I have just lamented to a friend in an email that I'm not writing enough these days. So I thought I'd just sit down here, at an empty "new post" screen, and write about this moment.
I'm sitting at my desk, and the view from the window speaks of early spring. There's a colour associated with this time of year, which is on the spectrum where yellow and green meet. It's a damp morning, so the yellowy-green hues seem vibrant and zingy. It's a colour I enjoy in nature, because it's a colour of growth and newness, but I don't usually like it when it's reproduced in man-made items. Orla Kiely uses it well, mixed with orange and brown, but I saw some paper napkins in IKEA yesterday which were that same greeny-yellow, and they just looked very sickly. Nature gets away with so much in her colour palette that we can't copy.
I also see the recycling bin, stuffed to over-flowing, which triggers a little ping of frustration. Will my phone call to the Council have worked? Will someone come and empty it, thereby making space for the contents of the bags that are piling up in our garage?
I enjoy the view from the study window. It looks over our small front garden, and then a quiet driveway. Beyond that, there's a high wall, shielding us from a major road. The wall is just the right height that when a double decker bus drives past, it looks as if the upper deck of passengers are sliding along the top of the wall. It amuses me.
I can hear traffic, and birds. From inside the house, I hear Husband helping my oldest with his Economics revision, sitting at the kitchen table. As I write this, I feel a little uneasy, as it makes us sound like such great parents. Me, engaged in a spot of creative writing, Husband, wrestling through some Economics issues to support the education of our son. I have to add that this is not a typical moment. These days, school work is usually too advanced and too specialised for us to be able to help with, and in any case, I've never been a big homework-doer. They either do it themselves, or they ask the teachers for help, has been my usual approach. My involvement in homework, and Husband's, has been sporadic, to say the least. But this is the Easter holidays, and the next few weeks are 18-yo's last weeks at school, with exams that are weightier in significance than all the many others that have preceded them.
There's a sneeze from the sitting room, reminding me that hay fever season is on its way, and I hope that 15-yo won't be too badly affected this year. There's girlish chatter coming from upstairs, where 12-yo and a friend are talking and sharing (I can hardly use the verb "playing" any more, though I expect there is some of that going on too).
So that is where I am and what I'm surrounded by. What is in my head? Thoughts of a friend who had back surgery yesterday the other side of the Atlantic, and another just a few streets away who is hearing what her cancer treatment plan involves. Thoughts of my mother, dealing with health issues associated with ageing. Anticipation of heading away for the week-end on Friday, for a family birthday celebration, with an accompanying sense of how much easier that is these days, with everyone in the family doing their own packing. Ten or fifteen years ago, I'd have been writing a list, and shopping for journey-friendly snacks. It makes me smile to remember how for years the list began "Bottles, Beakers, Wellies". I miss that level of involvement in my children's travel bags, but I also don't miss it. Until the moment in the day when I've walked the dog, there is always in my head a sense that I must walk the dog, but otherwise, my mind is mellow and my time is soft.
And now I will stop writing.
.
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 5, 2016
Thursday, February 25, 2016
Notes on a notebook
Nappy Valley Girl asked me, in her comment on my last post, if I always write blog posts in a notebook, and the answer is no. I rarely do so. I usually type them on the computer. I do, however, have notebooks that I used for writing at the time when I was blogging a lot. I didn't use them very much, so there's not a lot in them, but there are a few half-written posts, or thoughts scribbled down for future mulling over.
I kept one in the car, in the driver's door pocket, a big A4 size one, hardback, and sometimes I'd write when I was waiting to pick up a child, or killing time in a car park for some other reason (looking at you, soccer training). There were others that I took on journeys, A5 size, travel handbag size. There's a really nice leather-bound one, which I remember initially feeling was rather too nice to write in at all! Notebooks were for blogging on the go. This was in the days before smart phones (though I find it really hard to write more than a very short email on a phone, so that wouldn't have helped).
Then there was this little notebook, the one from which I was copying out my last post. It's mobile-phone-sized, and lovely to look at. (Sorry, not a very good photo.)
I have a soft spot for this one. It's not mine; it belongs to Husband. It was a present from a friend of ours, when I was diagnosed with cancer. She gave it to him, saying that he should take it along when accompanying me to medical appointments. It would be helpful to write a list of questions in advance, and to note down what the doctor said. She was so right on both counts. What a very kind, thoughtful, and practical present.
I came across the notebook last week when I was looking for one to take to a work meeting that I was going to from home. It was too small and flowery to be suitable for that, but I started leafing through it. It tells the story of those very intense few weeks, mostly in Husband's handwriting. There's a careful list of phone numbers (how many kind people rallied!). There are 'To Do' lists, including one titled "Thurs Eve", which must have been for the day I had my mastectomy, judging by the things on it (three phone calls to make, feed hamster, and e-mail friends/family). There are a few pages ruled into sections to make a diary, with notes of places the children had to be, and if someone was going to pick them up. I like the entry that reads "J will collect at 9am - go to donuts and then the zoo". I bet that was a fun day for them! There is a list of questions, in my handwriting this time, about Kindergarten - I'd obviously felt the need to send Husband along to an open evening suitably briefed. ("What writing do they teach, and in what grades? Cursive? Sports? How many times a week do they do PE? Music? Other non-American children? Homework? Playground - have a look.") There are lists of questions for doctors, and hastily scribbled answers - the lists that the notebook was intended for. Lists that give me a bit of a jolt when I read them. Lists that contain "pain meds, steroids, nightmares, can I expect similar pattern next time?" And then there are my thoughts on blogging and writing, that you saw in my previous post. I don't remember where or when I wrote those. I know it was a few months later, because it comes after another, jollier, list, one planning a child's birthday party ("no 2 o'clocks available, balloons $12 doz, hot dogs or pizza, tell Jeanne 2.30 - 4.15").
Remember the idea of a notebook. It's a lovely thing to give someone going through a medical crisis, should you find yourself wondering what to give a friend in that situation.
.
I kept one in the car, in the driver's door pocket, a big A4 size one, hardback, and sometimes I'd write when I was waiting to pick up a child, or killing time in a car park for some other reason (looking at you, soccer training). There were others that I took on journeys, A5 size, travel handbag size. There's a really nice leather-bound one, which I remember initially feeling was rather too nice to write in at all! Notebooks were for blogging on the go. This was in the days before smart phones (though I find it really hard to write more than a very short email on a phone, so that wouldn't have helped).
Then there was this little notebook, the one from which I was copying out my last post. It's mobile-phone-sized, and lovely to look at. (Sorry, not a very good photo.)
I came across the notebook last week when I was looking for one to take to a work meeting that I was going to from home. It was too small and flowery to be suitable for that, but I started leafing through it. It tells the story of those very intense few weeks, mostly in Husband's handwriting. There's a careful list of phone numbers (how many kind people rallied!). There are 'To Do' lists, including one titled "Thurs Eve", which must have been for the day I had my mastectomy, judging by the things on it (three phone calls to make, feed hamster, and e-mail friends/family). There are a few pages ruled into sections to make a diary, with notes of places the children had to be, and if someone was going to pick them up. I like the entry that reads "J will collect at 9am - go to donuts and then the zoo". I bet that was a fun day for them! There is a list of questions, in my handwriting this time, about Kindergarten - I'd obviously felt the need to send Husband along to an open evening suitably briefed. ("What writing do they teach, and in what grades? Cursive? Sports? How many times a week do they do PE? Music? Other non-American children? Homework? Playground - have a look.") There are lists of questions for doctors, and hastily scribbled answers - the lists that the notebook was intended for. Lists that give me a bit of a jolt when I read them. Lists that contain "pain meds, steroids, nightmares, can I expect similar pattern next time?" And then there are my thoughts on blogging and writing, that you saw in my previous post. I don't remember where or when I wrote those. I know it was a few months later, because it comes after another, jollier, list, one planning a child's birthday party ("no 2 o'clocks available, balloons $12 doz, hot dogs or pizza, tell Jeanne 2.30 - 4.15").
Remember the idea of a notebook. It's a lovely thing to give someone going through a medical crisis, should you find yourself wondering what to give a friend in that situation.
.
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Old thoughts on blogging
I came across a little notebook the other day. It dates back to 2009, when I was blogging away for dear life. There's a blog post in it, which I remember writing. I didn't publish it, because it wasn't finished. It didn't express what I wanted to say - not quite, anyway. Re-reading it now, I find I like it. It doesn't say all I wanted to say, but it does say something. I thought you'd like to read it.
"One thing that blogging has taught me is how powerful the process of writing is. There is something about thinking carefully what words you choose to frame an experience that helps to make sense of it. Or at least to live with the non-sense of it. I have found, too, that words can help you re-frame an experience. It can be like looking at an object from different angles.
A bowl of fruit, for example, to an artist is the material for a still life painting. To a chef, it's a stock of juicy ingredients. To a mother, it's a burden of healthy food to be coaxed into the mouths of recalcitrant children. Writing is a tool with which I see things in different ways, and the seeing can be a becoming. Just as the bowl of fruit can become different things, though it remains the same, so life's experiences can morph into different shades and colours.
Does any of that make sense?"
That is what I wrote, and though it wasn't finished, I would say to my seven-years-younger self, yes, I think some of that does make sense.
.
"One thing that blogging has taught me is how powerful the process of writing is. There is something about thinking carefully what words you choose to frame an experience that helps to make sense of it. Or at least to live with the non-sense of it. I have found, too, that words can help you re-frame an experience. It can be like looking at an object from different angles.
A bowl of fruit, for example, to an artist is the material for a still life painting. To a chef, it's a stock of juicy ingredients. To a mother, it's a burden of healthy food to be coaxed into the mouths of recalcitrant children. Writing is a tool with which I see things in different ways, and the seeing can be a becoming. Just as the bowl of fruit can become different things, though it remains the same, so life's experiences can morph into different shades and colours.
Does any of that make sense?"
That is what I wrote, and though it wasn't finished, I would say to my seven-years-younger self, yes, I think some of that does make sense.
.
Saturday, October 3, 2015
Old bloggers never die, they simply write the last post
I was feeling nostalgic about blogging this morning. I think it's autumn that does it. I often feel nostalgic in autumn. I was reflecting on how big a part of my life blogging was when I started in 2007, how intense it felt, how much fun I had. I was thinking how much I miss it, and how I've often thought I would love to carry on writing in some other forum but haven't found the right thing (or even looked very hard).
I also confess to a feeling of failure. My blogging world seems littered with bloggers who have gone on to do great things. Great writing things. They've written novels, or columns for websites of world-respected newpapers, they've continued journalist or writing careers, they run websites that mean they and their family travel the world having lovely holidays, they appear on tv and radio. Me? Not so much. What happened to me?
In my defence... and here followed a list of stuff about my life that I chopped out, because yes, I have a busy life, but that's life, and the point is in the final sentence which is... But I often have moments when I lament to myself that I'm not writing, and I feel like I'm making excuses.
I started doing "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, getting another blogger to do it with me (always good to be accountable to someone). We didn't even last a week. I have vaguely researched local writing groups, but have never been brave enough to put my joining toe in the water. I've kept this blog ticking over, a slow drip that has almost dried up. Though frequently I do still think of ideas for posts, and craft them in my head. Only yesterday, shopping in Morrisons, I was mentally penning a piece on why sweetcorn tins are sold in shrink-wrapped packs of three, when everything else is sold in packs of two or four, and whether perhaps the person behind the decision had middle child syndrome (things in threes, you see), a working hypothesis which is rather borne out by the Green Giant marketing schtick. If that doesn't speak of sibling envy and an inferiority complex, I don't know what does.
Anyway, where was I? Finding excuses for why I haven't gone anywhere with writing. I mean, I was runner-up for a couple of awards at one point, for heaven's sake. Blogging, for me, changed significantly when it all got social media-ised. It's not possible (I don't think) to run a very successful blog these days, unless you're joined up with Facebook, Twitter, and whatever else might come along. That means it's all a lot more time-consuming, and (here's the nub) you can't be anonymous. I found my writing feet, and flourished, when I could do so secretly behind a computer screen. Thinking back, there is so much that I just couldn't have written, if it hadn't been not only that I was anonymous, but that the whole blogging world was largely anonymous, or at least that it all started out that way. (Remember the boob cake?) I can't get that back, and I'm not sure how to find the freedom that I felt, without it. Though I still feel like I'm making excuses.
So this is what I propose. To remember that it's not a competition. That it doesn't matter what other people have or haven't done from their blogging platforms. That it's not a question of success and failure. That, actually, writing for the sake of writing is ok, even if doesn't go anywhere. And not being anonymous is ok. It makes things different, but not wrong. Just different. So, I will promise myself to write a little each week. I will investigate the group of Blogging Nostalgiks that my old china Expat Mum has told me about. I will investigate another group of "Writers Over 40" that I came across on Britmums recently (though I would have qualified a decade ago, but they're probably flexible on the upper end of the age bracket). Baby steps, I know, but if I'm to get back into writing, I've got to start somewhere. Because I don't want any post to be my last post.
.
I also confess to a feeling of failure. My blogging world seems littered with bloggers who have gone on to do great things. Great writing things. They've written novels, or columns for websites of world-respected newpapers, they've continued journalist or writing careers, they run websites that mean they and their family travel the world having lovely holidays, they appear on tv and radio. Me? Not so much. What happened to me?
In my defence... and here followed a list of stuff about my life that I chopped out, because yes, I have a busy life, but that's life, and the point is in the final sentence which is... But I often have moments when I lament to myself that I'm not writing, and I feel like I'm making excuses.
I started doing "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, getting another blogger to do it with me (always good to be accountable to someone). We didn't even last a week. I have vaguely researched local writing groups, but have never been brave enough to put my joining toe in the water. I've kept this blog ticking over, a slow drip that has almost dried up. Though frequently I do still think of ideas for posts, and craft them in my head. Only yesterday, shopping in Morrisons, I was mentally penning a piece on why sweetcorn tins are sold in shrink-wrapped packs of three, when everything else is sold in packs of two or four, and whether perhaps the person behind the decision had middle child syndrome (things in threes, you see), a working hypothesis which is rather borne out by the Green Giant marketing schtick. If that doesn't speak of sibling envy and an inferiority complex, I don't know what does.
Anyway, where was I? Finding excuses for why I haven't gone anywhere with writing. I mean, I was runner-up for a couple of awards at one point, for heaven's sake. Blogging, for me, changed significantly when it all got social media-ised. It's not possible (I don't think) to run a very successful blog these days, unless you're joined up with Facebook, Twitter, and whatever else might come along. That means it's all a lot more time-consuming, and (here's the nub) you can't be anonymous. I found my writing feet, and flourished, when I could do so secretly behind a computer screen. Thinking back, there is so much that I just couldn't have written, if it hadn't been not only that I was anonymous, but that the whole blogging world was largely anonymous, or at least that it all started out that way. (Remember the boob cake?) I can't get that back, and I'm not sure how to find the freedom that I felt, without it. Though I still feel like I'm making excuses.
So this is what I propose. To remember that it's not a competition. That it doesn't matter what other people have or haven't done from their blogging platforms. That it's not a question of success and failure. That, actually, writing for the sake of writing is ok, even if doesn't go anywhere. And not being anonymous is ok. It makes things different, but not wrong. Just different. So, I will promise myself to write a little each week. I will investigate the group of Blogging Nostalgiks that my old china Expat Mum has told me about. I will investigate another group of "Writers Over 40" that I came across on Britmums recently (though I would have qualified a decade ago, but they're probably flexible on the upper end of the age bracket). Baby steps, I know, but if I'm to get back into writing, I've got to start somewhere. Because I don't want any post to be my last post.
.
Monday, May 12, 2014
A blog on the move
One of my favourite blogs is Happy Homemaker UK. She's an American mom living in the south of England. She's just about to return to America, and I will miss her beautiful posts all about English life. If you want to feel good about England, scroll back through her blog, and see all the wonderful places you can go, and all the amazing things you can visit. I wonder, has she been in the pay of the British Tourist Authority?!
To me, she has exemplified the approach that I tried to maintain, when I was living in the US and this blog was called "Not wrong, just different". Her acceptance of, and fondness for, all things British is evident in all she writes. I've found it affirming, reading her posts over the years. Yes, Britain IS lovely, isn't it?
I haven't been blogging much lately. I've got busy with other things, and I do quite a lot of writing in my job, which makes me less inclined to write at home. I was interested to hear my job described as "Grant Writer" the other day. That's an American term, which I'd not heard this side of the Atlantic before. I like it. It's not technically accurate - the job is writing applications to get grants, not writing grants. However, it's good shorthand for what is involved, and "Application Writer" really doesn't have the right ring. The British equivalent is something like "Trusts Fundraiser", or you quite often see job title variations such as "Trusts Manager", which is all wrong, as you're not managing the trusts at all. You're trying to get money out of them. Sometimes it's "Trusts and Foundations Manager" which is a case of tautology, really. I mean, does anyone know what the difference between a Trust and a Foundation is? Incidentally, they're all called Foundations in the US.
Job titles are often ridiculous, though, aren't they? I mean, what does a "Knowledge Manager" do? I remember being quite shocked the first time I heard that a company had a "Human Resources" Department, rather than a "Personnel" Department. How could you treat people as just another category of resource? Rather telling, really.
Meanwhile (since this has developed into a rambly updating-you-about-my-life kind of a post, rather than one that is coherent in any way), 16-yo is starting GCSE's proper tomorrow. Two week of an inordinate number of exams. He had his Spanish oral a couple of weeks ago, and as he left the house, I said to Husband "We have a son who's doing GCSEs. How can that be?"
10-yo has decided she's going to start giving a small proportion of her pocket money to charity, and put another small proportion in a savings account. "I'm sure I'll need money when I'm old", she said. I was impressed. I mean, most of us hardly bother to think much about our pension before the age of 40, so to start at 10 seems very responsible. "I think it will be useful to have some money saved up for my gap year, don't you?" she continued. "Old" is a matter of perspective.
13-yo is trying a dairy-free, sugar-free diet, recommended by a homeopath, to combat his hay fever. What they call in America, "seasonal allergies". The sugar-free bit is hard to get round, though he's thrown himself with gusto into the deprivation of cakes/biscuits/chocolate that it involves - all credit to him. The dairy-free bit isn't too bad. You know why? Because I am a blogger, and I know that when you need advice on these kinds of things, blogs are great resources. Thank you, blogging world, for being so full of ideas on everything from how to organise a Harry Potter party for a 10 year old, to how to cook dairy-free toad in the hole.
I hope you feel you've caught up with my life! Rambling over. I'm off now to walk the dog, and buy white underarmour for cricket-loving son.
.
To me, she has exemplified the approach that I tried to maintain, when I was living in the US and this blog was called "Not wrong, just different". Her acceptance of, and fondness for, all things British is evident in all she writes. I've found it affirming, reading her posts over the years. Yes, Britain IS lovely, isn't it?
I haven't been blogging much lately. I've got busy with other things, and I do quite a lot of writing in my job, which makes me less inclined to write at home. I was interested to hear my job described as "Grant Writer" the other day. That's an American term, which I'd not heard this side of the Atlantic before. I like it. It's not technically accurate - the job is writing applications to get grants, not writing grants. However, it's good shorthand for what is involved, and "Application Writer" really doesn't have the right ring. The British equivalent is something like "Trusts Fundraiser", or you quite often see job title variations such as "Trusts Manager", which is all wrong, as you're not managing the trusts at all. You're trying to get money out of them. Sometimes it's "Trusts and Foundations Manager" which is a case of tautology, really. I mean, does anyone know what the difference between a Trust and a Foundation is? Incidentally, they're all called Foundations in the US.
Job titles are often ridiculous, though, aren't they? I mean, what does a "Knowledge Manager" do? I remember being quite shocked the first time I heard that a company had a "Human Resources" Department, rather than a "Personnel" Department. How could you treat people as just another category of resource? Rather telling, really.
Meanwhile (since this has developed into a rambly updating-you-about-my-life kind of a post, rather than one that is coherent in any way), 16-yo is starting GCSE's proper tomorrow. Two week of an inordinate number of exams. He had his Spanish oral a couple of weeks ago, and as he left the house, I said to Husband "We have a son who's doing GCSEs. How can that be?"
10-yo has decided she's going to start giving a small proportion of her pocket money to charity, and put another small proportion in a savings account. "I'm sure I'll need money when I'm old", she said. I was impressed. I mean, most of us hardly bother to think much about our pension before the age of 40, so to start at 10 seems very responsible. "I think it will be useful to have some money saved up for my gap year, don't you?" she continued. "Old" is a matter of perspective.
13-yo is trying a dairy-free, sugar-free diet, recommended by a homeopath, to combat his hay fever. What they call in America, "seasonal allergies". The sugar-free bit is hard to get round, though he's thrown himself with gusto into the deprivation of cakes/biscuits/chocolate that it involves - all credit to him. The dairy-free bit isn't too bad. You know why? Because I am a blogger, and I know that when you need advice on these kinds of things, blogs are great resources. Thank you, blogging world, for being so full of ideas on everything from how to organise a Harry Potter party for a 10 year old, to how to cook dairy-free toad in the hole.
I hope you feel you've caught up with my life! Rambling over. I'm off now to walk the dog, and buy white underarmour for cricket-loving son.
.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
What do you do when you've nothing to do?
Even the busiest of us have times when we do nothing. Those times when we're at home, no-one else is around, or if they are, they're occupied. I'm feeling the need to have something that's my "go-to" thing. Some kind of default activity that's just there, waiting for me.
If I had a sewing room, maybe I could have a lovely patchwork quilt project (this is a secret aim of mine... not so secret, really). But I can't default to it for the odd hour here and there, if it's always going to involve clearing the dining room table and setting it all out.
I have a tapestry on the go. My children laugh at me, because I tell them how Husband gave it to me the first Christmas we were married. That's 17 years ago. It's not my speediest project.
I've long given up having houseworky projects as defaults. It's just too depressing. You never finish them all. You never have a perfect house. Better by far to accept your imperfect house and find other things to do.
I'm not going to join Facebook or Twitter, because I want a default activity, not an addiction.
There's always blogging, but... sniff... blogging is so lonely these days, now that all my comments go into people's spam filters. It's a sad, one-way conversation. It makes me feel voiceless and frustrated (please, rush off and rescue me from your spam filter, and click on the "this is not spam" option, before I give up blogging altogether).
My children spend hours petting the dog, and rubbing his tummy as he lies goofily on his back. But he is too smelly for me to want to engage in that. I do quite often walk him in an idle half hour. He's so pathetically eager and grateful, that it's easy-pickings in the "emotionally rewarding activity" stakes. But I'm looking for an indoor activity.
Half an hour is usually enough to catch up with The Archers on iPlayer, or a quick burst of something recorded on TV (an episode of Scrubs is my current fix of choice, or Downton Abbey if I have a little longer).
If I was a generation older, I would read the paper, but these days, if I buy a paper, I find I recycle it unread, while browsing the news online.
I sometimes browse recipes, and think about delicious dishes I could cook, or sweet treats I could bake. Then next time I have a window of empty time, I do cook them. Sometimes. You have to be quite organised to cook in that way.
I often write emails to friends. "Haven't been in touch for ages. How are you?" I like doing that. Or I phone my mum for a chat. I like doing that too.
I have a book on the go, but I find it hard to settle down for a read, unless it's bedtime. Why is that?
I wish I could be that person who will do just a few yoga poses, or abdominal exercises. Then I would be more toned, and less wibbly-wobbly in the midriff area. But the journey from knowing that would be a good way of spending 20 minutes, even 10 minutes, to the actual doing of it is such a very, very long road. I did buy a yoga mat. I do have yoga dvds. They are in what is called "as new" condition.
I do enjoy a quick canter round hilarious videos on Youtube, but don't tell my children. Obviously, Youtube videos are a waste of time. You don't want to grow up to be the kind of person who fritters away their time watching cats slipping on wooden floors, or dogs looking very guilty, do you? And that's what happens if you don't develop other interests. We all know that.
Writing. Whatever happened to writing? I used to do more of that.
So what about you? You're at home. You don't have anything that HAS to be done. You can do what you please. What is it you turn to?
.
If I had a sewing room, maybe I could have a lovely patchwork quilt project (this is a secret aim of mine... not so secret, really). But I can't default to it for the odd hour here and there, if it's always going to involve clearing the dining room table and setting it all out.
I have a tapestry on the go. My children laugh at me, because I tell them how Husband gave it to me the first Christmas we were married. That's 17 years ago. It's not my speediest project.
I've long given up having houseworky projects as defaults. It's just too depressing. You never finish them all. You never have a perfect house. Better by far to accept your imperfect house and find other things to do.
I'm not going to join Facebook or Twitter, because I want a default activity, not an addiction.
There's always blogging, but... sniff... blogging is so lonely these days, now that all my comments go into people's spam filters. It's a sad, one-way conversation. It makes me feel voiceless and frustrated (please, rush off and rescue me from your spam filter, and click on the "this is not spam" option, before I give up blogging altogether).
My children spend hours petting the dog, and rubbing his tummy as he lies goofily on his back. But he is too smelly for me to want to engage in that. I do quite often walk him in an idle half hour. He's so pathetically eager and grateful, that it's easy-pickings in the "emotionally rewarding activity" stakes. But I'm looking for an indoor activity.
Half an hour is usually enough to catch up with The Archers on iPlayer, or a quick burst of something recorded on TV (an episode of Scrubs is my current fix of choice, or Downton Abbey if I have a little longer).
If I was a generation older, I would read the paper, but these days, if I buy a paper, I find I recycle it unread, while browsing the news online.
I sometimes browse recipes, and think about delicious dishes I could cook, or sweet treats I could bake. Then next time I have a window of empty time, I do cook them. Sometimes. You have to be quite organised to cook in that way.
I often write emails to friends. "Haven't been in touch for ages. How are you?" I like doing that. Or I phone my mum for a chat. I like doing that too.
I have a book on the go, but I find it hard to settle down for a read, unless it's bedtime. Why is that?
I wish I could be that person who will do just a few yoga poses, or abdominal exercises. Then I would be more toned, and less wibbly-wobbly in the midriff area. But the journey from knowing that would be a good way of spending 20 minutes, even 10 minutes, to the actual doing of it is such a very, very long road. I did buy a yoga mat. I do have yoga dvds. They are in what is called "as new" condition.
I do enjoy a quick canter round hilarious videos on Youtube, but don't tell my children. Obviously, Youtube videos are a waste of time. You don't want to grow up to be the kind of person who fritters away their time watching cats slipping on wooden floors, or dogs looking very guilty, do you? And that's what happens if you don't develop other interests. We all know that.
Writing. Whatever happened to writing? I used to do more of that.
So what about you? You're at home. You don't have anything that HAS to be done. You can do what you please. What is it you turn to?
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Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Killer dogs or miracle dogs?
The first paragraph of the lead story on the BBC news website today reads:
"The maximum jail sentence for the owners of dogs that attack and kill someone could be raised to life, under proposals for England and Wales."
On a first look, my attention was arrested. I do understand what it means, but I had to read it through 2 or 3 times to be absolutely sure the writer wasn't trying to say something else, rather extraordinary.
Photo courtesy of the BBC news website, and apologies to my brother for putting up a picture of a staffie in this context. I'm only copying the BBC...
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"The maximum jail sentence for the owners of dogs that attack and kill someone could be raised to life, under proposals for England and Wales."
On a first look, my attention was arrested. I do understand what it means, but I had to read it through 2 or 3 times to be absolutely sure the writer wasn't trying to say something else, rather extraordinary.
Photo courtesy of the BBC news website, and apologies to my brother for putting up a picture of a staffie in this context. I'm only copying the BBC...
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Thursday, June 6, 2013
I haven't had a glass of wine and it's not late now
Mornin' all.
Thank you for your comments.
OK, here's the thing I'm really pissed off with, with myself.
I used to love blogging. I found I could write. And people liked reading it (either that, or it was a huge conspiracy, set up by Husband or my mum to make me feel nice).
Then blogging moved on, and I was a bit annoyed, but thought it was ok, really, because there was room in the blogosphere for everyone. Even if you just hung around in a small corner, then so long as it was a nice, fun, interesting place to be, that was fine. And my corner was. If it was a tea shop, I'd call it "The Cozy Corner Caff".
Then I thought I'd turn my blog into a book. I don't have a job. The children are out of the house all day at school. I would have time.
Then I found it impossible to get started, and I can't work out why. I bought a self-help book about procrastination. Which I haven't yet read, but will, soon, honestly.
Then I got busy with other stuff, like... oh you know, life stuff. It all seemed important and part of the process of settling myself and my family into our new place. And I kept telling myself to be patient, because I know that it takes ages and ages to settle into a new place, and while you're doing it, you're slightly tired all the time, and you don't have much internal space for anything.
Then I looked back on the almost-year that we've been here, and I felt like I've achieved nothing. I hate that feeling. It comes from time to time, and it's often a bit of a useful spur to action. But at the moment, it's just a bleurgh feeling, and not a spur, useful or otherwise.
I have tried to get a job, and I've been unsuccessful (but two interviews from the first foray, which isn't bad). And then I've been relieved I haven't got a job, because there's still so much else going on in family life. That sounds so darn pathetic, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of mother who spends her life worrying about whether her son's cricket top is clean or not, because - in spite of the evidence of last night - I'm really not. Or only just a little.
I have looked into studying again, and well, it's still on the back burner, but I never seem to get off the front burner these days.
Then I read the BiBs short list, and I thought about all the bloggers who've used blogging as a springboard into writing a book, or getting a career started in social media, or becoming a writer of some kind or other, and I thought, that could be me, but... it isn't. I realised that actually, I do really want to write my book, and it made me all furious with myself that I just can't quite do it.
Yet.
.
Thank you for your comments.
OK, here's the thing I'm really pissed off with, with myself.
I used to love blogging. I found I could write. And people liked reading it (either that, or it was a huge conspiracy, set up by Husband or my mum to make me feel nice).
Then blogging moved on, and I was a bit annoyed, but thought it was ok, really, because there was room in the blogosphere for everyone. Even if you just hung around in a small corner, then so long as it was a nice, fun, interesting place to be, that was fine. And my corner was. If it was a tea shop, I'd call it "The Cozy Corner Caff".
Then I thought I'd turn my blog into a book. I don't have a job. The children are out of the house all day at school. I would have time.
Then I found it impossible to get started, and I can't work out why. I bought a self-help book about procrastination. Which I haven't yet read, but will, soon, honestly.
Then I got busy with other stuff, like... oh you know, life stuff. It all seemed important and part of the process of settling myself and my family into our new place. And I kept telling myself to be patient, because I know that it takes ages and ages to settle into a new place, and while you're doing it, you're slightly tired all the time, and you don't have much internal space for anything.
Then I looked back on the almost-year that we've been here, and I felt like I've achieved nothing. I hate that feeling. It comes from time to time, and it's often a bit of a useful spur to action. But at the moment, it's just a bleurgh feeling, and not a spur, useful or otherwise.
I have tried to get a job, and I've been unsuccessful (but two interviews from the first foray, which isn't bad). And then I've been relieved I haven't got a job, because there's still so much else going on in family life. That sounds so darn pathetic, and I don't want you to think I'm the kind of mother who spends her life worrying about whether her son's cricket top is clean or not, because - in spite of the evidence of last night - I'm really not. Or only just a little.
I have looked into studying again, and well, it's still on the back burner, but I never seem to get off the front burner these days.
Then I read the BiBs short list, and I thought about all the bloggers who've used blogging as a springboard into writing a book, or getting a career started in social media, or becoming a writer of some kind or other, and I thought, that could be me, but... it isn't. I realised that actually, I do really want to write my book, and it made me all furious with myself that I just can't quite do it.
Yet.
.
Friday, May 4, 2012
Finest parenting moments
The other day, at dinner, 11-yo stood up, in order better to access his trouser pocket, and grinning, fished a many-times-folded piece of paper out. He handed it to me, and it took a while to unpeel the layers. When I did so, I recognised the homework I'd helped him type out the night before.
Fifth Grade had been set the task of writing a poem, titled Springtime. He'd done that, and then a couple of evenings later, they'd been given back their texts, and asked to type them out - for display purposes. When he sat down at the computer, it was late, he was tired, and I thought the point of the assignment was creative writing rather than typing practice, so I said I'd type it for him. It took me no time at all (I'm a touch typer).
Ladies and Gentleman, for your delectation and delight, here is the poem that he submitted to his teacher, (which describes his memories of his grandmother's garden).
One word had been circled by the teacher, with the comment "oops" written above. Have you spotted it? Luckily, she has a good sense of humour, and thought it was very funny. She made it into a joke between herself and 11-yo, not to be shared with the rest of the class, and she and he had a good laugh privately about it (you have to remember that Americans are much more offended by this kind of bad language than Brits, so this is a much bigger deal here). When she and I emailed about it, she said that actually, what had amused her most was that when she first pointed it out to 11-yo, he told her I'd "helped him" type it, rather than saying I'd typed it. Which only goes to show that as an exercise in choosing words carefully, the poetry homework had served its purpose.
And here's a little secret addendum to the story, between you, and me, and 11-yo, which I didn't confess to his teacher. I originally typed it as puffy shite clouds, noticed, had a laugh with 11-yo, and then corrected it. But I wasn't paying attention, and my subconscious obviously spotted an opportunity for a bit of a joke at the expense of my conscious. Damn you, Subconscious, though I like your style.
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Fifth Grade had been set the task of writing a poem, titled Springtime. He'd done that, and then a couple of evenings later, they'd been given back their texts, and asked to type them out - for display purposes. When he sat down at the computer, it was late, he was tired, and I thought the point of the assignment was creative writing rather than typing practice, so I said I'd type it for him. It took me no time at all (I'm a touch typer).
Ladies and Gentleman, for your delectation and delight, here is the poem that he submitted to his teacher, (which describes his memories of his grandmother's garden).
Springtime
By 11-yo
When I look outside my window, I see lush green grass and tall trees. I see purple flowers with yellow and red. There are pink blossoms in the trees and thorns on the branches. There is a vine of colourful flowers climbing down the brick wall of the house.
Sometimes there are rabbits, birds, squirrels, and deer. I can see the farm next door, and hear the cows mooing. There are young sparrows chirping in the tall trees.
The sky is blue and speckled with puffy shit clouds, and birds flying high in the air. The sun is shining with puffs of wind swaying the tree branches.
One word had been circled by the teacher, with the comment "oops" written above. Have you spotted it? Luckily, she has a good sense of humour, and thought it was very funny. She made it into a joke between herself and 11-yo, not to be shared with the rest of the class, and she and he had a good laugh privately about it (you have to remember that Americans are much more offended by this kind of bad language than Brits, so this is a much bigger deal here). When she and I emailed about it, she said that actually, what had amused her most was that when she first pointed it out to 11-yo, he told her I'd "helped him" type it, rather than saying I'd typed it. Which only goes to show that as an exercise in choosing words carefully, the poetry homework had served its purpose.
And here's a little secret addendum to the story, between you, and me, and 11-yo, which I didn't confess to his teacher. I originally typed it as puffy shite clouds, noticed, had a laugh with 11-yo, and then corrected it. But I wasn't paying attention, and my subconscious obviously spotted an opportunity for a bit of a joke at the expense of my conscious. Damn you, Subconscious, though I like your style.
.
Friday, December 30, 2011
The Story at the Bus Stop
I was flicking through a notebook yesterday, and I came across notes I’d made over the summer, when we were in England. Notes for blog posts that never got written. On one page were the notes I made after an encounter with an elderly lady at a bus stop. She was waiting for a bus, I was enjoying a country walk. She stopped me, and started talking. She told me how the bus company has cut back their services, so she can’t go and visit her sister-in-law any more. She can’t get there and back in a day. Then she started telling me about her life, talking with great animation. I was hooked.
She was 15 when war was declared. She told her father “I hope it goes on long enough that I can join in”. He said “It probably will. They usually go on quite a long time once they get started”. She overheard her mum and dad discussing whether to let her join the WAAF. It was her dad who said to let her go: "we better had, seeing as she wants to so badly".
She met her husband when she was in the WAAF. His name was Johnny. They were on the wing of an aeroplane, in for repairs. She asked a mechanic on the ground to throw up a part she needed. He tossed it high in the air, she caught it in her upturned, cupped hand, and Johnny’s hand came down – slap - on top of it, on top of her hand. That was how they first got talking. Later on, he asked her what she was doing in the evening, and she agreed to meet him. When she turned up at the bar, there he was with another woman. “I didn’t think you’d show up”, he told her. So their first date didn’t exactly get off to a flying start, but things worked out, and they married.
They had one son, and no grandchildren. Their son was disabled (she used the word "handicapped") and died young, "but he was a super little boy, he really was”.
Johnny died in bed one night, with his arm round her. She phoned the police, and they came, and they got her to phone her friend Mabel. Mabel came and collected her, and took her to her house. She put her to bed in her son’s bedroom. Mabel’s son was keen on aeroplanes, and his room was full of airfix models. She lay there, her husband gone, surrounded by aeroplanes to look at. It seemed fitting.
As the woman talked, I could almost see the movie rolling. A young Kate Winslet would be good as the WAAF girl, I thought. Was it just because of the wartime theme that I could so easily imagine the woman’s life as a film? Was it the disabled son, who made her life a little different to that of most mothers? What was it? I think it was the details on which the stories hung. Yes. It was the details, intricate and intimate, that brought the scenes so vividly to life for me.
I wonder, do we all have lives that could be moments strung together on a cinema screen, if only we tell them in a spirited way, as if engaging a stranger at a village bus stop?
She was 15 when war was declared. She told her father “I hope it goes on long enough that I can join in”. He said “It probably will. They usually go on quite a long time once they get started”. She overheard her mum and dad discussing whether to let her join the WAAF. It was her dad who said to let her go: "we better had, seeing as she wants to so badly".
She met her husband when she was in the WAAF. His name was Johnny. They were on the wing of an aeroplane, in for repairs. She asked a mechanic on the ground to throw up a part she needed. He tossed it high in the air, she caught it in her upturned, cupped hand, and Johnny’s hand came down – slap - on top of it, on top of her hand. That was how they first got talking. Later on, he asked her what she was doing in the evening, and she agreed to meet him. When she turned up at the bar, there he was with another woman. “I didn’t think you’d show up”, he told her. So their first date didn’t exactly get off to a flying start, but things worked out, and they married.
They had one son, and no grandchildren. Their son was disabled (she used the word "handicapped") and died young, "but he was a super little boy, he really was”.
Johnny died in bed one night, with his arm round her. She phoned the police, and they came, and they got her to phone her friend Mabel. Mabel came and collected her, and took her to her house. She put her to bed in her son’s bedroom. Mabel’s son was keen on aeroplanes, and his room was full of airfix models. She lay there, her husband gone, surrounded by aeroplanes to look at. It seemed fitting.
As the woman talked, I could almost see the movie rolling. A young Kate Winslet would be good as the WAAF girl, I thought. Was it just because of the wartime theme that I could so easily imagine the woman’s life as a film? Was it the disabled son, who made her life a little different to that of most mothers? What was it? I think it was the details on which the stories hung. Yes. It was the details, intricate and intimate, that brought the scenes so vividly to life for me.
I wonder, do we all have lives that could be moments strung together on a cinema screen, if only we tell them in a spirited way, as if engaging a stranger at a village bus stop?
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
What I would love about my blog if I were you
A cheeky little title, I know.
This is what I would love about reading Iota's blog, if I were one of you. When I started blogging, it was because I was struggling to make sense of living in a new culture. I was beginning to make 'real life' friends, but that seems to take forever in a new place, and I was lonely. Blogging was an addiction, which in itself isn't bad (hey, who'd be reading this if blogging wasn't a little addictive now and again?), but at that time, I think the addiction spoke of isolation and unhappiness.
Then I had cancer. Remember that? I guess my blog was hard to read at that time. You must have been holding your breath, wondering what the next thing was going to be. Hoping I was going to be ok. Feeling the fear in my situation, even though I was so darn upbeat and jolly about it all, and trying not to let those fears of mine hook into your own buried ones.
The past couple of years have seen a rebuilding of life. But I'm not just back where I started. That was something I really resented about cancer. I was wailing internally "I just want my life back", while at the same time knowing that it was never going to be the same again. But ooh, get me (as they say... well... as I say anyway). I like my life a lot a lot a lot now. I've got a green card. I've got a job (I mistyped that as "I've got a nob", which made me laugh). I love my job. I'm doing a Masters degree. I love my Masters degree. I love how you always see it written with a capital M. Why is that, I wonder? I don't see why it deserves a capital. I actually love living in America (I hear the gasps of surprise followed by the cheering). I am happy. I am content.
You've probably spotted that I don't blog as much. You've guessed that I'm just too busy at the moment. The recycling of a couple of old posts was a bit of a giveaway. Yes, I'm busy, and my blog is getting a little neglected. But don't you even love that about it?
So that's what I would love about my blog if I were you. It's the story of a chunk of a life's journey that was a down and an up, a valley and a journey out of it. I would find that hopeful and heartening. It's more than that, though. It's the story within the story that I like. I feel a difference in myself. I've grown as a person so much over the past 4.5 years (yup, that's how long I've been blogging). I like myself more than I used to. I wonder if you can tell. I wonder if you sniff it out, in the gaps between the words on the screen, in the spaces between one post and the next.
And of course that's what I love about your blogs I've followed over the years. The tales of your lives: the narratives, but more so, the stories of who you are, who you were, and who you're becoming, which somehow, through the magic of writing, leak through the typewritten word.
This is what I would love about reading Iota's blog, if I were one of you. When I started blogging, it was because I was struggling to make sense of living in a new culture. I was beginning to make 'real life' friends, but that seems to take forever in a new place, and I was lonely. Blogging was an addiction, which in itself isn't bad (hey, who'd be reading this if blogging wasn't a little addictive now and again?), but at that time, I think the addiction spoke of isolation and unhappiness.
Then I had cancer. Remember that? I guess my blog was hard to read at that time. You must have been holding your breath, wondering what the next thing was going to be. Hoping I was going to be ok. Feeling the fear in my situation, even though I was so darn upbeat and jolly about it all, and trying not to let those fears of mine hook into your own buried ones.
The past couple of years have seen a rebuilding of life. But I'm not just back where I started. That was something I really resented about cancer. I was wailing internally "I just want my life back", while at the same time knowing that it was never going to be the same again. But ooh, get me (as they say... well... as I say anyway). I like my life a lot a lot a lot now. I've got a green card. I've got a job (I mistyped that as "I've got a nob", which made me laugh). I love my job. I'm doing a Masters degree. I love my Masters degree. I love how you always see it written with a capital M. Why is that, I wonder? I don't see why it deserves a capital. I actually love living in America (I hear the gasps of surprise followed by the cheering). I am happy. I am content.
You've probably spotted that I don't blog as much. You've guessed that I'm just too busy at the moment. The recycling of a couple of old posts was a bit of a giveaway. Yes, I'm busy, and my blog is getting a little neglected. But don't you even love that about it?
So that's what I would love about my blog if I were you. It's the story of a chunk of a life's journey that was a down and an up, a valley and a journey out of it. I would find that hopeful and heartening. It's more than that, though. It's the story within the story that I like. I feel a difference in myself. I've grown as a person so much over the past 4.5 years (yup, that's how long I've been blogging). I like myself more than I used to. I wonder if you can tell. I wonder if you sniff it out, in the gaps between the words on the screen, in the spaces between one post and the next.
And of course that's what I love about your blogs I've followed over the years. The tales of your lives: the narratives, but more so, the stories of who you are, who you were, and who you're becoming, which somehow, through the magic of writing, leak through the typewritten word.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Where has blogging taken me now?
Have you noticed how sometimes there’s a topic in the blogosphere that becomes flavour of the month? You read a post about it, and then come across another one. A few days later someone else is talking about the same thing, sometimes linking back to the first post you read, but sometimes seemingly unconnected. Then maybe there’s a little flurry of discussion that might lead you to BMB or beyond. I’m guessing that if you Twitter, this happens more than if you simply blog. It’s as if ideas are birds, flying and settling, here and there. Perhaps it’s just that if something catches your interest, you’ll spot it and it won’t pass you by. Perhaps it’s your own antennae that are responsible, tuning you in to a theme that’s of relevance to your life at that moment. Or perhaps the ideas really are like flocks of noisy starlings, circling and wheeling companionably. Who knows?
The subject that I’ve caught notice of recently is that of why we blog. Ah, the hardy perennial. I’ve seen that one come round more than a few times. When blogging was newer, less established, it was aired more often. Just why, exactly, are we doing this? The idea of a virtual friendship was something that had to be justified. It wasn’t yet normal. A virtual community? How does that work? We needed to talk about that. Now, experience allows us to take it more as read (rather an apt phrase, when it comes to virtual communities). Friendships that started off in cyberspace have been cemented at blogging events, or simply when two or more bloggers decide to meet. We no longer need to tell ourselves we’re not weird for doing it this way.
I’m glad that we seem to have got going on the old chestnut again. Yes. Why indeed do we blog? Time to re-evaluate. Has blogging morphed into something different altogether? Or has it just grown up a little? How long is a piece of string, and what is the price of fish?
Here are the posts I’ve come across recently that have got me a-pondering, from across the pond.
The Potty Diaries: Blogging Changed My Life
More Than Just a Mother: 8 Ways Social Media Changed My Life
and BMB is starting a new feature: Why Do You Blog?
So there we have two bloggers who claim that blogging has changed their lives. Could I say the same for me? Yes, I could. I’ve found a voice, I’ve found I can hold an audience, I’ve found friendship and community, I’ve found confidence. I've had articles published in a local women's magazine, which I wouldn't have attempted to do before. I know I can write. Most of all, I’ve found that writing helps me make sense of life. Daily mundane trivial life, and great big gut-wrenching life. It all seems to benefit from being wrestled into words. I didn't know that before I blogged. From the outside, you wouldn't see much that looked very significant from that. I haven't written a book. I haven't become a journalist. I'm not earning any money from writing. But it is important to me. I have found something out that I am exploring. It's taking a while to find direction, but I'm not too worried about that.
Here’s the new thing I've done with it recently. I’ve started journalling – which I don’t think I’d ever have done if I hadn’t first blogged. It’s just for me, and it really wouldn’t be very interesting for anyone else to read, so it’s a different animal to a blog. I’m not choosing words that will convey my meaning to other people. I’m choosing words that convey my meaning to myself. (Did I just write that sentence? Does Private Eye still run Pseuds Corner?) Actually, it’s not really about choosing words. It’s much more about picking up the pen, and letting thoughts, feelings, random mental preoccupations flow out onto the paper. I have to do it in a notebook with a pen; it doesn’t appear to work so well at a keyboard. I don’t know why. Here’s the odd thing about journalling. It seems to create more time in the day. Somehow I make better use of time available. Maybe it’s something to do with freeing up some mind space for yourself, so that you are an emptier receptacle for whatever the day brings. Maybe it puts you more in touch with yourself, so that you are a more defined person in meeting whatever comes your way. Maybe you access parts of yourself that otherwise lie a little dormant. Maybe Pseuds Corner does still exist.
I don’t journal daily – though you’re meant to. Perhaps that will come with time. I think it will, as I now look forward to my journalling time. It’s a joy, not a chore as it was at first (though only at the very beginning – I discovered the pleasure in it quite quickly).
Does anyone else keep a journal? Did you come to it through blogging, or was it the other way round? Perhaps blogging appealed because you were already in the habit of writing. I’m interested to know.
.
The subject that I’ve caught notice of recently is that of why we blog. Ah, the hardy perennial. I’ve seen that one come round more than a few times. When blogging was newer, less established, it was aired more often. Just why, exactly, are we doing this? The idea of a virtual friendship was something that had to be justified. It wasn’t yet normal. A virtual community? How does that work? We needed to talk about that. Now, experience allows us to take it more as read (rather an apt phrase, when it comes to virtual communities). Friendships that started off in cyberspace have been cemented at blogging events, or simply when two or more bloggers decide to meet. We no longer need to tell ourselves we’re not weird for doing it this way.
I’m glad that we seem to have got going on the old chestnut again. Yes. Why indeed do we blog? Time to re-evaluate. Has blogging morphed into something different altogether? Or has it just grown up a little? How long is a piece of string, and what is the price of fish?
Here are the posts I’ve come across recently that have got me a-pondering, from across the pond.
The Potty Diaries: Blogging Changed My Life
More Than Just a Mother: 8 Ways Social Media Changed My Life
and BMB is starting a new feature: Why Do You Blog?
So there we have two bloggers who claim that blogging has changed their lives. Could I say the same for me? Yes, I could. I’ve found a voice, I’ve found I can hold an audience, I’ve found friendship and community, I’ve found confidence. I've had articles published in a local women's magazine, which I wouldn't have attempted to do before. I know I can write. Most of all, I’ve found that writing helps me make sense of life. Daily mundane trivial life, and great big gut-wrenching life. It all seems to benefit from being wrestled into words. I didn't know that before I blogged. From the outside, you wouldn't see much that looked very significant from that. I haven't written a book. I haven't become a journalist. I'm not earning any money from writing. But it is important to me. I have found something out that I am exploring. It's taking a while to find direction, but I'm not too worried about that.
Here’s the new thing I've done with it recently. I’ve started journalling – which I don’t think I’d ever have done if I hadn’t first blogged. It’s just for me, and it really wouldn’t be very interesting for anyone else to read, so it’s a different animal to a blog. I’m not choosing words that will convey my meaning to other people. I’m choosing words that convey my meaning to myself. (Did I just write that sentence? Does Private Eye still run Pseuds Corner?) Actually, it’s not really about choosing words. It’s much more about picking up the pen, and letting thoughts, feelings, random mental preoccupations flow out onto the paper. I have to do it in a notebook with a pen; it doesn’t appear to work so well at a keyboard. I don’t know why. Here’s the odd thing about journalling. It seems to create more time in the day. Somehow I make better use of time available. Maybe it’s something to do with freeing up some mind space for yourself, so that you are an emptier receptacle for whatever the day brings. Maybe it puts you more in touch with yourself, so that you are a more defined person in meeting whatever comes your way. Maybe you access parts of yourself that otherwise lie a little dormant. Maybe Pseuds Corner does still exist.
I don’t journal daily – though you’re meant to. Perhaps that will come with time. I think it will, as I now look forward to my journalling time. It’s a joy, not a chore as it was at first (though only at the very beginning – I discovered the pleasure in it quite quickly).
Does anyone else keep a journal? Did you come to it through blogging, or was it the other way round? Perhaps blogging appealed because you were already in the habit of writing. I’m interested to know.
.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Book give-away: "News to Me"
(Sorry, the click to look inside doesn't work here.)
If you would like a free copy of News to Me, please leave a comment. I will randomly select one on Saturday evening (using a computerized random selector, ooh get me). This offer is open world-wide. I’m happy to pay international postage. I’m nice like that.
Questions and Answers with Laurie Hertzel, author of News to Me: Adventures of an Accidental Journalist (and if you're interested in blog-to-book publishing, you'll be interested in her opinions).
How did you find a publisher, or were you approached?
Like everything else in my life, the book was an accident. I had been doing manuscript critiques for the University of Minnesota Press for about 10 years, so I knew one of the editors. I had a manuscript I wanted to show him—the half-completed memoir written by Ernie, an American Finn who grew up in Soviet Russia.
Ernie had died before he was able to finish his book, but his widow was trying to get the fragment published. At the last minute, I printed out my blog postings about my years as a journalist and brought them along when I met with the editor. And in the end, they turned Ernie’s book down, but took mine.
I had not really planned on writing a book at all.
At Cyber Mummy this summer (UK conference for Mummy Bloggers), I went to a seminar on "blog to book" publishing. The publisher spoke about how these days, what they're interested in (as well as the content) is the coverage the author has, ie facebook followers, twitter followers, blog followers. He spoke in terms of thousands, not hundreds. Did your publisher expect you to have these kinds of networks before taking you on as a project?
They asked me none of those questions. Now that we’re in the marketing end of things, Facebook and Twitter are proving quite useful. But they never factored into whether or not my book would get published. My blog certainly doesn’t have followers in the thousands. I get about 100-150 hits a day. Two hundred very rarely.
The publisher also talked about how these days, many writers are opting to cut the publisher out, keep the 15%, and self-promote on Amazon. Did you ever consider doing that?
Never. Never. From where I sit, in my day job as books editor for a major metropolitan newspaper, I would never recommend self-publishing. Sure, it sounds good—you get to control everything, you get to keep all the proceeds. But in reality, you will almost certainly lose money and very few people will ever see your book.
A good, reputable publisher—such as mine—does a lot of things. They edit the book. They copy-edit it. They design it, beautifully. They commission a stunning cover. And then they have an excellent marketing department that does things like plan launch parties (I’m getting two!) and book events in libraries and at book clubs and book stores.
Also, they have book distributors that get books into all the bookstores—small independents, as well as Barnes & Noble and Borders and the other biggies—and to the trade shows. You can’t get self-published books into those stores, and you certainly can’t get your book to the very important trade shows.
My publisher is investing a *lot* of time, energy and money in my book, and I do not begrudge them at all making a profit from it. I hope they do!
I have interviewed people who self-publish, and it can cost as much as $10,000 or even more to make a book. And then the author is left to market the book entirely on his or her own. Good luck with that. Most newspapers will not review self-published books—partly because there are no standards and no quality control (anyone with money can publish anything), and partly because the books are not readily available, except online.
People who have written books talk about the arduous process of getting it to publication. They often look back and say that writing it was the easy bit. Is it really as bad as people make out? Re-writing sections, checking the proofs, endless promotional activities... It sounds such a turn-off.
I would not say that the writing of it is easy. But it’s true that the writing and the marketing are very different things. My editor did not ask for much rewrite at all—he noted that my sentences were pretty short, and my paragraphs were terse, and he urged me to write more fully, which is something I wasn’t used to. In newspapers we try to truncate and cram; I had to get used to a more leisurely pace. Even now, reading it in its final version, I can see where I should have drawn things out a bit more.
Checking the proofs was nerve-racking because by then I had read the book so many times I could barely stand to look at it again, and yet it was my responsibility to make sure that corrections had been made where needed and that all the rest of it was perfect.
The promotional activities are just beginning. I’ve been urged to mention the book on my blog, start a web page, start a facebook page, and get more involved in Twitter. I’ve done all those things, and I try very hard to walk a line—I can’t be overly self-effacing, but I also don’t want to promote myself so much that I get obnoxious and seem vain. It’s tricky.
Next up, beginning now, are radio and TV appearances, and a lot of book talks and signings. I am a shy person, and this will be *very* hard for me. I’ll let you know how it goes.
As a journalist, do you feel positive about the future of newspapers? In the UK, The Times online, which used to be open to all, has now started charging a subscription of a pound. I've heard it said that news is free, but you have to pay for good comment. Is that true these days?
I wish that newspapers, all newspapers, had started charging from the very beginning—we’d be in a lot stronger situation than we are now. Yes, the news is free. But the reported, edited, written, thought-about stories and photographs about the news should not be free. Journalists don’t work for free. The stuff that people read free online every day was quite expensive to uncover and produce. I do feel positive about the future of newspapers—I have to. I believe newspapers are necessary to a democracy. I believe that people will continue to subscribe to newspapers because they need to understand what’s going on in the world, and they need a measured, objective voice to tell them.
You've been a journalist; you're a blogger; you've now published a memoir. Have a wild guess about the future of your own writing career.
Oh dear. Will I write another book? I might. I enjoyed writing this one. But right now my plan is to concentrate on giving this book a good start in the world, and then getting back to my day job and trying to get caught up!
Thank you, Laurie!
You can read Laurie Hertzel's blog at Three Dog Blog.
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Sunday, August 22, 2010
Two green things
First green thing
Well, it turns out that my green card is green, after all. The white one was a temporary one-year one. My permanent one arrived 2 or 3 weeks after it. Husband's temporary and permanent ones arrived on the same day. Can't help thinking they could save themselves some work there...
Anyway, my green card now lives in my wallet (which is also green, incidentally). That's purse, to you Brits, though not to you Americans, for whom a purse is a handbag... Got that? I'm required to be able to produce it at all times. Otherwise, I will disappear in a puff of green smoke. It's in a special little envelope that looks as if it's lined with aluminium foil, which has printed on it:
'We recommend use of this envelope to protect your new card and to prevent wireless communication with it.'
Stop the world, I'm getting off. Are you telling me that people can effect identity theft by waving some wireless gadget at my green card when it's not even visible? I can't keep up with modern life. Can they remove my kidneys wirelessly as I walk round Wal-mart too? Is it safe to go out? Is it even safe to stay in? Aaaargh...
Second green thing
This blog. What am I going to do with it? Clearly it needs revamping in a big way. The design is out of the dark ages. You know, like... like... 2009 or something. I love wittering my heart out here, and it doesn't cease to amaze me that people read it and keep coming back for more. But I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable these days. There's a heck of a lot of very personal stuff on this blog, and I guess my boundaries are shrinking back a little. Which is probably a good sign - a sign of life returning to normal, perhaps. When you're in the middle of a life crisis, it all goes a bit weird. I have to confess that now, I'm not entirely comfortable in my own blog.
Cyber Mummy marked the end of my era of true anonymity, though I'd given away little pieces of it here and there before then, to virtual friends and real ones. It makes writing a blog feel different. I also realised at Cyber Mummy that if I'm giving out business cards, and using this blog as a showcase for writing, then it's not really appropriate for it to be full of personal angst and boobless lamenting. You get my drift.
I hoped Blogger would let me do something straightforward, like hide chosen posts from view. But it doesn't. You have to delete them, and I don't want to do that. I suppose I could copy them all into Word documents, and then delete them. That would be quite a job, though. My research on the issue has turned up the suggestion that you can open the posts, then save them as drafts, which effectively hides them. I suppose I could try. Does anyone know if you lose the comments if you do that? (Comments = best bit!)
Or... here's what I'm thinking of doing. I'm wondering whether to have two blogs. The first would be essentially the whole Not wrong, just different English woman in America gig. Though I think it will become less personal, and more simply a reflection on life in a different culture. I've felt for a while that I've outgrown the whole mummy blogger stage, and that's another aspect I feel uncomfortable about. It feels ok telling stories about children when they are young, but mine are growing up. I'm less happy about sharing them with you all. India Knight said the same at Cyber Mummy, so I'm in good company. But I still have plenty to say about life here, even without them.
The second blog would be where I would dump all the uber-personal old posts from this one. Following the oft-quoted truth that blogging is cheaper than therapy, I would use it to write when I needed to write. I suspect that it would turn into a rather whingey blog, but bloggers quite like reading each other's whinges, so that probably wouldn't matter. I'm guessing the posts would be sporadic, but that's another good sign, isn't it? This second blog would be password protected. That would feel safer.
What do you think, Bloggy Friends? I thought I'd run this by you, and see what your opinions are. Would you follow two blogs? Would you miss the unpigeon-holeable untidiness that is currently Not wrong, just different?
And how possible is it to move posts from one blog to another?
I was going to leave you with Captain Sensible's Stop the World, I'm getting off, but wouldn't you know? Youtube couldn't come up with it. So here is Happy Talk, which seems equally appropriate for a post about blogging. If nothing else, you always know you're going to get the occasional fabulous track from the '80s here. So go on, put it on, minimise the window, and do whatever you were going to do next in another window (the video quality is appalling so you won't miss anything). You'll be tapping your toes for 3 minutes and 17 seconds, and thanking me for it. It's quintessential irony.
Well, it turns out that my green card is green, after all. The white one was a temporary one-year one. My permanent one arrived 2 or 3 weeks after it. Husband's temporary and permanent ones arrived on the same day. Can't help thinking they could save themselves some work there...
Anyway, my green card now lives in my wallet (which is also green, incidentally). That's purse, to you Brits, though not to you Americans, for whom a purse is a handbag... Got that? I'm required to be able to produce it at all times. Otherwise, I will disappear in a puff of green smoke. It's in a special little envelope that looks as if it's lined with aluminium foil, which has printed on it:
'We recommend use of this envelope to protect your new card and to prevent wireless communication with it.'
Stop the world, I'm getting off. Are you telling me that people can effect identity theft by waving some wireless gadget at my green card when it's not even visible? I can't keep up with modern life. Can they remove my kidneys wirelessly as I walk round Wal-mart too? Is it safe to go out? Is it even safe to stay in? Aaaargh...
Second green thing
This blog. What am I going to do with it? Clearly it needs revamping in a big way. The design is out of the dark ages. You know, like... like... 2009 or something. I love wittering my heart out here, and it doesn't cease to amaze me that people read it and keep coming back for more. But I'm feeling a bit uncomfortable these days. There's a heck of a lot of very personal stuff on this blog, and I guess my boundaries are shrinking back a little. Which is probably a good sign - a sign of life returning to normal, perhaps. When you're in the middle of a life crisis, it all goes a bit weird. I have to confess that now, I'm not entirely comfortable in my own blog.
Cyber Mummy marked the end of my era of true anonymity, though I'd given away little pieces of it here and there before then, to virtual friends and real ones. It makes writing a blog feel different. I also realised at Cyber Mummy that if I'm giving out business cards, and using this blog as a showcase for writing, then it's not really appropriate for it to be full of personal angst and boobless lamenting. You get my drift.
I hoped Blogger would let me do something straightforward, like hide chosen posts from view. But it doesn't. You have to delete them, and I don't want to do that. I suppose I could copy them all into Word documents, and then delete them. That would be quite a job, though. My research on the issue has turned up the suggestion that you can open the posts, then save them as drafts, which effectively hides them. I suppose I could try. Does anyone know if you lose the comments if you do that? (Comments = best bit!)
Or... here's what I'm thinking of doing. I'm wondering whether to have two blogs. The first would be essentially the whole Not wrong, just different English woman in America gig. Though I think it will become less personal, and more simply a reflection on life in a different culture. I've felt for a while that I've outgrown the whole mummy blogger stage, and that's another aspect I feel uncomfortable about. It feels ok telling stories about children when they are young, but mine are growing up. I'm less happy about sharing them with you all. India Knight said the same at Cyber Mummy, so I'm in good company. But I still have plenty to say about life here, even without them.
The second blog would be where I would dump all the uber-personal old posts from this one. Following the oft-quoted truth that blogging is cheaper than therapy, I would use it to write when I needed to write. I suspect that it would turn into a rather whingey blog, but bloggers quite like reading each other's whinges, so that probably wouldn't matter. I'm guessing the posts would be sporadic, but that's another good sign, isn't it? This second blog would be password protected. That would feel safer.
What do you think, Bloggy Friends? I thought I'd run this by you, and see what your opinions are. Would you follow two blogs? Would you miss the unpigeon-holeable untidiness that is currently Not wrong, just different?
And how possible is it to move posts from one blog to another?
I was going to leave you with Captain Sensible's Stop the World, I'm getting off, but wouldn't you know? Youtube couldn't come up with it. So here is Happy Talk, which seems equally appropriate for a post about blogging. If nothing else, you always know you're going to get the occasional fabulous track from the '80s here. So go on, put it on, minimise the window, and do whatever you were going to do next in another window (the video quality is appalling so you won't miss anything). You'll be tapping your toes for 3 minutes and 17 seconds, and thanking me for it. It's quintessential irony.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
The last daily post
Day 31 of ‘The Daily Post’.
I’ve done it. I have published a post a day (and two yesterday) for a month.
It worked out rather differently to how I’d imagined. I love blogging and writing, so I thought I was just giving myself licence to spend a chunk of every day doing what I might otherwise have felt a bit guilty for. And that did happen, at the beginning, but as time wore on, I found (and I never thought I’d hear myself say this) that I was getting a bit fed up with it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it became a chore, but there were certainly days when I did a quick couple of hundred words, and was glad to see the back of them. I’d put that down as a positive result. I have sometimes worried how addicted I am to blogging, and it is nice to see that I can, after all, be sated by it. Sated and ready to take a step back of my own free will.
Another positive outcome, which I had hoped for, is that I am better at writing short posts. Hurrah. I can still burble on at great length, but I have become practised at getting my thoughts organized into a smaller space. I have also become more disciplined with time – another outcome I’d hoped for. I used to spend hours writing even a short post. I’d write and rewrite, cogitate and regurgitate. Over the past month, I’ve made myself sit down, write the post straight, read it through once and make corrections, and then publish it without endless tinkering. So on the plus side, I have had the practice I wanted in writing posts that are short and to the point, and in doing them quickly (or more quickly than my previous snail-like self - it's all relative).
On the negative side, I really missed allowing decent time for comments. You’ve all been very loyal, but of course a post doesn’t get so many comments if it’s only at the top of the blog for a single day. And it’s not just the number of comments that adds to the richness of the blog. It’s the way the conversation develops, with people picking up on each other’s comments. A blog post is like a cheese or a fine wine. It needs time to mature.
Another negative is that I haven’t had the opportunity to write down some of the meatier stuff that is in my head. I have so much I still want to say about life in the US through British eyes. Guns, religion, education, friendships, buying and selling a house, some of my early impressions… The kind of things that I might string together into the book that is always lingering at the back of my mind. This month didn’t bring it any further forward. Drat. But the pressure of a daily post militates against that kind of writing. I had anticipated that with all three children at school full-time and my health returning to normal, I’d have enough hours in a day to tackle some of those subjects in longer, more thoughtful, pieces. I had reckoned without the invasion of daily life. One thing about feeling better healthwise is that you inevitably do more around the house, and outside the home. I’m happy about that, of course, but I had forgotten to factor it into the equation. I’d also reckoned without 6 days of sick children off school, and 7 days of school out for teacher training, state assessments or parent conferences (having children at two different schools means that there is twice as much of this). That’s 13 school days out of 20 or so. Hm, now I count them up, I realise it’s no wonder it’s felt like I haven’t much time to myself.
So in sum, I’m glad I did ‘The Daily Post’, and I think it was an achievement to complete it without missing a day. I don’t think I’ll do it again, and certainly not for a while. I’m all blogged out! It did make me realize what a huge undertaking it was to cook over 500 recipes and blog about them in a year, as Julie did in the movie Julie and Julia, which is where this idea all started. I've just re-read that post, and the reasons I gave for setting myself this challenge. I'd rather forgotten what I was feeling at that time. I've certainly got more sense of purpose than I had back then, more zest for life. I guess at least part of that must be due to 'The Daily Post'. It's been one part of the jigsaw falling into place.
I didn’t get much tapestry done, since one of you is bound to ask.
.
I’ve done it. I have published a post a day (and two yesterday) for a month.
It worked out rather differently to how I’d imagined. I love blogging and writing, so I thought I was just giving myself licence to spend a chunk of every day doing what I might otherwise have felt a bit guilty for. And that did happen, at the beginning, but as time wore on, I found (and I never thought I’d hear myself say this) that I was getting a bit fed up with it. I wouldn’t go so far as to say it became a chore, but there were certainly days when I did a quick couple of hundred words, and was glad to see the back of them. I’d put that down as a positive result. I have sometimes worried how addicted I am to blogging, and it is nice to see that I can, after all, be sated by it. Sated and ready to take a step back of my own free will.
Another positive outcome, which I had hoped for, is that I am better at writing short posts. Hurrah. I can still burble on at great length, but I have become practised at getting my thoughts organized into a smaller space. I have also become more disciplined with time – another outcome I’d hoped for. I used to spend hours writing even a short post. I’d write and rewrite, cogitate and regurgitate. Over the past month, I’ve made myself sit down, write the post straight, read it through once and make corrections, and then publish it without endless tinkering. So on the plus side, I have had the practice I wanted in writing posts that are short and to the point, and in doing them quickly (or more quickly than my previous snail-like self - it's all relative).
On the negative side, I really missed allowing decent time for comments. You’ve all been very loyal, but of course a post doesn’t get so many comments if it’s only at the top of the blog for a single day. And it’s not just the number of comments that adds to the richness of the blog. It’s the way the conversation develops, with people picking up on each other’s comments. A blog post is like a cheese or a fine wine. It needs time to mature.
Another negative is that I haven’t had the opportunity to write down some of the meatier stuff that is in my head. I have so much I still want to say about life in the US through British eyes. Guns, religion, education, friendships, buying and selling a house, some of my early impressions… The kind of things that I might string together into the book that is always lingering at the back of my mind. This month didn’t bring it any further forward. Drat. But the pressure of a daily post militates against that kind of writing. I had anticipated that with all three children at school full-time and my health returning to normal, I’d have enough hours in a day to tackle some of those subjects in longer, more thoughtful, pieces. I had reckoned without the invasion of daily life. One thing about feeling better healthwise is that you inevitably do more around the house, and outside the home. I’m happy about that, of course, but I had forgotten to factor it into the equation. I’d also reckoned without 6 days of sick children off school, and 7 days of school out for teacher training, state assessments or parent conferences (having children at two different schools means that there is twice as much of this). That’s 13 school days out of 20 or so. Hm, now I count them up, I realise it’s no wonder it’s felt like I haven’t much time to myself.
So in sum, I’m glad I did ‘The Daily Post’, and I think it was an achievement to complete it without missing a day. I don’t think I’ll do it again, and certainly not for a while. I’m all blogged out! It did make me realize what a huge undertaking it was to cook over 500 recipes and blog about them in a year, as Julie did in the movie Julie and Julia, which is where this idea all started. I've just re-read that post, and the reasons I gave for setting myself this challenge. I'd rather forgotten what I was feeling at that time. I've certainly got more sense of purpose than I had back then, more zest for life. I guess at least part of that must be due to 'The Daily Post'. It's been one part of the jigsaw falling into place.
I didn’t get much tapestry done, since one of you is bound to ask.
.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Bloggers are getting younger these days
Soon after I started this blog, and flushed with the excitement of writing, I began to wonder if I could write a book about moving to America. In fact, I gave up the blog (or tried to) for a while, with that in mind. I have to confess I didn’t get very far (and I missed the blog too much to leave it). Let’s be honest, I didn’t actually start. I did talk about it though, and 11-yo liked the idea. He offered to co-write the book with me, and that gave me another idea. Perhaps we could produce a book about the move, written from both perspectives. The mature, wise, reflective story of the adult, interspersed by the fresh, immediate, youthful comments of the child. I thought a publisher might like that.
There’s just one glitch. I’ve not written any of my sections. 11-yo has rather put me to shame. He's written 5,500 words, although he's only got as far as the point at which we arrive in our new city and are met at the airport. We both have some way to go.
I can’t tell you how interesting it has been for me to read his account of events, and to get insights into what it was like for him to be a player in them. I thought you would like to read his work too, so here are the first 500 words or so. I removed real names, and made one factual interjection, but otherwise it is completely unedited. I hope you enjoy the read.
Our family moved overseas from Scotland to America, and I am here to tell you about it.
It all started when I was in primary 4. I got home from school, did the usual things I would do on a Friday afternoon after school, and mum and dad called 5-yo and 2-yo and me into the dining room. 2-yo and 5-yo are my brother and sister. Mum and dad sat us all round our circular table, and told us that we were going to move from our house in Scotland near the sea, all the way over to America, almost as far away from the sea as you can possibly get. It was shocking news at the time to all of us, but also, it was exciting as you could imagine. 5-yo and 2-yo then started asking question after question to mum and dad, some of them unanswerable, but some of them where good questions. They were questions like, “How big is the city?” Or “When are we going?” Those types of questions. So, we had a little chat, and then went back to doing Friday afternoon things, and mum went off to make dinner.
The weekend after we heard the news passed very slowly, because I was very excited about telling everyone about us moving across seas. Of course, at the time, it seemed like a very long time till it actuarially moved, which at the time, was true. It was at least a year and a quarter, if not longer. [It was 6 months. Ed.] So, the weekend slowly went by, doing weekend jobs, watching a bit of TV, and shopping for food, and weekend jobs. Finally, it got to Sunday though, and in the morning we went to church. The Sunday afternoon went by slower that Saturday though.
Finally, after the whole weekend, a whole 48 hours, Monday came. I had never been so excited to go to school in my whole life, and when I got there, it was the same as always, busy, people everywhere, people playing, people lining up to go inside, and so on. We went inside after the bell rang, and we hung up our bags and our coats, bought in our homework and books, and got ready to begin working, but as always, people where standing up and turning in homework, and telling the primary 4 teacher things they want her to know, or telling her things she needs to know, maybe something about homework. That was the chance I had to tell her the news, and then that would be when the news got out. I also told some of my friends beforehand. When the teacher heard, she was shocked, but also happy for me, and she asked me why we were moving, which was a good question, and I answered, “Because my dad has got a job in America, he is teaching at a university.” This was true, and I am not the kind of person who lies, especially in this situation. Anyway, my best friend was quite shocked as well, in fact probably more shocked than anybody else in the classroom except for me, but of course I already knew the news, I found out two days ago, so I probably wasn’t the most shocked after all.
There’s just one glitch. I’ve not written any of my sections. 11-yo has rather put me to shame. He's written 5,500 words, although he's only got as far as the point at which we arrive in our new city and are met at the airport. We both have some way to go.
I can’t tell you how interesting it has been for me to read his account of events, and to get insights into what it was like for him to be a player in them. I thought you would like to read his work too, so here are the first 500 words or so. I removed real names, and made one factual interjection, but otherwise it is completely unedited. I hope you enjoy the read.
Our family moved overseas from Scotland to America, and I am here to tell you about it.
It all started when I was in primary 4. I got home from school, did the usual things I would do on a Friday afternoon after school, and mum and dad called 5-yo and 2-yo and me into the dining room. 2-yo and 5-yo are my brother and sister. Mum and dad sat us all round our circular table, and told us that we were going to move from our house in Scotland near the sea, all the way over to America, almost as far away from the sea as you can possibly get. It was shocking news at the time to all of us, but also, it was exciting as you could imagine. 5-yo and 2-yo then started asking question after question to mum and dad, some of them unanswerable, but some of them where good questions. They were questions like, “How big is the city?” Or “When are we going?” Those types of questions. So, we had a little chat, and then went back to doing Friday afternoon things, and mum went off to make dinner.
The weekend after we heard the news passed very slowly, because I was very excited about telling everyone about us moving across seas. Of course, at the time, it seemed like a very long time till it actuarially moved, which at the time, was true. It was at least a year and a quarter, if not longer. [It was 6 months. Ed.] So, the weekend slowly went by, doing weekend jobs, watching a bit of TV, and shopping for food, and weekend jobs. Finally, it got to Sunday though, and in the morning we went to church. The Sunday afternoon went by slower that Saturday though.
Finally, after the whole weekend, a whole 48 hours, Monday came. I had never been so excited to go to school in my whole life, and when I got there, it was the same as always, busy, people everywhere, people playing, people lining up to go inside, and so on. We went inside after the bell rang, and we hung up our bags and our coats, bought in our homework and books, and got ready to begin working, but as always, people where standing up and turning in homework, and telling the primary 4 teacher things they want her to know, or telling her things she needs to know, maybe something about homework. That was the chance I had to tell her the news, and then that would be when the news got out. I also told some of my friends beforehand. When the teacher heard, she was shocked, but also happy for me, and she asked me why we were moving, which was a good question, and I answered, “Because my dad has got a job in America, he is teaching at a university.” This was true, and I am not the kind of person who lies, especially in this situation. Anyway, my best friend was quite shocked as well, in fact probably more shocked than anybody else in the classroom except for me, but of course I already knew the news, I found out two days ago, so I probably wasn’t the most shocked after all.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Bright ideas, please
Bloggy Friends, I need ideas. I'm writing a piece for a local magazine on entertaining your kids during a power outage (power cut). So if anyone has a bright idea, or a link to a parents' website which covers this, then let me know. Please think a little beyond books, colouring books, pen and paper games, card games and charades - I've got those already.
I have very happy memories of power cuts in the '70s. My memory is a bit hazy, but I seem to recall my mother used to let us sit at the kitchen table and play with the candles - dripping wax onto plates, letting it cool, scraping it off and putting it back on top of the candle. Hours of fun, but I don't think I can responsibly recommend it, given that I have just read that more than 140 people die each year from candle-related home fires, according to the National Fire Protection Agency (they recommend flashlights in preference to candles as an emergency source of light).
Your fun ideas in the comments box, please.
.
I have very happy memories of power cuts in the '70s. My memory is a bit hazy, but I seem to recall my mother used to let us sit at the kitchen table and play with the candles - dripping wax onto plates, letting it cool, scraping it off and putting it back on top of the candle. Hours of fun, but I don't think I can responsibly recommend it, given that I have just read that more than 140 people die each year from candle-related home fires, according to the National Fire Protection Agency (they recommend flashlights in preference to candles as an emergency source of light).
Your fun ideas in the comments box, please.
.
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