aloud. “What does it matter which bus takes me around the damn country. I flew all this way for nothing; I may as well see some stuff while I’m here.”

She flicked through the leaflets, smiling at the names of the various tour options. Fush ‘N’ Chups, Buzzy Bee, Super Funky. As far as she could tell, they all went to the same places, although some were considerably more expensive than others. In the end she decided it might be easier to browse the website.

After twenty minutes of brain-numbing analysis, Claire decided to sign up for the Whole Kit & Caboodle pass. After the cost of her flight, what did a few extra hundred dollars matter? She could always tell Carl she’d changed her mind, and accept his lucrative counter-offer once she got back to the UK.

Not wanting to allow any time to talk herself out of the decision, Claire marched back to reception to book her ticket. A different person now manned the visitor desk and Claire smiled gratefully at the young woman. The pass was ordered in moments and Claire felt the chilly sensation of passing the point of no return.

“You leave in the morning for Paihia in the Bay Of Islands. It’s going to be cold – only about 18C – so you might want to take your winter woollies.”

Claire laughed, and realised it was the first time she’d done so in days. “I’m from the UK. We would consider 18 degrees to be barbeque weather.”

The woman grinned and handed her a pack of information. “Hope you’re also good at early starts. Bus leaves at 6.30am.”

“That’s fine, I’m still on UK time. Thanks.” Claire smiled at the woman and headed back to her room to pack and to try and convince her body it was bed time.

Let the adventure begin.

***

Pretty Dog, Waggy Tail: 2013 365 Challenge #217

My beautiful girl

We’ve had a crazy weekend. Apologies if the Claire posts have been short: I should have done some writing prep last nursery day, instead of re-doing my website. Hindsight is a wonderful thing!

Saturday wasn’t meant to be so manic. (Can’t even remember what we did Friday, except we went swimming quite late!) Anyway, for Saturday I wanted something to fill the morning, to stop little man getting too excited about a birthday party at 3pm. So we took our dog, Kara, to our local Farm, for a kids’ dog show. A bit of a laugh, because she’s not trained and is quite scruffy. We didn’t even brush her, though she’d had a bath after rolling in fox poo!

When we arrived at the Farm, there were dogs everywhere. It was like taking Kara to a social. Lovely. We entered her for Prettiest Girl (Prettiest Bitch, but we reworded it for our under-fives!) and Waggiest Tail. Thanks to a marvellous body harness, the kids were able to walk her round, despite her weighing twice what they do. She was amazing! She didn’t jump or pull or try to play too much. Thankfully we’ve taken her to the Farm a couple of times before, so the goats and cows and bunnies didn’t distract her.

I held the lead with my daughter for the Prettiest Girl. And Kara won! I couldn’t believe it. We won a free grooming session with a mobile grooming parlour called Dapper Dogs. (I did wonder if she won because she’s the dog that most looked like she needed a free groom! Hehe). I got the impression that some of the more serious entrants were a bit put out by our victory. But it was a Kids’ Show. There were only a couple of child handlers there, so that many have helped too.

Isn’t she pretty? 🙂

Then we entered Waggiest Tail, and my husband let our son hold the lead by himself. Which of course produced tears from my daughter. So we entered her for Best Young Handler. Kara came second in Waggiest Tail (I’m not sure she had the waggiest, but she was certainly the happiest dog!) I was a bit embarrassed by that point.

Then we went on to Best Young Handler. I stayed in the ring, in case of emergencies, but my four-year-old daughter walked our 28kg Labradoodle round the ring by herself with ease. She had a piece of cheese in her hand and every time Kara got distracted, she waved it in front of her nose. I was the proudest Mummy/Dog Owner in the world! She came second (I thought she should have won!)

Of course then we had to stay for Best in Show (despite needing to leave because of the toddler party). I knew we wouldn’t win, because the judges were two of the people I talk to most when we visit the Farm. They couldn’t give us anything really. Just as well, because I think my daughter was starting to feel invincible and kept saying, “This is just too easy!”

It was a great experience. I felt bad, because our untrained scruffy dog shouldn’t have beaten the other beautifully trained, beautifully groomed pedigrees. That said, it wasn’t our dog that started a scrap in the Prettiest Girl competition, or growled at the other dogs. She was on her best behaviour and even remembering it makes my heart swell with pride. Well worth the exhaustion that had us like zombies yesterday! It just goes to show, you have to be in it to win it! 🙂

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire read the email and felt the blood seep from her face. The glimmer of light that she’d been following for four crazy days fizzled out and left her in darkness. She read the words again, hoping to see a different meaning the second time.

Claire

Many thanks for your email indicating that you would like to accept my proposal of writing a column on the hostels of New Zealand. Unfortunately we have had a rethink and now feel this is not the most appropriate time to run the story. Our readers are considering holidays in hot countries and, as it is winter in New Zealand, it is unlikely to appeal to them.

Please do feel free to submit to us any articles that you produce and we will, of course, consider them alongside our other freelance writers.

I’m sorry I cannot be of more assistance in this case. Enjoy your stay in New Zealand, I understand it to be a beautiful country.

Regards

Roger

“Bastard.”

Claire felt the blood rush back to her face in anger, and then in mortification as she realised several people had turned round at her outburst. She ducked her head and fought the tears welling up her throat.

It’s only been a fortnight since I told him I couldn’t do it. How can he have changed his mind in a fortnight? And now what the hell am I going to do.

She thought about the price of her airfare, about the opportunities she’d given up by leaving the country without talking to Carl or Conor. I could be sitting on a beach in the Maldives, instead of stuck in this stupid hostel spending even more cash on food.

That was the big surprise. Claire had thought it would be cheap, travelling in New Zealand. But it was just as expensive as the UK, except now Carl wasn’t paying her bills.

So far she’d only left the supersized hostel to buy tea and milk. There wasn’t much need to go anywhere else, with the lounge and the bar on site.

I’m getting over my jet lag. That’s all.

When she had ventured outside, she’d felt like a child visiting New York for the first time, gazing up at the skyscrapers and blocking her ears against the noise. She knew Auckland was the largest city in New Zealand, but somehow she hadn’t expected it to feel like a city. The hostel was full of posters of things to see and do, like jump off the Sky Tower, or visit the harbour. Just seeing the posters made her want to hide under her duvet.

I need a hut on a beach and some peace and quiet. The sooner I get out of here the better. But how to do that, with no car? She felt immobilised by her lack of transport. I never thought I’d miss my little Skoda.

Her trip to the visitor information had been even more overwhelming: So many young people who knew what they wanted to do, from hitch-hiking or biking round the country to catching a lift with a stranger going in their direction. There was information on getting a job, on jumping off high places and swimming with large animals. Nothing that says, ‘Hey, new scared person, this option’s for you.’

Claire thought about her words. Am I scared? Really. After everything that’s happened this year. She sat up straighter in her seat, and looked again at the people around her. Seems like I have two choices. Make some friends or make a plan.

A thought tugged at Claire’s memory. Something she felt she had been told, or read about. Something important. Closing her eyes, Claire inhaled deeply and tried not to concentrate on the memory. At last it bubbled to the surface. A bar. A Kiwi. A driver. Of course! The Magic Bus.

Claire shut her iPad case and got to her feet. Friends, that was tough. She didn’t have a good record with friends. But now, at least, she had a plan.

***

Why Facebook is Mostly for Me: 2013 365 Challenge #216

My WriterMummy Page

Kristen Lamb recently posted an article about how Writers Building a Platform Have NO Private Life On-Line.

It was a difficult post for me to read, because I am naturally a very private person (I would guess most writers are) and it’s tough to learn how much we have to push ourselves out of our comfort zone. It was also tough for me, because she wrote specifically about Facebook and how writers shouldn’t have a Facebook fan page separate to their regular profile page.

Kristen says writers make the mistake of thinking that their regular page is for acting human and a fan page is “for the professional face and self-promotion.” She explains that, in reality:

The regular page is essential for connecting with people and creating the emotional bonds that will eventually translate into a vibrant, passionate author platform filled with readers. We connect talking about kids, laundry, missing socks, vacations, hard days at work and griping about the weather. All these everyday events are how we forge friendships.

She also says that you shouldn’t assume your friends aren’t interested in your writing. Friends read books and know people who read books, and so social media should be across all channels if you hope to sell books.

Practising skateboard at friends’ BBQ

Normally I fully embrace everything on Kristen Lamb’s blog, even if I don’t think I can implement it myself. And I have no doubt she’s right about this too. However it’s not right for me. Facebook is my sacred place. I am particular about who I accept as a friend on my profile page. Basically it has to be someone I’d happily show half-naked pictures of my kids in the paddling pool to.

Tonight I realised why Kristen and I are both right.

Family Martin went to a friend’s annual birthday barbecue, after a manic day which included Kara’s first Dog Show (more on that tomorrow) and a children’s party. It’s been a couple of years since we’ve made it to the summer barbecue and in many instances it’s the first time we’ve seen our friends in that time. But we didn’t need to catch up, because we follow each other’s lives on Facebook.

Our friends didn’t say “Look how much the kids have grown!” because they saw pictures of the kids in the paddling pool last week. They didn’t ask, “Why are you late?” but rather, “How was the kids’ party?” because we’d posted on Facebook that we were double booked and would be late.

Many evenings I trawl Facebook looking for something interesting, thinking I’m wasting precious writing time. In fact I’m really kind of down the pub with my mates, catching up on gossip and laughing at friends’ jokes. I share silly things the children have done and in turn commiserate with friends who are struggling with teething babies or boring jobs.

If I was constantly talking about writing, or if I knew I had an external audience, I would be more on my guard. I would protect the children more (I already feel I post too much about the kids on my blog). Similarly, if I had more friends that were people I didn’t know, my timeline would be even more cluttered than it already is and I’d miss more of the important stuff.

Not wanting to be outdone by her brother!

I know you can control that with lists – same as you can on Twitter. But I struggle with HooteSuite trying to see Tweets I want to see under all the promotional stuff. If that happened on Facebook too, I would lose my sanity. I would also lose my downtime at the pub. Actually, Facebook is more like a big private party than a pub. One where I know everyone by name and I know they all ‘get’ me. It’s a safe place.

But Kristen is right too (of course!) I do need to write a bit more about my books on my private site. I post some stuff but Facebook is selective about what it shows people.

Last night, a good friend who I last saw at my art exhibition two years ago asked, “How’s the art?” I had to explain that I’ve written and published two novels and seven volumes of a serial novel since then. Her response was, “How is it I haven’t heard about your writing?”

Hmmm social media fail!

The best moment of the night for me was finally meeting an old friend of my husband’s for the first time. For various reasons I haven’t met him in person in the 9 years I’ve known my hubbie. But he smiled as we walked in and gave me a huge hug as if I’d known him all my life. Why? Apart from being the most amazing person, he’s been my friend on Facebook for a year or two. He comments on my posts and photos of the kids and we share views on other things he posts. I felt like we’d always been friends and not at all like I was meeting him for the first time.

So, I apologise if my Facebook WriterMummy page is only updated once a day and mostly with stuff about writing, rather than silly pictures of the kids. I apologise if I’m alienating people by keeping my Facebook profile page closed. Maybe I’m not ready to be an author in the twenty-first century. That said, I am myself on my WriterMummy page, on Twitter and definitely here on the blog. Just maybe the me I’d be at a coffee shop, knowing strangers are listening, rather than the me I am after a glass of cider at a friend’s birthday bash.

And if that loses me sales, I’ll have to live with that. Some things are more important than money.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire shifted on the bed, wondering why her pillow felt lumpy. She swallowed and panicked as her airway felt closed with grit. Sitting up, she grabbed at the wall as her vision whirled and hot shards stabbed at her head.

Peering round the semi-dark room, memories flickered through her mind, as if she had looked upon the space several times, but each time it was slightly altered, like a spot the difference. In her mind the memories were sometimes of a dark room, sometimes of a sunlit space. Different bags by the beds. Voices, conversations, laughter, all blurred together like a dream-sequence in a movie.

The room was empty now, although rumpled duvets and scattered belongings suggested it was still fully occupied. Reaching behind her, Claire realised her lumpy pillow was actually her handbag. A quick check revealed nothing was missing. Her rucksack still slumped against the bed where she had dropped it, who knew how many hours before.

How long have I been asleep?

As the dark receded and the memories clarified, like a photograph coming into focus, Claire guessed she had been asleep on and off for a day or more. Looking down, she saw she was still wearing the clothes she’d put on Saturday morning, when she left her sister’s house. She tried to work out what day it was, but her mental calculations made the hot needles bury further in her brain.

Fumbling through her bag for her phone, Claire switched it on and searched for something to tell her what time and day it was, both in New Zealand and back home.

Well, it’s 5am back home. No wonder I’m tired. Checking the calendar, Claire stared at the neon words until they went fuzzy. Tuesday?! It’s Tuesday? What the hell? She sniffed, No wonder I stink. I’ve been wearing these clothes for three days.

Her phone beeped, as it picked up a local signal, and a text message trilled its arrival. Then another, and another. Claire’s hands shook as she realised the enormity of her actions.

I’m in New Zealand. I’m on the other side of the world! No one knows I’m here. I’ve been out of touch for days. Anything could have happened.

Her stomach squirmed with hunger and nerves as she flicked through the messages. Two were service messages, welcoming her to New Zealand. One was from Ruth, relaying her mother’s anger at the abandoned Skoda. One informed her of a voice message and one was from Kim. Heart pounding, Claire opened it.

Hi Claire, it’s Jeff. I’ve borrowed Kim’s phone. Just wanted to say, it’s not your fault. Kim needs you. Don’t give up on her, please.

Claire tried to swallow, and realised how parched she was. She stared at the message for several moments, then closed it. Time enough to work out how to respond later. If Jeff was using Kim’s phone she couldn’t reply directly to him anyway.

Hoping her work account was still active, Claire rang her voicemail to retrieve the message. I’d better add a new phone and contract to my to-do list, before Carl thinks to shut me down.

The message was from Conor, asking her if she’d had time to reconsider the job offer. Claire flushed guiltily as she remembered her promise to let him know on Monday. Vowing to send him an email, and remembering that she also needed to email Roger, she made a quick note before chucking her phone back in her bag.

Pulling out her wash-bag and some clean clothes, Claire stuffed her handbag back under the pillow and went in search of the bathroom.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

***

Why I love Walking the Dog: 2013 365 Challenge #215

Gorgeous summer evening

As I wrote this post on my phone I thought I’d list the reasons why I love walking the dog.

1. Me time. Time to write my blog (like now). Time to get to the end of a thought uninterrupted. Life slows down.

When the kids have been chattering all day or we’ve been for a sensory-overload swim (like tonight, with the excitement of my 4yo daughter learning to dive, do underwater rolls and swim on her back all in one session), the fields are a balm to my nerves. All I can hear is the cry of the kites and the whisper of the wind through the ripe oilseed rape. It sounds like the sea.

2. Seasons. It’s too easy to ignore the changing of the seasons, but walking the same field every day I see the trees both bare and decked in green, the fields yellow with wheat or brown with ploughed soil. It reminds me of Gerard Manley Hopkins, particularly my favourite poem The Windhover. The penultimate line is: “Sheer plod makes plough down sillion | shine”.

The stream, willowbrook

3. Senses. Walking through the fields awakens the senses: Not just sight, but the touch of wind on my skin, or even the stench of the sewage works we walk past. In the autumn there are blackberries to taste, and always the sounds of the insects, the kites, the river, even the planes, cars, children laughing, the goat head-butting its shed, sheep bleating and an endless chorus of bird calls.

4. Weather. Hot winds, icy winds, snow, rain, hail, thunder, muggy heat, cool evening breeze, hot sunny days buzzing with flies. Twenty minutes of weather to keep me grounded and help me with my writing (many Claire posts feature the day’s weather.)

5. Community. Like going to the park with my kids, I meet fellow dog walkers some evenings. Our dogs play and we chat about the weather (we’re British, what else). As with the parents in the par,k I only know the names of the little ones, but we’re still friends. I wave if I see them in town. For someone who doesn’t have many friends and finds it hard to socialise, my dog gives me a sense of belonging.

6. Nature. I’ve seen rabbits, hares, foxes, deer, muntjacs, water voles, fish, kites, swallows, swooping starlings, ducks, herons, swans. The best of British wildlife can be seen round this one field.

Kara in the river

7. Vicarious pleasure. Right now Kara is running through the grass, tongue lolling, tail wagging. She’ll jump in the river for sticks or chase (but never catch) wild bunnies. And the whole time she’s grinning.

She runs to feel the wind in her ears and the ground beneath her paws. At home she’s often nervous, anxious, worried. She gets told off for being a dog, for barking at the postman or jumping on the kids. Out here she can be herself (within reason – I do try to prevent her rolling in fox poo, although I failed this evening!). She trots along like a winning entrant at Crufts and it’s her time to shine.

8. Sunsets. I know that’s also weather, but it deserves a separate category. The sun is currently shining on our house like the fingers of God, and the sky is every colour of blue, indigo, violet. I’ve tried many times to paint it, but Nature is a better artist than me.

Our house is in the middle

9. Exercise. Even though I run after the kids all day, I don’t get enough exercise. Actually, walking at the slow pace I need to to write this blog probably isn’t making much difference, but it gets the legs moving. Since damaging my knee rowing last year it’s all I’m up to.

10. Home. I can see my house for the whole walk. Even on the 45 minute one I can see it most of the time. These are my fields (well, they’re not, thankfully. It’s a hard life being a farmer). I grew up three miles away. I love my house, my village, my family, my landscape. It’s quiet and placid and it suits me perfectly.

I miss the mountains and oceans of former homes, former lives, but this one fits me like a comfortable pair of shoes. And when the late evening sun hits the trees and fields just so, like now, it’s the most beautiful place on Earth.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Excuse me, Ma’am, have you used these in the last six months?”

Claire peered at the man behind the desk and tried to make sense of the question.

“Um. Yes? They’re hiking boots. There wouldn’t be much point having them if I didn’t use them. They’re bloody heavy for a start.” The words spilled from her mouth unchecked, and she flushed. Great, now the guy’s going to get arsey. Just let me through, for pity’s sake. She waited for the man to frown, or tell her off. Instead he grinned.

“Sorry, I know: it’s crazy as. I have to ask. They’ll need disinfecting before you can have them back.”

“You’re confiscating my boots because they’re muddy?” Claire frowned. “They’re boots; they’re meant to be dirty.”

The man laughed, not unkindly. “It’s to stop the nasties getting in. They sprayed the plane too, right?”

Claire stared at the man and slowly shook her head. “I must have been asleep.”

“Ah, that’d explain it. Well, no worries, we’ll have these back in a jiffy. You just sit tight and someone will shout when they’re done.”

He gestured to a row of plastic seats and Claire had to bite down a stream of swearwords threatening to spill forth. I’ve been sitting for two days. I want a shower, a cup of tea in a proper mug, and a bed. To myself. She stomped to the seat and perched on the edge, trying not to dwell on the humiliation of waking up nestled against Darren’s shoulder, or the image of the small patch of drool she’d left on his top.

An hour later the same charming Kiwi called her name and handed her a bag containing her germ-free boots, with a smiling, “Cheers!”

Claire couldn’t help smiling back. “At least they’re clean. Thanks.”

“No worries.” The man gave a nod, and turned back to his work.

The smile was still in place as Claire headed out to find the bus meant to take her into Auckland and the central backpackers. She had no sense of what time it was, but the air felt warm and a hazy sun was visible above the airport buildings. Somewhere in her muffled thoughts was the idea that she should stay awake until nearer bedtime, to beat the jet lag.

Bugger that.

Claire felt like she’d seen most of Auckland by the time the minibus dropped her outside the central hostel. She’d decided to stay for a couple of nights, largely because there was a bar on site, meaning she could eat and sleep for a day or two without effort. There had been too much time to think, on the flight, with only abridged movies and cardboard food to distract her. She was desperate for the blank bliss of proper horizontal sleep.

I guess I should get in touch with Roger, tell him I seem to have taken him up on his offer. It didn’t seem that important, now she was here. Maybe I can just have a holiday.

Reaching her room, Claire forced her limbs to walk the extra steps to a free bed by the window, grateful there were no bunks to climb. Through the glass she could hear the sound of a jack hammer in the street below, throbbing in time with the headache that had plagued her since Singapore. She hoped the noise wouldn’t keep her awake.

Stopping only to drop the rucksack off her shoulders and chuck her purse on the bed, Claire fell forwards and lost herself to oblivion.

***

Mogs, Dogs & Neds, Guineas, Goats & Chucks; All Purrfect Pets! (therealmrsball.wordpress.com)
Is It Cruel Not to Walk Your Dog? (humanrescuesdog.com)
EASY DAY, JUST WALKED THE DOG! (106/365) Wheat Belly Diet (4/30) Total KM (85/150) (curtislee1987.wordpress.com)

Time and Taglines: 2013 365 Challenge #214

My new website (again!)

I recently wrote out the list of outstanding projects I want to finish RIGHT NOW and there were fifteen items, ranging from ‘send bookmark artwork to the printers’ to ‘finish Class Act and Finding Lucy‘.

Hmmm. It might be time for some realism and perspective.

The problem is I love my job. Not a problem, you might think, except I only work two days a week. You know how, when you don’t like your job, the weekend flies by and the week draaaaags? Well it’s like that for me, in reverse. Not that I hate spending time with my family. But I do love working on my writing projects, and two (separate) days a week just isn’t enough.

I mourn the days I was self-employed BK (before kids). All that time I spent and wasted, taking things easy, going on photo shoots, painting abstracts. Why didn’t I know, then, that I wanted to be a writer? How much more might I have accomplished? Except probably I wouldn’t have done.

There’s nothing like not having something to make you yearn for it, and that’s true for time too. The fewer hours available, the more we cram into the time we have. Mostly. Some days, actually, there’s so much to do I am overwhelmed by it, and I waste the day on a project that doesn’t need doing. Or I faff.

My refreshed website - still needs work but I was up til 1am getting it this far!

My website before the redesign

Today threatened to be one of those days. It was 33C and humid. I had my novel back from the proofreaders, but it was too hot to think (and there was cricket on the radio).

So I decided to try and be productive, and tackle something else off my to-do list. I opted to start on the marketing for Baby Blues, but I gave up writing press releases after twenty painful minutes, and decided to rebuild my website instead.

Perfect.

Or, it would have been, if technology had been on my side. Apparently my computer doesn’t like 33C heat either and was running sooooooo slooooow.

I don’t know how I didn’t chuck it out the window (except I didn’t have the energy.) Also I couldn’t find a template I liked through my service provider (MrSite) and, as I don’t write HTML, had to make do with what I had. I couldn’t fit a decent sized name and the images I wanted in the header, so it isn’t the best website redesign in the world. But it’s done!

I also tried to come up with a tagline for my writing. Another thing probably best left to a different day. I’ve been putting it off, because I write in a saturated market and many of the best taglines are taken or sound too clichéd (like ‘Let Love Take You Home’ or ‘For Love, Life and Friendships’ which were two of my ideas).

In the end I came up with ‘Seize Life, Trust Love, Cherish Dreams.’ I’m not sure I like it. It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue and isn’t that memorable, although it has all the elements I believe are in my novels: they’re not just about love and Happily Ever After, they’re also about finding your place in the world, choosing the right path, fulfilling dreams. I’m not sure if that applies to Dragon Wraiths, but it doesn’t exclude it at any rate. Like the header, it will do for now.

A productive day? I’m not sure. But a day survived, which sometimes is enough.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire stepped out into the roof-top garden and gasped as the air hit her like a wet flannel. After thirteen hours on an air-conditioned plane, followed by a long trek through the freezing, sterile airport, she had yearned for some fresh air to sooth her dehydrated skin and clear her lungs of stale air. Walking outside was as refreshing as putting her head in an oven.

At least it will put the moisture back in my skin: you could ring the air like a dishcloth.

Even though she’d visited hot and humid countries before, there was something about being in transit from a country in the early grips of summer to a country in deep winter that had left her unprepared for a tropical stopover.

Claire picked a spot beneath the sunflowers, dancing in the warm evening breeze, and pulled out her iPad to take notes. Writing posts for her blog might keep her mind off the craziness of her current actions. Is it still my blog? Who owns it, exactly? I suppose Carl will take all the credit, and all my followers too. Not yet, though, not until I decide whether to turn down his counter offer.

Trying to fathom out her work situation was one of the many things she didn’t want to think about, so Claire took some photos for the blog and began writing.

The sun was beginning to fall below the horizon and Claire prayed for a release from the humidity. A roll of thunder resonated around her and the wind began to blast like a hairdryer, stirring the sunflower leaves and setting the heads bobbing. Rain drops began to fall, hot and heavy, landing on the exposed parts of the ground with a splash. Despite the thunderstorm, the air still had the density of soup. Giving up on her post, Claire lay back on the concrete bench and closed her eyes.

Claire sat up with a start and reached for her bag. Relief flooded through her as she realised it was still under her hand, and still contained her tablet and phone. After a long, shuddering breath, a second quiver of alarm ran through her, setting her nerves jangling.

Did I fall asleep? How long for? Oh crap, don’t let me have missed my connection.

With shaking hands she pulled out her phone to check the time. Her heart thumped as she saw it was 2pm. I can’t have slept that long! She swung her feet round and stood up, grasping the railing nearby for support as a wave of dizziness swept through her. She inhaled deeply, the muggy air sluggish and heavy in her chest.

Wait a minute. It’s still dark. It can’t be afternoon.

With a groan at her own stupidity, Claire realised her phone was still set to UK time. What’s the time difference? Six or seven hours? It’s only around 9pm and my flight doesn’t leave until midnight.

She wondered how Darren was getting on. He’d opted to spend the stopover time going for a tour of Singapore. He’d tried to persuade her to join him but she couldn’t stomach sharing a tiny space with him for a second more than necessary. Just thinking about another twelve hours wedged between him and Mr Grumpy made her shiver, despite the heat.

Next time I fly long-haul, I’m booking early and getting a window seat.

***

Window | Daily Prompt: Tagline (kyladanica.wordpress.com)
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Why My Blog Needed a New Title (aprilyamasaki.com)
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Rainy Day Play: 2013 365 Challenge #213

Painting with feet. I said “feet” only!

Today I had the chance to remember what it is like to have two preschoolers requiring entertainment because of the weather.

They went to preschool this morning for a few hours (shorter than usual because it’s the school holidays) so I started formatting Dragon Wraiths for print. I’ve already done most of the front cover, but I think I need to put the brakes on because – if I’m going to ask people to spend all that extra to get a printed version (even though my profit will be much less) – the book needs to be in tip-top condition. Which means finding the money to have my proofreader go over it.

I got Baby Blues back from her today and I’m too scared to open the document. From the sample I’ve seen already, I have quite a lot of work to do! I know it took longer than she expected, so I anticipate her fee may increase significantly for the next one! 🙂

Bob the builder jacket as apron

So, after potentially wasting several hours wrestling with Word Styles (a hangover from when Dragon Wraiths was written in multiple fonts) I had two hyped-up children and no energy.

We were meant to go and see the new calves at Sacrewell Farm, but I was still wearing a skirt, despite a change in the weather, and couldn’t quite face it. So I bribed them home with promises of baking and indoor painting with feet.

Big mistake, big, huge. With a thunderstorm lingering and humidity at 80% all I wanted to do was sit still and keep calm, not run around after two whirling dervishes hell-bent on destruction!

I learned the importance of the little things, too. Like having a stock of aprons. Trying to find two aprons so we could do baking took half an hour and all my patience, including a tantrum from little man (one of MANY today) when I said “well, you just won’t do baking then” because he was refusing to wear an old t-shirt of my daughter’s instead. In the end he wore his Bob the Builder hi-vis jacket back-to-front.

Indoor painting with feet. I said feet!

Indoor painting nearly ended in disaster, too. Despite repeated instructions to “Only use your feet”, little man painted his entire body. Again. Only this time we were downstairs in my kitchen, far too far from the bath for comfort.

So, as I have done many times this summer, I filled the paddling pool with bubbles and carried them both bodily outside, uttering the immortal words, “At least it’s not raining.” Big mistake, big, huge. The heavens opened. I put the kid’s picnic table over the paddling pool while I got drenched scrubbing the rest of the paint off them (I’d post pictures but feel funny putting nude pictures on the blog, even with bubbles protecting their modesty.)

Today I have read stories, built mega-block bus stations and towns, assisted in the creation of an alien, baked cookies, facilitated large-scale craft, alfresco bathing and puddle jumping, cooked healthy meals and played painful games of snakes & ladders and hide & seek. My reward? Endless tantrums.

Look what the postman brought!

Why is it the more attention you give the children, the more they push you and push you, until you want to go back to ignoring them while you design a CreateSpace front cover?

Little man was on a mission today to force me to be that kind of parent who follows through on their threats (See discussion on post #211 with Scottishmomus). He refused his lunch and his tea, despite his sister getting sweets and home-baked cookies for her dessert. (To give him credit, after the initial ten minutes of screaming, he took it well.)

At every opportunity he pushed it until he had a time out or a reprimand or a simple, “then we’ll put the game away,” which always ended in a bout of screaming and tears.

Normally this behaviour results in beautiful behaviour from the other sibling. Mostly it did. My daughter delights in being the good child. But by bed time they were both at it, until I felt like Mother Gothel in Tangled: “You want me to be the bad guy? Now I’m the bad guy.”

Sigh. The amazing thing is, it still felt like a great day. Because I know I gave the kids my attention, and I do that far less than I should (can’t imagine why!). Whatever they took from the day, I’ll take a gold star and go to bed happy. Besides, they’re at nursery tomorrow! 😉

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Claire’s ears rang with a hum she heard through her skin rather than her senses. A background buzz, like white noise, that filled the cavernous space and turned the cacophony of voices into a dull roar. Airports always gave her a headache.

The plastic seat refused to provide any semblance of comfort, no matter how much she shifted. Eventually she stood and rested her shoulders against the wall. Time had lost meaning hours before, marked only by the intake of coffee and the necessary trips to the ladies’ room.

Against her will, Claire’s mind dredged over the events of the last twenty-four hours: a horror movie remembered in flashes despite the need to forget. Kim’s face held the strongest sway, filling Claire’s mind until she thought it must be imprinted on the inside of her eyelids.

She could still recall her own reaction: the blood draining from her brain, causing her to crumple. Jeff running to offer assistance and her shrill command that he go after his wife. Lying on the dew-damp grass, adding salty tears to the soil. If it hadn’t been for Sky, she’d probably still be lying there now. But Sky had woken when Jeff left her, and had called out in alarm, lost in the dark.

Funny how the cry of a child can bring you back from the deepest pit.

Claire remembered pushing against the ground with heavy limbs, stumbling to her niece and finding a voice in the desert in her throat. Somehow she had managed to get her niece home and to bed, before collapsing in exhaustion on her sister’s sofa. In the morning she’d smiled her goodbyes, driven the Skoda to her parents’ house and left it in the street without waking them. A taxi to the station, a train to the airport, and she had been here ever since. Waiting.

“Miss Carleton?”

Claire’s eyes snapped open and she peered through the fog to locate the source of the voice.

“Yes?”

“We think we have something. Please come over to the desk.”

Claire shouldered her rucksack and followed numbly, barely registering the young woman’s smart uniform. She was only conscious of the click-click of the woman’s heels, and followed the sound like a blind person.

“We think there might be a space on the next flight. It’s economy class, will that be sufficient?”

Claire nodded. She would have sat in the hold if that meant getting away from the white noise and the clattering thoughts in her brain.

“The flight changes at Singapore. You’ll have a six-hour stop-over, I’m afraid.”

Claire shrugged. Six hours was nothing. She’d spent twice that waiting already.

“Can I have your passport, please?”

A dart of alarm pierced the fog and, for a moment, Claire’s brain went clear. Then she remembered collecting the passport from her mother’s a fortnight before, the day after Kim’s wedding. Has it only been two weeks? Shaking away her disbelief, Claire retrieved the burgundy booklet from her handbag and slid it over the counter.

The woman told her the cost of the flight and asked for payment. Praying there was enough room on her credit card, Claire handed it over.

And then it was done.

“Your flight leaves in thirty minutes. I’ll need to take your bag now, so we can get it on board. Please proceed directly to the gate.”

After so much time waiting, the suddenness left Claire reeling. Her glacier-slow thoughts sped up, like a movie on fast forward, and she ran through the things she would need for the 30-hour journey. Grabbing her wash-bag, iPad, phone and clean underwear from the rucksack, she handed the rest to the helpful woman, and prayed she would see it again.

The button remained on fast forward as Claire scurried to her gate, clutching her boarding ticket and passport. The departure lounge was empty as she arrived, and the uniformed women at the desk ushered her through. Along a long tunnel and up and down stairs until she was aboard the plane that would be her home for the next twelve hours.

The hostess showed her to her seat. Claire’s heart sank as she saw her travelling companions; two hulking men either side of her middle seat, both with arms already spread over the arm rests. Beggars can’t be choosers. Hopefully I’ll sleep.

With apologies, Claire slid into her seat and fastened the belt. Only then did she allow herself to breathe. Her limbs began to shake, and she wondered if she might be sick. The plane felt hot and there didn’t seem to be any air. Claire fiddled with the air vent but nothing came out.

“They won’t turn it on until the plane is off the ground.”

Claire turned to face the man to her left. He smiled, white teeth shining from a dark face, and held out a hand.

“Name’s Darren. This your first time on a plane?”

Claire took the hand reluctantly, and shook her head. Not wanting to be rude, but equally not wanting to have a chatty companion for duration of the flight, Claire pulled out her iPad and opened a book. She felt the man hesitate, then went limp with relief as he turned back to his paper.

The tannoy reminded passengers to switch off their phones. Claire retrieved hers from her bag and noticed a text message. Her hands trembled as she opened it, hoping and dreading who it might be from. It was from her sister.

Mum’s noticed your car outside this morning, and wondered how long you’re leaving it there. Ruth.

Ignoring the glares and tutting sounds from the man to her right, Claire tapped out a quick reply.

Have gone away on a last minute business trip, will tell you more later. Tell Mum the car will be there for a couple of weeks, but I’ve posted the keys through her letter box so she’s free to move it. Talk soon. Claire.

She hit send, then turned off the phone and her iPad, as requested. Pulling the eye-mask out of the bag of freebies in the pocket in front of her, she blocked out the world and pretended to sleep.

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