Introvert Parenting: 2013 365 Challenge #238

Definite Extrovert

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

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

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

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

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

Possibly both, like her Daddy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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“Wait up, Claire.”

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

“Bethan. Hello.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Claire nodded, “Yes, please.”

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

“How long were you in America?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Saturday. It’s the 1st of June.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, why not.”

***

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

Rainy Day Play Again: 2013 365 Challenge #237

Getting soaked in her best dress

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

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

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

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

Loving the wet slide

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

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

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

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

I’m a bit wet, Mummy

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

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

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

My daredevil boy!

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

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

I hope you like the pictures instead!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

My gorgeous son

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

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

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

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

Yo Ho Ho Pirate Daughter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good morning.”

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

“Feeling sore?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

My Day Off: 2013 365 Challenge #235

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

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

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

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

Rough title page

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

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

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

Aaron and the Cow Pirates

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

My son! 🙂

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

“Oi! That’s my spade!”

Aaron turned to see who was shouting and jumped.

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

“Argh!”

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

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

“The Cow Pirates. They stole my bucket.”

The Cow Pirates and the Bucket

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

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

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

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

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

Jack the Dinosaur

“I will get back your bucket.”

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

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

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

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

Aaron jumping in fright and the cows at pebble beach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A definite risk to personal safety exists.

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

If they can do it, so can I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Celebrate Talk Like a Pirate Day (wholesalecostumeclub.com)

Not an Aspiring Writer: 2013 365 Challenge #234

Staycation chez Martin

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

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

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

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

My creative daughter

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

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

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

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

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

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

I miss my car.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Blast from my Past: 2013 365 Challenge #233

My hiking buddy for the Tongariro Crossing

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

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

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

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

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

The Inland Pack Track

27th March 2002

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tongariro Crossing looking back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

The Tongariro Alpine Crossing (theprofessionalhobo.com)

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.

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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!

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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

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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!

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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.

***