brand new day

Rejection. Whatever the cause, it sits by your bedside waiting for eyes to open, full of a new day's sparkle. And then...blam...oh yeah, here I am ready to remind you that you is a failure, baby.

There I am putting my best foot forward and nope. nope. nope. Doors closing and apologies spilled over into my week like a melancholy waterfall.

So, of course, I went straight into 'sorry for me' mode. Gah, how rubbish can one person be. Here goes... I'd been killing it on the writing submission front by hitting two or three stories a week and of course there was the interview.  But how very quickly my hopeful heart sank when my stories and poems didn't make the grade and the job simply passed me by. Everything I offered was getting to the final hurdle only to be sprawled across the finish line watching the backs of winners.

My inspiration died and dried up all my writing. And it finally seemed like my teaching life was done for good this time.

Then off the back of one of those 'feedback' calls where you get to hear all of your faults, even though you'd realised them the minute you were driving home from the interview, things started to look a little more blue sky-ish.

Fast-forward and not only am I writing again, the sun's out and I am an employed teacher again. Go me, right?

Sometimes those doors need to close in order for you to find an alternative entrance. Challenges lie ahead but my head's up for the first time in a while, so bring it, bring it, bring it. 

It's going to be strange going back to the working grind after so long at home. I've had the privilege of structuring my own days, exploring my own dreams and spending more time with the girls and whilst that's not going to disappear completely, I am going to be a bit weirded out having those Sunday night blues again. Or then again, maybe I won't.

One thing I won't miss is the stink attitude from some people who cut me the side-eye when asking 'are you working yet?' as though I'm a fully paid up member of  The Farage Fan Club.  Unlike the lovely, lovely people who have asked about the progress of my writing - thank you to those people, I am still putting pen to paper and the dream lives on.

I am doing the running man in my garden right now. On my own. In front of my cats. They don't care.

on my radio

Up until a couple of years ago, I think I'd forgotten the joy of radio. It had become the soundtrack to my solo car journey on the work run, once the nursery rhymes had been switched off after drop off or before pick up. I didn't really pay attention to who was wittering into my box of wheels and more often than not I would switch off in favour of CD of choice. Dance in the summer, funk in the winter, Eurovision in the spring, down for whatever in the autumn.  

When my days took a different shape, writing alone all day I was suddenly surrounded by silence. Although music would always kickstart my words (writing a chapter that was set in 1950s Caribbean  meant a backdrop of vintage soca), until the 3G finished school it was rare for me to hear a single conversation.

Until I found, in particular, two dials on the radio. I say dials, I am aware of DAB radio but the phrase pushing buttons bring the Sugababes in all their damp lyrical glory to mind.

So yeah, two dials. Vanessa Feltz at BBC Radio London and Women's Hour on Radio 4. My goodness. People this is radio heaven. If, like me, you love a good yell at the telly then roll over to radio shows where people share opinions! 

Since Ms Feltz has shifted to an earlier time I have lost some listening hours of London's vocal brigade kicking down the airwaves with their left wing, right wing, sashaying down the middle liberal  views. I just about manage to squeeze an issue or two during breakfast. I don't think I've ever been persuaded to switch off in a humph but there have been some toe-curling caller moments where they have been taken to task over a throw away comment. If you can't back up your argument, don't call in.  When will they learn?

And for something a little more sedate, as I clear emails and trawl social media with a mid-morning coffee, there is Women's Hour.  A radio programme where I have been educated and inspired and astounded at some awesome individuals creating their way in the world. I mean, Radio 4 has opened up a new world to me. The campaigns and the experiences that have been brought to light in just one episode are simply eye-opening.

I've also trawled Desert Island Discs and listened to, literally, all of my sheroes. I've discovered radio plays that have cover a scope of topics, which in turn encourage me to find stories from wherever and whatever I can.

I can't have the radio on all day, I have learnt to embrace the silence to help me concentrate but without the water cooler or the canteen moments I had when I was at work, the voices in my radio bring the world into me.

And it also means I don't turn on the evil telly!

start me up

Wait...what...it's the sixth of the month already? Where has the year gone? Do the years really pass by at Lewis Hamilton speed or do we fill our time and days even more the older we get? Whether with families or pets or sports or hobbies or the dreaded d-i-y, is every minute being consumed with lists of things to do?

Now I love a good list, I do, only this morning I planned my writing month; all colour coded, naturally. And to summon the glorious Nina Simone - I'm feeeeeling gooood. This is complete 180 from last week, when burdened with the weight of selection boxes (chocolates, biscuits, crackers, cheese - you get the idea) and lack of creativity, I stumbled out of 2016 and welcomed in the new year with the realization that I hadn't ordered new diary re-fills or a weekly planner pad. Cue panic.

On the other side of a fully planned January, it seems that routine is queen. Maybe after two decades of teaching, the hourly ringing of a bell to tell me where I should be has had a lasting effect. I am happiest when I know what's coming next... as long as it was planned of course.

Yet in order to relish the beauty of calendared life, I happily embrace the chaos of Christmas past. December begins my month of abandonment - exercise mornings, planned dinners, the bi-weekly glass of wine, bedtime routines and any shred of style...*hoists Christmas jumper aloft*. The house is decorated in so much sparkle and glitter our glow can be seen from the I.S.S floating by. In between meals chomping of much chocolate is a bare necessity and vats of mulled wine bubble contentedly on the hob.

But as with all excesses, things must come to a bitter end. Struggling to zip up jeans is not a favourite past-time of mine and I have better things to do that hunt amongst the January jumble sales. So off to the recycling with the choc-cracker-biscuit-sugarylove stuff and back to reality. The trainers have been donned for morning jumping and flailing about. Dinner menus are back in situ. Normal service has been resumed.

 *Turns to January page in diary* 

Today's colour codes are pink, purple and red. Lots to do.

And in the words of my gorgeous likkle niece...Happy Noo Yoo.

more than words

I wonder what you think of when you hear the word poetry? More often than not when I've introduced the topic to a class of teenagers there follows a collective slumping of shoulders.

And for a while, even in adulthood, I may have been inclined to agree. But just as I balk at the absurd suggestion when I'm told that someone doesn't like books - they just haven't found the right one for them yet - I have come to the same conclusion with poetry.

There is a poem (and poet) for everyone. And I reckon you need to start with the subject. What is it you're interested in, what experiences have you had and what in this world sparks your emotions?

I've never been a fan of the long and breezy poem that meanders with floral contortions over hill and dale. Nah. A couple of my earliest poet loves were Michael Rosen and Roger McGough. Two men who appeared on kid's telly with humourous rhymes I could relate to (and in the case of Rosen - the most hilarious facial expressions; us kids were glued).  Moving through secondary school and coming to understand the term ' ethnic minority' I devoured the words of Jackie Kay who in just one poem summed up my high school experience (go to page 13)

You see it didn't matter whether these poems rhymed or not, used fancy words or slang; I got them because they got me.

And so I continue onto my womanhood, mix in a little higher education, love and lust and loss and a whole heap of black women...well now...let me just rest while I cool myself with this here fan...Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, ntozake shange, Valerie Bloom, Jean Binta Breeze.

Poetry has power. I connected with the words which lead me to search for poems that would reach out and make sense to the closed ears in my classrooms. To do this I leant back to the poets I loved because then my enthusiasm for the poems I read out loud would be infused in each line. Luckily the exam board I taught thrust the likes of Simon Armitage and John Agard onto the curriculum so I dragged students and staff out to see them...LIVE!  Being a busy working mum of three my nights grooving at gigs may well and truly bitten the dust but here I was cheering and brap, brap, brapping with a bunch of year 11s at these two blokes who picked their words off the page and kicked them off the stage into a raucous crowd.  But you see, these kids...they got it.

We have come full circle in my house of poetry as I read Michael Rosen's poetry that makes my daughters double up in hysterics.

And so have I.  My teenage angst was penned across years and pages and whilst I may cringe a little, I have learnt to celebrate the me from then. And the me from now has re-discovered my love for my own poetry once again. Words and phrases seem to flow, just now, borne from an image in a photograph, sensation from a song, memory from my past, a face in my present, wishes in my future. All in all I am wrapped up in my poetry.

So that's what I'm writing these days.

This post i in response to the What I'm Writing linky week98

more than words

I wonder what you think of when you hear the word poetry? More often than not when I've introduced the topic to a class of teenagers there follows a collective slumping of shoulders.

And for a while, even in adulthood, I may have been inclined to agree. But just as I balk at the absurd suggestion when I'm told that someone doesn't like books - they just haven't found the right one for them yet - I have come to the same conclusion with poetry.

There is a poem (and poet) for everyone. And I reckon you need to start with the subject. What is it you're interested in, what experiences have you had and what in this world sparks your emotions?

I've never been a fan of the long and breezy poem that meanders with floral contortions over hill and dale. Nah. A couple of my earliest poet loves were Michael Rosen and Roger McGough. Two men who appeared on kid's telly with humourous rhymes I could relate to (and in the case of Rosen - the most hilarious facial expressions; us kids were glued).  Moving through secondary school and coming to understand the term ' ethnic minority' I devoured the words of Jackie Kay who in just one poem summed up my high school experience (go to page 13)

You see it didn't matter whether these poems rhymed or not, used fancy words or slang; I got them because they got me.

And so I continue onto my womanhood, mix in a little higher education, love and lust and loss and a whole heap of black women...well now...let me just rest while I cool myself with this here fan...Alice Walker, Maya Angelou, ntozake shange, Valerie Bloom, Jean Binta Breeze.

Poetry has power. I connected with the words which lead me to search for poems that would reach out and make sense to the closed ears in my classrooms. To do this I leant back to the poets I loved because then my enthusiasm for the poems I read out loud would be infused in each line. Luckily the exam board I taught thrust the likes of Simon Armitage and John Agard onto the curriculum so I dragged students and staff out to see them...LIVE!  Being a busy working mum of three my nights grooving at gigs may well and truly bitten the dust but here I was cheering and brap, brap, brapping with a bunch of year 11s at these two blokes who picked their words off the page and kicked them off the stage into a raucous crowd.  But you see, these kids...they got it.

We have come full circle in my house of poetry as I read Michael Rosen's poetry that makes my daughters double up in hysterics.

And so have I.  My teenage angst was penned across years and pages and whilst I may cringe a little, I have learnt to celebrate the me from then. And the me from now has re-discovered my love for my own poetry once again. Words and phrases seem to flow, just now, borne from an image in a photograph, sensation from a song, memory from my past, a face in my present, wishes in my future. All in all I am wrapped up in my poetry.

So that's what I'm writing these days.

This post i in response to the What I'm Writing linky week98

i'm still standing

I've been really strict with my writing after the long summer holiday. Really I should have gone back to the day job but I'm dragging my 'new direction' out for as long as possible.

The writing calendar is adhered to. The coffee mornings have been declined. The housework is neglected (not sure I can blame writing for that one.). Although the novel is floundering as I consider a narrative / target audience change I am focusing on my poetry, short story and blogging writing with a mind to finding as many submissions as I can. I realised that sitting alone hiding with my writing won't do much good so it was time to get it out there.

And there lies the rub...

Whilst I know there will be rejections, it don't 'alf sting when yet another submission / competition email bears no positive news. And I haven't been doing it that long so I am aware there may be many more to come. But still. That moment when runners up are tweeted every day of the week and when you don't see your name on the penultimate day, there burns that little flame of hope - maybe, just maybe.

The announcement of the winner's name not being the same as mine can often colour my whole day - I'm still working on the whole dust myself off, pick myself up and start all over again routine - but I think it's because the length of time between any kind of 'win' seems to be stretching a tad too far for my liking.

But I suppose I won't appreciate that elusive win if I haven't felt the losses, right?

Right.

* picks up pen *

Time to start again.

This post is in response to the #WhatImWriting linky  

busy doing nothing

I'm a procrastinator.

There. I said it. I admit it.

Why get that one important, it's been sitting there for ever needing sorting, thing out when I can do all those not-really-necessary-but-will-fill-that-gap-of-time-when-i-should-be-doing-something-else thing.

You know, like taking the day to paint a shed when I should be booking my car into the garage to investigate that clanging noise. This is because I hate making phone calls. To strangers. I can chat all day to people I know well.

Or hanging a shelf when the words of my novel are still floating in my head rather than lying seductively on a page. I've never hung a shelf before but lo and behold, there's a great big wonky pink one next to my desk complete with sliding books that were quite happily languishing on the floor.

What's it all about then? All this procrastination? Laziness? Boredom? Confidence? Fear?

Fear! Yes let's look at that one. The absolute fear of getting it wrong, of being rejected, of ...cue cliffhanger pause...failure.

Procrastination enables me to get some inane task all bright, shiny and correct (bar the shelf clearly but you know I tried, right?) whilst leaving the seriously challenging ones for another time slot. This is quite a dangerous trait to develop whilst working alone at home all day although interestingly, not one I recognised when I was in my old day job.

The difference? There were others who relied on me. I would struggle the day long so as not to be tardy, ill prepared or lacking when I was in teacher mode...or mum mode, to be honest.

The supportive words of wonderful friends soon become frustrated imperatives as I, once again, doubt my experience and ability.

And there it is. What I'm avoiding is being the me I want to be.

This post is inspired by Post40Bloggers writing prompt no31: I'm avoiding...

another place to fall

Last September I tentatively paused my hectic life of teaching to enter the world of writing. I had struggled for years attempting to spill the numerous creative ideas in my head onto paper during school holidays with bags of marking and planning puksing like Poe's tell-tale heart in the corner of whichever room (or tent) August would find me in.

I had visions of me curled up in my cosy living room - sans enfants - typing fantasy whirlwinds for hours on end.

But I forgot about the power of the 'off' telly; the overwhelming desire to make green the red standby light and catch up on all of those marvellous box sets on Amazon Prime.

I had to leave the living room.

So off to the kitchen I went; surely the kid's homework desk with a view of the garden would generate the perfect creative atmosphere. Never before had I noticed the beeps, bells and whistles that fill a house (why does your washing machine need to tell you so often that it's finished?!) or how important it was to do all of the washing up ,sweeping, feeding the cats, making cups of tea, putting out the recycling...yes you get it - the ultimate distraction: housework!

 I had to leave the kitchen.

I'm fortunate to have a log cabin in the garden (previous homeowner had a childminding business out there) so I thought maybe it could stop being a dumping ground for stuff to one day be posted on gumtree or netmums. Having persuaded the GeordieLad to clear out the bugs and beasties, buy a new funky lamp and of course, a whole bunch of new stationery, I moved in and my new routine was borne.

Blog stuff (writing and reading) in the morning whilst listening to the lovely Vanessa on BBC Radio London. Research time coinciding with Radio 4's Women's Hour. Followed by a long afternoon that stretched out with hours of words with the four women who were being constructed in my first ever novel.

With the rain tapping on my wooden ceiling and the sun streaming through the skylight, there I am hunched over an old dining table filched from my sister; day after day after day. By myself bar the occasional visit from a cat or two. The day broken up with a squirreled lunch and copious cups of tea or cawfee.

When literal cabin fever sets in I surface to explore new places to write; coffee shops (too noisy and expensive, calorific sustenance); libraries (lovely every now and then but I admit I spend most of the day character-creating inspired by the zillions of people who fill these glorious venues); museums (way to much distraction because I loves a museum); parks (it's summer, there's rain, 'nuff said)

So crawling back to the cubby hole of my cabin, I welcome the silence and accept the loneliness that arises in the pursuit of writing heaven.

This post is linked up with What I'm Writing linky:wk83

At Last

How long has this taken me? Since the springing of G number 3 (LittleE)  I promised myself I would spend my final maternity leave constructively. Putting pen to paper, finger to keyboard, getting those creative juices flowing finally.

Yeah yeah yeah. Lookit, I'm 10 days away from getting back on the work treadmill and I am only just posting my first blog entry. What a monumental timewaster I am.

And to top it off, my OCD reflex is going into overdrive because I have sat up all night trying to organise this thing so that my first post would go out on Dec 1st - look at the time - 01.19am on...aaaargh....Dec 2nd.

 

Sigh

Never mind, with BigL and MiddleS firmly tucked up with Iggle Piggle on his boat, and LittleE snuffling in a bouncer beside me. We're pretty much set. I think. I keep looking at all the tabs to organise, layout, edit, whaaaaat??

Goodnight London...wherever you are (oh Midnight Caller, what ever happened to you?)