Changing our World

I'm not sure about the phrase 'think big.' If we think so big, the vastness of the idea, plan, dream, is intangible. Can be.
I prefer, start small, but also, think in numbers. Each individual performs one small act that if performed by many, many individuals, it becomes that one big thing.
More and more I'm believing in the power of many rather than of one. It feels better and it is more likely to make that idea, plan, dream become tangible and the process of getting there, to that aim, so much more enjoyable. It's the getting there that is part of the process too.

So, to change our world, start small. I'll show kindness, I'll have kindness shown to me, I'll pass it on and that other person will, to another and another. If we pass on kindness, thoughtfulness, common sense, attitudes will change, we won't need to slam people up in prisons, punish, shout, hit out, blame.
How long will this take?

There are already people out there doing this, so all we need to do, is to hold out our hands and join in.

Odd

Disorientating feeling when you feel out of sync with those around you. Floating in a different reality, not understanding or being understood. Knowing something isn't right and wondering why when it seemed all right last week or even yesterday and what's wrong with you.
And words coming out of your mouth that aren't what you want to say. Trivial words not what you're thinking or feeling, but non-entities, banal and you wonder why you can't be yourself when everybody else seems to be. Or do they?
Like a cold, misty winter's day that never clears.

Coming to the end.

This is hard. I want to protect all the people in the Chalet Park and I can't.

Ash Wednesday

We had the best pancakes I've ever made last night. Small fantastic non-stick pan and a Delia Smith recipe. I think it was the added couple of spoonfuls of melted butter that made the difference to the mixture. Lemon dashed on top and then rolled. Delicious.

And then today is Ash Wednesday. A Christian man was talking on the radio about it. I love it when I learn something new as I did from what he said. Ash Wednesday is to remind us that when we die we turn to ash. Not that we go on to something else, but that we die. Only God is immortal. We are not.
When dying, people were often surrounded by family. Last wishes said. Nowadays in most circumstances everything is done to keep people alive. So often people die in hospital hooked up to a machine. Death is not considered part of the natural cycle by many but a challenge we must put off. Don't let it happen.

But we are not immortal. Death is part of the cycle. We die and we turn to ash.
Death is a reminder that we must make the best of being alive. Not waste it. Life isn't just a series of 'do this, do that, do the next thing.' It is about making the most of every minute, everything we do, how we do what we do. And the people we spend all these minutes living amongst.
Death gives an urgency to life. It gives life meaning. Today is a reminder of that.

So what wonderful thing am I going to do today to celebrate this? Sit here and write! Because I have to get it down. Tomorrow I may forget.
But I'm going to try harder this year to remember what Ash Wednesday is about and not merely about the first day I'll have a go at giving up something I like.

There's a Yeats' poem that sums this up. I can't find it at the moment, but I'll keep looking.

Coastal Erosion

The three part serialisation of "South Riding" concluded last night on BBC1.
Robert Cairn died when the cliff collapsed from under him and he and his horse fell onto the beach below.
This was in Yorkshire in the 1930s.

'Erosion,' set in 2011 and the cliff is still collapsing. A chalet falls. A couple are still inside. It crashes onto the shingle.

People still live on the edge. Has so much changed?

But the people living in the shacks in Erosion have had enough. What can they do?

Motivation

At the writers' group I attend, one of the members commented that he didn't get how the people in the chalet park could kill each other or themselves when killing yourself is so difficult.
The residents of the chalet park that is collapsing into the North Sea don't want to leave the place they have lived in for over thirty years. They have nowhere else to go. They have no savings, no money, no family, or family that would take care of them in their old age. They don't want to move from their homes that look over the North Sea.
They aren't young. They don't have commitments to others. They will not be missed if they die.
And for them some things are worse than dying. Rock bottom. When you're absolutely at rock bottom, it's a relief to lie down rather than stand up.

The only problem is Lizzie, a stranger is suddenly living amongst them. They must put on a brave face; she mustn't know.

I haven't got to the end of the story yet. They don't want to die without purpose. They have a further motivation. The test will be if this motivation is enough to satisfy the reader.

Reading formats and Agents

Two things.
First: The Kindle. This weekend I saw two adverts for the Kindle on TV. I asked my daughter if she'd use one. She said what is it? I explained. She said, 'That's cool. Yes, I could read easily on the train and in bed I'd just hold it in one hand. I'd probably read more.' I said, you won't get an illustrated cover with it and she said that doesn't matter, it's the story that counts...

Second: Agents. Last Monday, about four thirty in the afternoon I sent off about six packages to agents and small publishers. First class post.
On Wednesday morning, WEDNESDAY morning, I received a generic rejection slip from Marjacq. Usually it takes three to six months to hear back. Wow. Turn around, read and evaluated within one day. In the package I sent there was a cover letter, synopsis and three chapters each of Erosion and Sweet Scent of Success. I know, two different projects, but because they're so different I put them both in. All read and assessed within one day. Efficient.

On Friday, the same from A P Watt.

Do I praise these agencies for their speed and efficiency? Their websites said they were open to submissions.

And I'm thinking about the Kindle. Unless it breaks, it does seem like a good idea. I'll miss the cover of a book, but as in films, plays, novels...the story is the central element.
I think it means even less money for the author, but hey, that's not why we write is it?

The Creole Choir of Cuba - Desandann

'Desandann means Descendents. The choir tell stories of their Haitian ancestors who were brought to Cuba to work in near slave conditions in the sugar and coffee plantations. Their mesmerising sound, jubilant dancing and deep spirit made them a big hit at the Edinburgh Festival, then the London Jazz Festival, appeared on Jools Holland, now a sell out tour.
Irrestistible melodies are driven by richly textured harmonies and shifting Caribbean rhythms. This is impassioned singing by a group celebrating roots, resistance and the rhythms of life.'From the RNCM brochure.

Miranda and I went to see them at the RNCM last night.
We were bowled over. Miranda had just come back from New York early that morning and was beginning to feel jet lagged. She did not fall asleep. She was energised.
It was uplifting, enlightening, encompassing, energising, embracing...spiritual. We felt blessed. If there is a heaven, these people will be the angels singing. They were filled with generositiy and joy that spilled into the auditorium and had everyone on their feet.
We laughed when two female singers squashed the smaller male singer with their voluptuous bottoms, we cried when their harmonies blended into one soulful sound. When they sang the Nat King Cole song 'Unforgettable' standing close to one another as a thank you to us. To us? To US???? Their songs could not be bettered. One took the lead after the other, the rest swaying and dancing as they sang their interweaving melodies.
We were taken to another place, no egos, no holding back; only emotion on the surface going right through past the bones to whatever is inside us and giving us the privelege and the joy of being embraced by it.
The sound was deep, rich and full of range. The movements telling stories, relaxed and rounded, and when they left the auditiorium, singing all the way, shaking hands with whoever they could reach and who wanted to be reached, Miranda and I cried.
We laughed and cried, crying not because we were sad but because we'd been opened up.
Thank you Creole Choir of Cuba - Desandann...
If you see they are appearing near you - do yourself a massive favour, treat yourself, this is something no-one should miss.
Tande-la is out now on Real World CDs.

Time and place

'...I lingered round them, under that benign sky; watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.'
Emily Bronte.

This is the last paragraph of 'Wuthering Heights.'

This is what I'm aiming to capture in 'Erosion.' A sense of place. My father is buried in a graveyard on the edge of the moor on the top side of Haworth. Moths fluttering over the heather and the soft wind blowing through the coarse grass is what you see and hear up there. And you do feel at peace.
I want to capture the vast sky and grey sea and the thick reedy grass and the wiry heather. I want to capture what Yorkshire is as Emily Bronte does. I see and feel it so let's see if I can put it down on paper.

Andalucia

This time last year I was in Spain researching 'Sweet Scent of Success.' It was freezing. There was the first snow in Cordoba they'd had for a long, long time. Just flakes, very pretty, very cold.
It seems a long time ago. A lot has happened since then. Cordoba, Adalucia, is a stunning place. On the Saturday of that week I went to Jerez de la Frontera where the Estevez family is from. Saw the Estevez sherry bodega. I don't think it's the Estevez plantation of my ancestors, but it was a fantastic experience. What stayed with me the most was the sense of humour of the people there and the smell of sherry soaked wood.
Jerez is bonkers. The people are bonkers. Cadiz held its festival that weekend and everywhere people dressed in fancy clothes.
It was a wonderful week. A crazy week with the people, the buildings, the Mezzquita, the train journies,conversations, food, glorious prawns and fino. The best. Plate after plate - glass after glass.
And walking round an art gallery that was almost deserted. One rainy day being chatted up in spanish by a curator in the Architectural Museum. They were certainly bored that day. Green mossy stone.
Winding alleyways. Adandoned scooters. Graffiti. Orange trees. The wide, wide milky coffee river. Strolling, growing to feel at home.

Mothers and the Menopause

There seem to be a spate of articles around about the menopause. At the moment I seem to be hearing or reading about things that have connections with 'Meeting Coty' as this does.
When I was writing the book I never consciously thought about certain things but amazingly they are there. Take Tessa's mother, Ann Laughlin.
She shows classic signs of the menopause that I didn't know I'd put in never mind that they are symptoms.
She hides herself away from the children.
I didn't realise that when oestrogen levels go down and women stop menstruating, then the 'caring gene' goes because, not having young children (though many women may) it is not deemed necessary. Now this is going back in time because many women now do have their children later in life. So, it's unfortunate.

Are our genes taking care of us through the stages in our lives?

We need to be caring to bring up children.

In general at the stage of the menopause, children have become adults and can take care of themselves, so the mother is now free to do what she wants. By taking the 'caring gene' away, she can concentrate, without forcing herself, on herself.

On the other hand, women of this age now often find that an elderly relative needs caring for so this 'caring gene' would be very handy to retain, but nature takes it away. Bit of a dilemma there then. Forced to care.

But, going back to 'Meeting Coty' Ann shows all the signs of the Menopause, even more in 'Sweet Scent of Success.' Yes, this is the new title. Think I'll stick with this, though must google it to see if it's been used before. Next job.

Back to Ann and the menopause. I keep digressing. Is this a sign? In 'Meeting Coty' she hates being with the children, has no time for them, yearns to be back in Jerez, free to do what she wants: sing. In Sweet Scent of Success that is exactly what she's doing. So, when Tessa turns up for a visit, she is not exactly happy.

The article says...

Not sure you can read the article from The Yorkshire Post dated Saturday November 6th 2010. Article by Simon Bristow, photograph by Gerard Binks.

" They say an Englishman's home is his castle.
And an elderly couple from East Yorkshire are proving there is truth in the old adage by refusing to abandon their home to coastal erosion.
Land on the coast at Aldbrough between Hornsea and Withernsea is now so unstable that East Riding Coucnil has moved a concrete barrier 10 metres inland to prevent vehicles falling over the cliff.
But the move has left Edith and Brian Grantham trapped in their bungalow in Camp Lane. Their only access is through a privately-owned caravan park whose owner does not want them to use it. The council has offered alternative accommodation but they prefer to stay put.
Mrs. Grantham, 76, said: "We don't want to be moved, we want to stay in our own little homestead. We are comfortable, we've got a lovely home and I'm not shifting. The alternative is to move to a council house but I don't want to live in a council house."

Paul Allison, general manager at Aldbrough Leisure Park said he could only give customers access to the park because of insurance and health and safety reasons and he had offered to sell the council the dividing land.
A council spokesman said: "The council is continuing to investigate the feasibility of several alternative access options for affected residents of Campsite Road."

Could be two of the characters in 'Erosion.'

People living on the edge

Again, what would you do if your home was worthless to everyone but you? Where else is there to go? What if you don't want to go? Can you be forced? If the authorities can force you out of your home but you don't want to leave what can you do? What are you capable of?

'Erosion' explores the dilemma of people living in a coastal Chalet Park with nothing left to lose.

Coastal Erosion

What would you do?

Erosion Re-writing

I've reached the part in Erosion, Chapter 27, where it's not editing now, it's re-writing. I'm excited, because I know this is what is needed, but it's going to be hard work and take time. I think I've got four weeks to get it clear and then re-edit the lot. Then I'll be busy with other work and looking at other people's work, so won't have the right head space for mine. Editing will be fine then, but certainly will be difficult to be creative.
I really like the people in Erosion, really like them. Group hug? Don't think they'd like that at all. In fact I know how one or two of them would definitely react. Not pretty.
Right. Stop distracting myself. You have a deadline missus.

The beach

The spanish come here. They own or rent apartments and leave their chairs and parasols on the beach. Not many swim out into the waves to be lifted up and down by the swell, slapped on the back or in the face by the foam, made to laugh nearer the shore when the waves knock you over, but we did. And we laughed and swallowed water thick with salt. The sea was different to the salty turquoise water I drank a couple of years ago, but the mediterranean is my favourite sea. The current pulled us to the left and it was hard work swimming back so we were online with our towels on the sand, but that only made me glad. I like having to use my muscles to get where I want to be.

Even though not many came in the water, the beach was not crowded. Families were there, grandfathers and grandsons came down about four in the afternoon. People arrived after work, to sit and read. Older women, bikini clad, walked in twos through along the shoreline, talking. People sunbathed. Ate. A swimwear clad businessman told his daughters to be quiet as he spoke endlessly on his mobile. They were french.

The Red Cross lifeguards sat on their high perches, there were blue boxes enclosing toilets, rubbish bins, children's play areas, volleyball and football nets and clean, clean, sand and sea.

Some Valencians let us borrow one of their parasols and after that, every day, they smiled, nodded, waved. Did they want to talk? The son had spent six months working in a hotel in Stratford. He looked happy with his mother and sister and cousins in Bellereguard for the month.

It was cooler at the beach with a coastal breeze than inland. The sea was not as warm as we expected, but once in, delicious. And we found we could park, pull out and return home without having to reverse the car. What more do you want?

Rooftops

And this is what we woke to the next morning...

Spain

Ah. Oliva inbetween Valencia and Alicante. A haven. I need longer to take you through the drive from Alicante airport in the early evening light, past mountains on our left and the sea on our right, to driving through narrow one way roads in the old part of Oliva in the dark trying to find a tiny alley, the oldest street in Oliva, that was on the right when the google map said it was on the left. A dark, long-haired, tiny woman pushing a, what looked like four-year old girl who repeated everything she said, in a pram, answered our call for help and showed us the way, via an incident of us turning the car around when I couldn't get it in reverse (couldn't all week), so two cars coming the other way squeeeezed past, losing her at the bottom of a hill where there was a sharp turn, nowhere to park, parking on a sandy corner amongst other cars, asking two hopeless, drunk spanish women the way, showing them the map, they hadn't a clue, our fairy godmother with trainee godmother in tow, gesturing, about 'us english, eyes everywhere but where should be, shooting off....' We walked with her and she showed us the way. Hugs, kisses, laughs, shrugs and we climbed up the steep, walking only, Calle de la Hoz. Yes!! That was our destination. Back to the car, collect the case and bags and back to our haven. In the dark. What was the next day to bring we wondered as we devoured a packet of Fox's Cream biscuits we'd brought with us? Prior to this, a lovely, helpful, spanish only, terrible map drawing garage owner with a dog, had raised his eyes and said the place was dangerous and watch my two daughters...
We laughed that the episode was like the arrival of the heroines to the villa in Italy in the film 'Enchanted April' when they are met for their stay by a servant with a horse and carriage in the pouring rain in the middle of the night. He grabs their cases, runs off to the carriage with them. They follow, waving their brollies, a carriage ride worthy of a Hammer Horror Dracula...and the next morning, opening shutters to blue skies, sun dappled water, red geraniums and smiles. Sleep and let's see.