The Glass Half Full

I started writing a post the other day about the angst I sense in some of my fellow writers. Then I deleted it, feeling sure that what I wanted to say would offend. But the thing is I keep reading angsty stuff – and it bothers me that people would waste so much energy in being counter-productive. There, I’ve said it.

Now I realise this anxiety is not the preserve of only writers (everyone is affected by the same sorts of emotions) but the writerly space is the one I hang out in. And what I see is anxiety which goes around getting published, not getting published, staying published, marketing oneself, finding an agent, not finding an agent, losing an agent, the state of the economy, the effect of the economy on publishing, the effect of digital publishing on the future of writers and gatekeepers. If you worry about it all, I’d guess there’s enough there for a nervous breakdown or spontaneous self-combustion!

I accept it takes all sorts to make a world. I also realise that for the most part, I’m one of those irritatingly glass half-full people. This is the result of life experiences, parents who insisted I look for the positive, my spiritual beliefs and goodness knows what else. I fully accept that life does not always appear to be fair, but I firmly believe that life is what you make of it. You can be a victim or a victor. It’s entirely up to you. No one else, just you.

I, like everyone else, have my baggage – you don’t need to know about it, you just need to know that if you have baggage, I get it – I know what it’s like, and never mind the half empty glass, I know what it’s like to be at the very bottom of the glass. But what I’ve come to understand is that while life throws curved balls and it can deal a shitty hand – it’s ultimately it’s up to the individual to decide how to play the game. You can curl up and die or you can find solutions.

I was watching Kung Fu Panda the other day, for the umpteenth time...

“There are no accidents,” said Master Oogway
“There is just news,” he said, “There is no good or bad.”
“My friend the panda will never fulfill his destiny, nor you yours until you let go of the illusion of control,” he told Shi Fu.
And when Po was angsting over being the Dragon Warrior or quitting and going back to making noodles, Master Oogway said to him: “Quit, don't quit? Noodles, don't noodles? You are too concerned about what was and what will be. There is a saying: yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called the "present." “.
“You just need to believe,” said Master Oogway.

I love that Turtle, really I do.

We spend so much time worrying about tomorrow, fretting about yesterday, troubling ourselves about things over which we have no control. We forget to live, to be. We chase dreams and rainbows and are in turn chased by nightmares and demons. We forget how to believe. We forget that we bring the good or the bad into our lives through our own attitudes and thoughts.

I write because I love to write. I’ve written since I could first string two sentences together. I love to craft a good story, I love to try and make that story the best I can – I enjoy the challenge, I thrive on using my intellect and exercising my creativity. I’ve realized that while it would be deeply cool to be published, and that it would bring a whole lot of new experiences and new learnings (and what is life without new learnings – it’s how we grow), I also know it won’t kill me if I’m not published. Sure, I would love my stories to go into the world – and I believe if they are meant to, they will. I accept that if my getting published is meant to be, it will be. If it doesn’t happen, it wasn’t meant to, and while I am trying, it’s a helluva ride and I love it. As Master Oogway says, there are no accidents; in other words, everything is as it should be in this moment – even if it doesn’t seem to make much sense.

Do you know how much easier that makes life? I don’t sweat the small stuff because there’s no point. I change the things I can change, I influence that which I can. Yeah, I chuck the odd hissy fit, get down and have periodic rants –but none of it lasts long. I do it to acknowledge what I feel or let off steam but I don’t stay in that space because, honestly, I don’t like being negative. Negativity mires us and traps us in sludgy fear. Who’d want to be there? I mean, really? So I accept that there is much I cannot control, and I work within those parameters.

I work hard and I enjoy it. Sure, rejections aren’t fun, but they don’t kill me and they never will. I accept it when someone says, “It’s not right for our list” - it probably isn’t. I accept that perhaps I sent it to the wrong publisher or that the manuscript needs more work – and that gives me something concrete – I can focus on making the manuscript better, that’s in my control. I accept it if an editor says, “The market is saturated” – it means I got my timing wrong – I may have written a great story and that in itself is the victory. Being rejected may suck, but lots of things in life suck – but it doesn’t mean the end of the world. It means it’s time to move on and write something else.

In the same sort of way, I don’t believe in writer’s block, just like I don’t believe in a whole lot of other man-made concepts. Man-made concepts are seldom about the truth. I do, however, believe writing has a rhythm, just like the seasons do. If the words aren’t there today, or I don’t feel like writing, I honour and respect that – and do something else. If, however, I have a deadline to meet, I meet it – that’s about discipline, that’s something I can control because it’s about me and not some funky concept with which too many people to beat themselves up.

You see, we choose how we respond to situations – if we are angry, happy, sad or anxious – that is our choice – no one else is making us feel a particular way – we’re choosing to feel that way. We can just as easily choose to feel differently. It’s like the person who constantly complains about an ache or a pain and you say, “Go and see So-and-So, she’s a brilliant doctor.” And the other says, “Yes, sure, I will…” and they don’t. You know what that tells me? It tells me the person enjoys hanging onto their pain – they’re getting something out of it, they’re getting off on being in that space. If they weren’t, they’d do something about it, even if that means conquering a great fear.

Like I said, don’t think that I write this from a position of having lived the fairytale/dream life. I don’t. I write from this position because I know how tough life can be. But here’s the thing – your glass can be half full, or your glass can be half empty – that’s something you can control – because you choose how you want to be.

So, here’s my wish for all those, writers or others, who’re feeling anxious or gloomy – live in the moment, remember the now – today is a gift, respect and appreciate that. With just a little help from you, tomorrow will actually take care of itself – and it will be what it will be – and whatever that is, it will be the right thing for you.

Believe.

Videos courtesy of YouTube, images nicked from the internet.

Oh, so you're a writer...

So, there was this discussion on the SCBWI-BI group a while ago – about how people respond when you say, “I’m a writer.” The responses are a study in psychology, with possibly enough material for an entire convention...of psychologists, not writers – we-ell, then again, maybe both.

There seem to be two distinct types when it comes to responses, and it depends on how well people think they know you. The better they think they know you, the tougher the experience.

Family members or family acquaintances either provide pitying looks, roll their eyes or pretend they have a gerbil stuck in their ear when I tell them I’m writing a novel. These responses appear to be based on one or more of the following thought processes:

a) she couldn’t string a coherent sentence together if she tried. Poor deluded dolt.
b) writing a book? Yeah, right - what a waster!
c) shame that she will eventually have to realise that she’s just not “famous” material. Her? The next JK Rowling? Ha!
d) she’s never got over being retrenched from “corporatedom”, poor thing.
e) she’s just trying to make out that she’s “different” and better than us. Always been a stuck up little beast. Why can’t she just go off and be a secretary.
f) oh crap, I hope she’s not going to want to tell me about it. I so don’t care.

Occasionally, I’ll get a vague, “Oh, that’s nice, dear.” At which point a jam doughnut is conveniently stuffed into their mouths and masticated with sticky gusto thus preventing further discussion. Very rarely, they may ask, “What’s your book about?” You can rest assured that in this instance their eyes will glaze over before I’ve uttered four words. (Note to self – work on 3 word pitch.) God forbid I should tell them I’m writing for children. Because that, really, is just proof that I:

a) can’t string a coherent adult sentence together,
b) really am just goofing off,
c) am a seriously deluded wannabe,
d) am incapable of holding down a proper job and,
e) am just pathetic and have never grown up,

In the almost unheard of instance when an aunt asked what I was writing, a conversation very nearly ensued. It went something like this:
“Oh, you know cousin X’s ex-girlfriend...?”
“No.” (I’m unsociable like that.)
“Well, she’s just published a picture book. It’s all about sharks. It’s very good, you know. When’s your book going to be published?”
When I muttered darkly about how tough it is to be published (especially somewhere other than my own country), the aunt in question gave me a look which indicated I may well have been some noxious substance on the sole of her shoe, and then stuffed a ham sandwich into her gob.

I have, however, learned to find the positives in these situations; relatives are magnificent fodder for stories. Remember this: everyone is fair game in a writer’s twisted mind. Piss me off, and you may end up as a villain in my next book – and you can be sure my hero will bring you down – hard.

The second type of response usually comes from strangers.

They are lovely – mostly. Strangers are infinitely more supportive and often wide-eyed with wonder that they’ve actually met a real writer (we’ll get to the unpublished bit later). They’re inclined to be interested, fascinated and seriously impressed. I have to tell you, it does a girl’s ego the power of good. Of course, the trade off is they do also want to tell you about this great idea they have for a book (doesn’t everyone) and maybe you could help them write it.

Sitting on the train a couple of months ago, having visited a dear writer pal in Wokingham, the bloke next to me kept trying to make conversation. Now, my mother always told me not to speak to strangers, and when it suits me, I heed her advice. Given that the guys in the next row of seats were as drunk as skunks after a day out at Ascot, I was keeping my head well down. But my fellow passenger was persistent and eventually he asked the inevitable, “Why are you in England and what do you do?”
So I told him.
“Wow… Wow… Wow!” Pause. “Wow… So you’re a writer? Wow!”
(This is the point where girl raises hand to hide smile.)
“So what do you write?”
"Ficion for young adults, you know, older teens."
“Oh wow… That’s…that’s just so amazing. I wish I’d started speaking to you earlier. This is my stop but, wow… I just met a real writer!”
He left the train in a cloud of wonder.

I couldn’t help but imagine what would have happened if I’d been a published author and could have offered him one of my books - which brings me to the point when strangers say, with tremendous earnestness, “So where can I buy a copy of your book?” or "Have I read your book?"

It’s at this point that I feel I’m letting them down terribly. I shuffle a bit, and mutter that thing about how hard it is to write for children, how competitive the market is, how tough it is to get published, how it’s even tougher in the current economic climate – and then we both look embarrassed and run out of words. I try to mumble about the encouraging editor and agent feedback I’ve had, but really, I feel like I must, after trying for so long, be totally rubbish, and I know they think they same. And they smile then, and it’s sort of pitying… and the moment is entirely ruined and I have to turn into the clown and dig us both out of the hole.




See, here’s the thing, the longer one is a writer-in-waiting, the tougher it becomes. People are less inclined to believe you’re doing a “proper job” and are more inclined to believe that you really can’t string those two coherent sentences together. (Because, really, that is all that writing’s about, isn’t it…? Just stringing sentences together…). And so the pitying looks increase, and ultimately, they stop asking you how the book is going. My non-writer friends stopped asking me years ago about my writing – I think they just find it too embarrassing. In some ways, this is a blessed relief - though, sadly, it limits my opportunity to bore them witless about the exploits of some or other make-believe person. Ultimately, it may all go a long way to explaining why I spend a lot of time hanging out in cyberspace with my writer pals and being increasingly reclusive in the real 3D world.

Oh no, wait, I’m not reclusive, I’m very busy working, doing my job - writing and writing and rewriting and rewriting… and then writing again!

The Children of Matsopane Primary School and their Angels

Through the power of the blogosphere, the world is changed, one child at a time.

Matsopane Primary School in Morape, Mozambique

Each time I hear about the cuts in library or school related funding in the UK, I shake my head. When I read the Guardian piece that said, “The coalition's "savage" cuts risk robbing a generation of the chance to improve their lives and risk crushing social mobility”, I nodded. None of it makes any sense, and I am at a loss to understand how anyone could think it is wise to take away the educational elements that enrich a child’s – and ultimately a nation’s – wellbeing and prosperity. I don’t need to preach to the converted and tell you that education and books stimulate the mind and the imagination, that they help to make the world a better place. So I simply don’t get why anyone who has them, would throw riches like this throw away. But perhaps the people who think they know have forgotten history and reality. Probably they’ve never really known what it’s like to have no books, to have no schools - to have little or no access to learning at all.

Limited access to education is a common problem in Africa, and to see it, is to want to do something about it. Because when you see children – eager children full of potential - with nothing to do, no books to read, no school buildings to learn in, it breaks your heart. And if you can, it makes you want to help redress the imbalance between those who you know have and those who do not. And this is exactly what a remarkable group of people are doing for a small community in Mozambique.

Back in 2002 two friends (whom I’ve been fortunate enough to meet through the blogosphere) corresponded about a wildlife and tourism initiative taking place in Mozambique. One friend, Val, lives in South Africa, near the Mozambique border, the other friend, Angela, lives in Germany. Val told Angela about a community which was to be relocated to make way for the project and mentioned that the project’s investors would build schools and a hospital. But, she said, no schooling materials were available for the children whose parents were too poor to buy them and the government refused to supply materials. Angela, who has a lifelong passion for learning, wrote back.

“Let me help! What exactly is needed? Or shall I send money?”
“No money!” Val replied. “But if you could send the items which are needed most, like pencils and exercise-books and chalk and paper and crayons, I would put the package in my car and drive to the schools and drop the parcel right there!”

And so the seeds of the Matsopane Primary School Project were sown.

The children of Matsopane Primary School

As Angela later wrote on her blog, “I hurried off to our shops to buy the materials – one never thinks about how easy life is here, do we? Schools well-equipped, shops full of goods, streets without potholes…quite a difference to African everyday problems.”

In the beginning Angela gave English lessons to the neighbouring children – and from that income she bought pencils, exercise books, chalk and stationery. She would send 20kg parcels to Val, who would take then on the long and dusty road trip to Morape.

Angela's parcels arrive at Matsopane amid much interest and excitement

This little girl wore her best dress for the arrival and opening of Angela's parcels

At first the school teacher was hesitant to accept the parcels, afraid that he would have to pay for them. But when Angela enlisted the help of her neighbour’s Portuguese cleaning lady, she was able to explain that the parcels were gifts from the heart.

As the relationship between the Morape community, Angela and Val grew, Angela managed to find someone, via the wonder that is the internet, who could speak Xitswa, the local language, who helped her to send letters to the children. And the children, in turn, wrote back in Portuguese and sent Angela pictures they had drawn.

The children celebrate and sing at the gifts Angela has sent them and which Val has delivered

“This has become such a heart matter for me,” said Angela in a recent email to me, “with a lot of unexpected turns. For example, the fact that the Portuguese cleaning lady’s daughter was studying medicine and could write me a note for the children, warning them of AIDS infections…or how women of my neighbourhood heard about our project via my little pupils, and they came and gave me the 82 € for the postage, just like that.”

About four years ago the Matsopane school building was destroyed in a cyclone. But this didn't deter anyone.

A classroom at Matsopane Primary School

As Val wrote on her blog in December 2009: “The school is currently a loosely fenced area of sand with a series of classrooms in various states of disrepair. These kids have very little in terms of learning aids, but have no shortage of energy and enthusiasm – especially when it came to the two footballs that tumbled out of one of the boxes! Thanks to the wonderful efforts of our friends in the blogosphere, we will be able to rebuild one of these school rooms in the new year – with a tin roof, cement floor, and real solid walls.
The gesture sounds simple, but it is no small feat organizing logistics, transport of materials by dhow across the bay; getting the approval and co-operation of the Chief, and village elders, and and…but we persevere and at last it looks do-able especially as the fathers of the children now seem willing to participate and assist where they can with labour, moving materials, gathering local materials and so on. It is wonderful to see their enthusiasm and interest.”

The head teacher of Matsopane Primary School

With Val’s encouragement, the local fathers ultimately built the new class room with a solid roof by themselves.

As Angela says, the project is about helping people help themselves – it’s as the old proverb says, “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, teach him to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.”

Over the years, the Matsopane Primary School project has grown – not hugely, but quietly – through the blogosphere. Inspired by Angela and Val’s infectious enthusiasm, blog buddies from all over the world have come together to help and to make a difference.

“This whole thing has turned out for me as a FUN thing,” says Angela, “with heart-warming experiences and many lovely encounters.”

And, as she recently wrote on her blog, “…why I cannot say, but with the beginning of this new year, suddenly ideas and input of our blog pals seem to be exploding. It is the COMBINED good will that makes things happen. Can you see why I am so thrilled? It is the EMPOWERMENT I can sense, and that almost makes me shout with glee.”

She goes on to say, “It looks that we can help the children finally get benches and desks for their school (so far they are sitting on the ground). What is fantastic is that it is the local fathers who will build them, all they needed was the wood and perhaps some tools.”

One of the more poignant stories to come from the Matsopane Project was through the involvement of the remarkable and incredibly talented artist, Tessa Edwards. Tessa, who recently passed away, was an angel in human guise and her idea to get the children to paint picture cards which will be sold in Etsy shops, will leave a lasting – and very special - legacy.

Starting with very little and with no major donor aid, Val and Angela and their friends have helped to give the Morape community a future through its children. And this future is just getting started, it seems, as fellow bloggers, inspired by Val and Geli’s efforts, go on to assist and support other schools and villages in the area. And so we see the gift of giving and the power of education at work – instilling hope where there is none and changing and improving lives.

Thank you!

You can read the latest news about Matsopane on the Matsopane Primary School Project blog.

If you would like to assist or be involved in any way with the project, please leave a comment on the Matsopane Primary School blog or leave a comment on in the comments box of this post and I will put you in touch with Val or Angela (please be sure that there is some way in which you can be contacted).

All images copyright Val

Foul Fowl

Don't, just don't say, "Aw sweet!"

That’s it, I’m done with guinea fowl. I realize given the proliferation of guinea fowl posts over the years that you may not believe me, but it’s true.
Aside from the shredded lawn, the destroyed borders, the quantities of poo and the littering of feathers, we’ve worked out it has cost us the same as a 10 day holiday on a tropical island to keep the beasts content. And for this largesse, what do we get? A lot of dead keets - and savagery.
Yes, savagery.
Enter Rupert the Guinea Fowl.

Rupert the Foul

Rupert has hung out in the garden for the last three years. He arrived as young bird; alone and frightened. Gradually he grew in confidence. He helped out with other guineas keets in the breeding season. He became a stalwart defender of his territory. He took to standing around on the patio table. He demanded, ultimately, his own feeding patch. Oh yes, he grew in stature and confidence.
He tamed a little too – he’d venture close to get a good look at the human who fed him. He’d witter and converse and honestly, as much I was inclined to think of him as Stupid Rupert (because let’s face it, how much brain can there be in that tiny head to manage so much bird), I grew rather fond of him.
But then Rupert found a wife. And then there were keets. 17 of them. All hatched on the last day of the decade.

Papa Rupert and Kids

Having already taken the decision that the Guinea Fowl Inn was closing for business, we were not delighted. Keets don’t flourish in this garden. I suspect years of birds and squirrels has seen a rise of pathogens which wipes them out. So we didn’t encourage them and were delighted when after a day they found the gap between gate and wall and headed into the big wide world.
Sighs of relief all round.

What's that? Is it a berry or a stone? Can we eat it?

"D'ya think there bugs in the cracks, dear?"

Mr and Mrs Rupert, snoozing en famille

But then they came back.
And the bravest one decided on an adventure - an adventure which took him through the tiny hole in the back gate, separating him from his family and resulting in the loudest imaginable peeping. (How so much noise can come from something so small is beyond me.)
Nevertheless, it was Guinea Fowl Goddess to the rescue. For my sins. Which are evidently plentiful.
As I bent down to rescue the small peep, a dark shape leapt on the wall. An angry shape. A shape with wings extended and heckling as though we’d hit the End Times at speed and in a foul mood.
“Bugger off, Rupert,” I snapped, “Don’t be such an arse, I’m trying to help.”
He was having none of it.
He launched himself at me.
Let me assure you there is nothing quite like an enraged guinea fowl coming in for the kill.
He opened his beak and shrieked. He extended his claws and his neck and attacked.
I grabbed a stick to beat him off as he flung himself at me first from the wall, then from the ground, then again from the wall, all the while screaming abominable insults and curses, which I daren’t repeat.
I screamed back, of course. In the interests of decency, I can’t repeat what I said either.
I finally shooed him off, rescued the keet and trotted out to the driveway to return it to its parents.
A thank you?
Not a chance.
Rupert, beside himself with fury, puffed himself up and flew at me again, bellowing obscenities.
I returned them with equal measure, picked up a pebble and flung it at the beast.
“HEEEECK!” screeched Rupert.
I brandished a branch at him and roared.
“SCREE-EECH!” he echoed as he dived over the wall.
“That'll teach you not to bite the hand that feeds you!” I snapped, and called him several unmentionable names.
Rupert and family cleared out the next day.
But guinea fowl have short memories and two days later they were back - and successfully managed to lose three adventuring keets in the back garden.

Three little keets are we...filled to the brim with keetish glee...
(I hope you know your Gilbert and Sullivan.)

After two hours of peeping, I took pity, grabbed the yard broom and set off to the rescue.
Rupert heckled once. I brandished the broom at him.
“Don’t!” I snarled, “Just don’t…even…think…about it!”
He squawked, muttered and vanished over the wall while I herded the keets to the driveway and through the hole in the wall.
Let’s hope that that’s the end of it.
Otherwise I do have a very nice French recipe for guinea fowl stew.

Nap-time with Papa Rupert