The musings of a would-be memoirist

 Sometimes it’s just too hard to write

                and my meandering sentences

                                don’t find a place

                                                to settle.

Ideas flit like butterflies

                my attention

                                                wanders

aimlessly

                                from place

                to place                                quite far away

                                                and separate.

How can I join the dots

                                and focus?

 

My self-sabotage is legendary

                at least in my own head

                                where I am the star of my own show.

 

And yet all too often writing is just too hard…

 

How do I convey to you

                the complexities

                                of my thought process?

 

I was told once

                I was ordinary

                                Everyone feels the same way,

 

I was affronted by that!

 

Didn’t he know I was special?

                Unique,

                                a true revolutionary,

                                                trailblazing pioneer!

To be ordinary,

                like everybody else?

                                Oh, the horror!

 

I want to stand out … and yet

                so often I want to hide and not be noticed

                                comparison could be unfavourable

                                                and what if no one understands?

                                               

Is that why it is so hard to write?

 

Can I find the time?

                Do I carve out minutes

                                for my-self indulgent

                                                twaddle?

Will anybody care?

 

Sometimes it’s just too hard to write,

                until I pick up my pen

                                and spoil this pristine page with scribble.

 

I’m going to need another notebook

                for the good stuff

                                while this will be hidden

 

Unless - I publish anyway

                and become the viral sensation,

                                that I obviously deserve to be.

 

But then it doesn’t happen

                and I wallow

                                I throw the pens

                                                I tear the paper

                                I stamp my feet, collapse in a heap.

 

It’s difficult to write when you are crying

                although I’ve mastered the art of while I drive

 

Tears flow freely like the ideas,

                the words that tumble

                                while I have no pen to hand

                                                are amazingly fluent and creative

                                award winning literature

 

But here and now as I doodle

                a flower

                                a box

                                                a dreamy white cloud

 

It’s just too hard to write

                so I give up

                                   and make a cup of tea instead.

Stories I may never write...

It all started as a challenge to the Suffolk Writers Facebook Group to write a list from A to Z of possible book titles, 3 words of less.

As I love a good bit of writerly procrastination, here's my own full list, I haven't stuck to the 3 word rule but I have made it all rhyme and created a nonsense poem - please borrow any that take your fancy but please share if you do!

(however Kitty McClaw is already taken - something I wrote years ago, click here to read)

Acapella Tales

Beluga and the Whale 

Candle-shine at Night

Delia Makes it Right

Elephants love Shade

Forbidden Lemonade

Grandma's Hidden Gems

Henry's Mislaid Pens

Imagination Overload

Jumping Jackson Toad

Kitty McClaw's Grand  Day Out

Luna Roundabout

Madness of the First Degree

Naturally Bee

Open After Hours

Possibility of Showers

Queenie for a Day

Royalty Comes to Stay

Sunny Disposition

Tremendous Superstition

Under My Umbrella

Vicky Meets a Fella

Which Vest is Best

X-Ray of the Chest

Yellow Flowers on my Grave

Zig the Slug is Very Brave

The A - D of Planning

 A is for A Team - Hannibal Smith loved it when a plan came together.

B is for Baldrick, with the aid of Black Adder he hatched many a cunning plan.

Plan C – was the name of a cat in the Australian soap opera Sons and Daughters.

 

Like Hannibal I love a good plan that runs to clockwork, unfortunately successful plans are a scarce commodity in the modern age.

I used to be good at making plans, or at least I believed I was, I derived pure joy from putting my schemes into practice, a few even worked out to some degree! Maybe it was all just day dreaming but it was so much fun.

After Andrew died a friend suggested I abandon my meticulous ideas of what the future would look like and go with the flow instead.

It didn’t come naturally but after many years of dented expectations it became easier to let go.

After having cancer, I threw everything in the air. Brexit, Covid and everything that has followed since has blown away any hope I had of having the life I once wished for.

Welcome to the world of no plans.

It’s quite frankly depressing, I need something to look forward to and even the tentative schemes are held so lightly now, I almost plan for them to come crashing down. I give a hollow laugh “I told you so!”

November wobbles have arrived too early this year, the news for the future is bleak, no one has a plan anymore.

It feels as if we are going “through a rice pudding in a mini-sub”, one of Andrew’s expressions that seems rather apt just now, especially as I hate rice pudding, the milky smell of it, the lumpy texture -yuk!

But I don’t want to leave my thoughts here, I need a way out, to find some hope to keep me going through what will inevitably be a long, cold winter.

I’ve planted tulips and onions this week, is that enough to hope for? Can I hold on ‘til Spring?

For more immediate sparkle Strictly is on TV tonight. Perhaps I need to get swept up in a Strictly daydream, the one where I am a “celebrity” and get asked to appear.

Not really a plan but a great distraction, which reminds me I started writing this poem the other day, scuttles over to Facebook to find it for you....

Perhaps plan D should be DANCE? 

Just forget the news, the dashed dreams, all the worries and cares, instead move my feet, shake my hips, wriggle into that comfortable spot in the sofa and watch the magic happen!

 

 

            My hair and make-up completed,

       I open the dressing room door,

       Here is my partner, so handsome!

       We’re ready to take to the floor.

 

       My Argentine Tango would dazzle,

       My waltz would be sure to delight,

       My Charleston would be cheeky,

       My foxtrot the best of the night.

 

       I'd throw myself in at the deep end.

       Be a generous, friendly celeb.

       But my fame is only imagined

       So, I'll just have to watch it instead! 

Too Many Broken Hearts

 In 1989 when Stock, Aiken and Waterman ruled the radio airwaves, Jason Donovan sang about broken hearts to an up-beat, bouncy disco tune. In the video he sat strumming his guitar, with no anguish in his demeanor just a dazzling smile somewhat at odds with the title of the song.

It contains the line…

I’ll be hurt, I’ll be hurt if you walk away!

Thinking about the lyrics and the tune now it’s all so feeble. It could be describing kids squabbling in a playground kind of “hurt” - you pushed me - you started it. A small graze on the knee kind of hurt which will scab over only leaving the faintest of scars if you pick at it too much.

At the time I loved the song, after all Jason, Kylie and I were in born in the same year, so we must be kindred spirits – ’68 was such a good vintage.

Over thirty years later (which doesn’t seem possible) I know the real pain of a broken heart, it’s beyond a little bit of hurt, but Mr Donovan is right about one thing, there are far too many of them in the world.

I guess it’s inevitable as you get older that more people join that special club, the one I’ve been a part of for years, exclusively for widows, widowers and those who have lost the love of their lives. As time rolls on, I find more and more friends and acquaintances cross over to my camp.  Once I was the pioneer, the only one here negotiating this strange new territory.

Maybe that’s too fanciful an image but when I started my first blog, just after Andrew died, friends read my words and were helped as I poured out the contents of my broken heart into the ether.

I’ve always wanted to turn my words into a book, hoping the wisdom I have gathered can help others. My legacy, some recompense for my own suffering, making it all strangely worthwhile.

To this end I put my money where my mouth is and coughed up for a Curtis Brown Creative short, online, writing course in the summer, led by memoirist Cathy Rentzenbrink. She is an excellent teacher, even if on the short course you only get to watch her video tutorials rather than meet her in person.

I turned in my shorter assignments each week and got some great peer feedback from others on the course. Encouragement to carry on, I have a story to tell.

But writing a memoir is so different from writing a blog. It needs more of a narrative, a story telling quality. The facts I consider most important and want to explain in great detail need cutting as I show the scenes of my life through a cinematic lens. I need drama, light and shade, panning shots and zooming in. Show not tell.

I have never appreciated all this before. At the beginning I just thought I could stitch together blog posts with a few extra comments in between as glue, it was just a matter of rearranging and sorting. This process has taken me ten years already, stopping and starting, and maybe it will take another ten to complete it, which is a daunting prospect.

Meanwhile the list of the broken hearted grows and I welcome others to this barren land of bereavement.

Nothing I write can ever heal a deepest hurt but I remain convinced I need to keep going. Hoping and praying my words find the right ear and bring some soothing balm in difficult days, a quiet voice whispering, "I know your heart aches and you are not alone."

Don't Leave Me This Way

 I recently started a short online memoir writing course and last week I was so productive I actually wrote two pieces for the our weekly task. As we were writing about memorable music I had so much scope.

Here is the second one I wrote but never submitted ...

    As Jimmy Somerville sang the long ahhhhhhh in anticipation of the next line I twirled as best I could on the sticky nightclub floor with my friends all around me. It was an elaborate display but years of dance classes starting at an early age had taught me how to spot and spin without getting dizzy, although I confess a little dizziness mixed with the sensations of a Malibu and coke or two was not an unpleasant sensation.

It was student night at the Hungry Years, the only nightclub we really frequented. It was situated near Brighton pier and is now, perhaps unsurprisingly for its location, a gay club. I wonder if it’s glitzier and more vibrant? Along the wall, as we went up the stairs, it used to portray pictures of men queuing for food in the depression.

“Don’t Leave me This Way” was guaranteed to get me up on the floor, although to be honest we pretty much danced the whole night.

Year later I sat with a green ring binder on my knee. As I had studied librarianship, I was impressed with Andrew’s catalogue of all his vinyl.  I guess it was an early version of a spreadsheet, what used to be called a database – are they even the same?

Anyway you could search for records by either artist or title.

In his spare time Andrew was a DJ, lugging big wooden flight-cases and all his gear around in a white transit van with a blue stripe. (I have such great memories of time spent in that van and maybe I’ll share them another day or just hold them closer for a comforting hug.)

Suddenly I found the one I wanted to play, I checked the number, found the correct case and flicked through the records, all housed in sturdy brown or white carboard sleeves rather than the usual coloured, flimsy paper wrappers.

777 - Don’t Leave me This Way by the Communards.

I can't survive I can't stay alive, without your love oh baby
Don't leave me this way…
No I can't exist ...
I'll surely miss your tender kiss
Don't leave me this way….

But you did leave, you died, I stayed alive and here I am all these years later and I still somehow exist without your kiss.

The song I danced to all those years ago became woven into our memories together, Andrew knew it was one of my favourites and it became one of those titles we joked about being a good funeral song.

Actually we didn’t play it at the funeral, there were songs far more appropriate for the occasion, but I hang on to the vinyl copy. I have it in my hand now, perhaps it's time for another turn, swirling together thoughts from long ago, before you, my years with you and the present, more than just surviving because after all this time I still recall the art of how to spin without becoming dizzy.

Inspiration Finally Found

We were all a bit skittish at Wednesday's writing group zoom meeting, although there was much discussion there was little writing.

Had we lost our mojo? Or had the prompt of thinking about a memory turned us into chattering teenagers, as at least two of us pondered our school days? Crisp new uniforms and shiny shoes.

I've continued pondering...

I thought about gingham school dresses and how I still wore one at secondary school. It was on the official uniform list and my mum made me a new one in a more grown up style, but I was the only one in summery blue and white checks.

Perhaps I didn't want to grow up as fast as everyone else.

There was also some talk about PANTOUM poetry, which I had never heard of before so I googled it. This was the best illustration of how to write one.

I've decided I quite like poetic form, I like the challenge of fitting words into a defined rhythm, which is very odd because I usually hate filling in forms and I'm actually a writing outside of the box kind of girl! As ever I am complex and contrary.

Which leads us full circle to gingham dresses being slightly out of place in those early days at "big" school. Navigating puberty and all the changes that occur between being a child and growing up to be an adult. 

Eventually inspiration struck and I came up with this...

First Love

    

Clinging on to childhood

In my gingham school dress

Sunny summer days so good

No boys I want to impress

 

In my gingham school dress

Carefree days of daisy chains

No boys I want to impress

Skipping down country lanes

 

Carefree days of daisy chains

Love me - love me not

Skipping down country lanes

Childhood all forgot

 

Love me - love me not

Catch his eye, heart beats fast

Childhood all forgot

Holiday romance doesn’t last

 

Catch his eye, heart beats fast

First ever pre-teen crush

Summer romance doesn’t last

Heart all turned to mush

 

First ever pre-teen crush

Sunny summer days so good

Heart all turned to mush

Clinging on to childhood 

Another google search and I've found a list of 168 poetic forms - which could keep me going for some time...

...watch this space!

Ladybird, Ladybird

I took this photo of a shy ladybird while out walking, posting it on Facebook it received the comment "avoiding paparazzi!" and that was the start of this story...

Avoiding paparazzi was difficult for Lady who was commonly spotted in her distinctive shiny red carapace. Since the incident she’d become popular for all the wrong reasons, the story sung in rhyme over and over. Her parenting skills were questioned. How did the house fire start? Where did her children go? What of poor little Ann trapped under the frying pan? Ms Bird dodged the lens documenting “wildlife”, opened her wings and flew away home.

from my first nursery rhyme book