What the hell am I doing here?

What happened to all this free time I was supposed to have once both children were in full time education? Even before my youngest had got her uniform and book bag, I'd transferred to the full time degree course, filling up the next two years before I could say Geoffrey Chaucer. I'm the same with money; I've spent it before I have it. Never in credit. I would have filled (wasted) the time anyway; I like being busy. So much for having weekends to spend with the family. I've just spent most of it reading Sir Gawain and The Green Knight and trying to understand the Middle English. And then I spent Sunday afternoon trying to free my father from his bathroom. But that's another story involving unidentified spare keys, jumping over fences, shouting through windows of empty bathrooms (he was stuck in the ensuite) and a pair of tweezers.

So now I have to get my head around Sylvia Plath and Bret Easton Ellis, with some difficulty as my mind is still full of knights in shining armour, headless horsemen and married noblewomen offering themselves to young knights while their husbands are out hunting.

I really enjoyed The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. It wasn't anywhere near as depressing as I thought it would be. It's a witty, unsentimental account of a young girl's spiralling depression. And no traumatic reason for the depression; proving that you don't have to have a reason.

Although it is fiction and was originally published in the UK under the pseudonym Victoria Lucas, it was undoubtedly based on Plath's life. But what struck me as disturbing was that she killed herself shortly after it was published. And she was only 30. I couldn't get that out of my mind while I was reading it. The mother in me thinks about her young children being left without their mum.

I could relate to this book; I have had anxiety and depression on and off since my late teens and spent most of my late twenties and early thirties 'in therapy'. There have been times where I've thought a stay in a mental institution would equate to a bit of holiday; being devoid of responsibility and getting a good meal (my appetite never dwindled in my depression). But it wasn't a feeling that lasted long enough to be put into fruition. I remember the anxiety I always felt towards the end of a course of psychotherapy or cognitive behavioural therapy; being scared of 'going it alone'.

I'd never read much of Plath, but The Bell Jar made me want to plough through my poetry anthologies looking for her work; looking for answers in her writing: 'why did you want to die so young?'

***

Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis was uncomfortable and compelling. I'm old enough to remember the materialistic glitz of the 80's. Big perms, shoulder pads and power-dressing. As a teenager in the 80's, I can remember being impressed by the Hollywood image of being young, rich, good looking and driving down Sunset Boulevard in a Ferrari 308 GTS. I wanted to be American. I wanted to be in Beverly Hills.

Now I'm older, I see things very differently. I got annoyed at Clay and his friends. These privileged kids have everything, but are deprived of emotion. What's the point of all that opportunity if you're going to snort it up your nose? (I would have written a very different response fifteen years ago when I thought gonzo journalism was an ideal career option. However, it apparently wasn't appropriate for the Dudley News.)

As for some of the more controversial descriptions in Brett Easton Ellis's account of 80's Los Angeles, I've already been desensitised by reading A.M Home's The End of Alice last year. Where do you go from there?

***

The writing exercise for Reading and Writing the Self's seminar this week is to pick out a memory we'd written about and fictionalise it. I thought distancing myself from my own reality would be easier, but for some reason it's not. I'm limited in my choice of memories and I've only written about the day mum died in specific detail, and now I've written it as a true account, I don't see the point of turning it into fiction. If it had been the other way around and I wrote a fictionalised version first, it may have been easier then to go on re-writing it as myself, as if it were a rehearsal for the real thing.

I do want to work with this particular memory, but I'm not sure how different it would be as a fictional story. However, what if I was a child in the same situation, struggling to understand what was happening?

 

 

Perhaps it’s time I opened up

My youngest daughter has started school full-time today. This is it. This is where I find the part of me which has been lying dormant for six years. I can now get 'me' back. Whatever that is. I'm not sure I know me anymore. I have become a lot more focussed since having children. I have learned how valuable free time is and you grab it where you can, before other responsibilities take over your time and the space in your head. I can now put a lot more hours into studying. This will make a change from snatched hours here and there; between breaking up fights over Barbies, Lego and Play-Doh; sorting out hair and clothes crises (they start young these days); washing and cooking for my family and for the constant stream of foreign students who stay with us while they learn English. I still have to walk the dog, but at least I'm not bribing a four-year-old with the promise of sweets if we do one more lap of the park.

Thinking back to the class last Thursday, I found myself wondering why I was so guarded when we did an exercise to write down the different slices of ourselves. My list consisted mainly of jobs I've had. These weren't even fabulous careers I couldn't wait to show off. They were just jobs. 'Mother' was listed way down and I didn't even touch on the various roles that make up being a mum. When I heard other people's lists, I realised I didn't write anything emotional about myself at all. I hid behind a few job titles and left out the rest. At first I thought I was being a bit thick. But I've had enough psychotherapy (here we go, I'm opening up) to know that my natural instinct is to avoid revealing myself too early. Perhaps I'll go much deeper when I write about a recent memory. I'm still deciding which one. How recent is recent? To me, 15 years ago is fairly recent. But to some of the younger students in our group, that would be as far as their memories go back.

I've been very distracted this week by the five-year-old girl in the news who went missing from outside her home in Wales. April Jones was the same age as my eldest daughter and their smiles are similar. What is so wrong with society that you can't let a young child play with her friends outside her own house? Machynlleth is a small town in Powys, with a population of just over 2,000 (as measured in the 2001 Census). That's not a lot of people. Everyone must know everyone. It is the last place you'd expect something like this to happen. You shouldn't have to watch them every second of the day. Once they start school you have to start trusting other people.

The times I've let mine wander off a bit further out of reach, possibly a little out of sight in our local park. It's fairly wide open with an enclosed playground in one corner. My thinking has been that they're fairly sensible, they won't talk to strangers. Then they always come back, feeling proud that they have been trusted to be grown up. It's okay there's some other parents nearby. I don't know them, but I've seen them at the school. They have children; they won't let anything happen to them, will they? On the BBC's website, it reported: About 500 children under 16 are abducted each year - but the majority of these are parental abductions, according to the Child Exploitation and Online Protection Centre (Ceop). It's extremely rare for children to be abducted by strangers, so who do we trust? How paranoid does a parent have to be to keep their child safe?

Back to the recent memory. I'm still thinking about this. I lived in a garage for a while; perhaps I could elaborate on that? This memory came up as I'm writing in our sun lounge (fancy lean-to and there's no sun) at the moment. The Writing Room is still out of commission. And it suddenly struck me that the garage I lived in with my boyfriend really wasn't much bigger than the sun lounge, maybe just a little wider.

Writing Rooms and Good Parenting Tips

I have my own Writing Room. It was partly the reason we chose this house. A spare room in the attic where I could write any time I wanted. Five years on, it’s still a junk room with a computer somewhere in the corner. It was tidy for a couple of days and I made the most of it by using it to write a short story about a girl who slowly turns into a marionette puppet. Then it soon returned to the purgatory for household items and clothes which we can’t quite throw away. The room has now become so inaccessible that I have bought a laptop so I can write anywhere else, but the Writing Room.

So I sit on the bed next to an antique writing desk, where not a single word has been written. This is partly because I don’t have a stool or chair to go with it. At the moment I have to sit on the bed and lean forward at a 45˚ angle. It’s currently home to the laptop, a pile of books on medieval literature, sunglasses, my daughter’s pink hair clips, The Little Book of Cockney Rhyming Slang, a duster, a lace scarf and a copy of Camberwell Beauty by Jenny Eclair. In between these objects is a light covering of dust, highlighted by the afternoon sun.

My husband has taken the girls out to ‘give mum some peace’. The closest I get to silence is the dog snoring and low level Tinnitus, leftover from a particularly bad ear infection. Even so, I usually end up falling asleep. Today has been different. I feel I’m ‘in the zone’. I have spent three hours deciphering The Miller’s Tale in Middle English and I’m now wondering what it would be like to speak Middle English and perhaps write some kind of time-travelling thriller/horror. Cadfael meets Life on Mars with a sinister twist?

I have been reading ‘I Remember’ by Joe Brainard, which almost reads like prose poetry. I have found it quite inspiring and will try something like it myself to trigger memories and see what comes out of it. We did a similar exercise in the poetry module in Stage 1. I like its style. The lack of details say so much more than the actual words.

4pm. I’m now reading an excerpt from Jeanette Winterson’s ‘Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit.’ I’ve come to the conclusion it’s an advantage to have crazy parents if you want to be a successful artiste. Something to do with childhood trauma setting off new neural pathways into the creative part of the brain. I feel like the weight of guilt has been lifted. I’m not a bad parent, just a bit lazy and perhaps a little selfish. They’ll thank me for it one day. Perhaps Caitlin will give me a mention at the unveiling of her new painting: The Girl Surrounded by Nude Barbies:

‘If it wasn’t for my mother refusing take me and my sister to all the music and dance classes all our friends went to, because she believed spoon-feeding activities was the killer of creativity, I wouldn’t be here now. I was given a choice of an HB pencil and cartridge paper; or a musty oboe she found on Ebay, which came with a Tune a Day book for Beginners and said “Take your pick and teach yourself, I’m off to finish an assignment”. So I picked up the pencil and never looked back. My sister now teaches music in secondary schools. The oboe still plays.’

Marianna

She sat next to him without saying anything, tapping her fingers on the table. Miss Benson came over and said in a low voice, ‘James, this is Marianna. It’s her first day, could you make sure she knows where she’s going for each class? Thank you.’

    Marianna looked at him through the corner of her eye. She had huge eyes, a tiny chin and was very pale. It was creepy the way she could look at him without moving her head. Just a shift of the eyeballs. ‘Hello James,’ she said in an Eastern European accent.
    ‘Hi,’ James said. ‘Where are you from?’ He could hear Miss Benson’s voice from the front of the class. ‘Act 1, Scene 1, line 98. Who’s going to read Montague?’
    ‘Prague,’ Marianna said after a while. James had almost forgotten his question. Again, she didn’t turn her head.
    ‘I’ve been there!’ he shouted out. His teacher looked over. ‘I really liked the place,’ James added. Marianna flicked through her copy of Romeo and Juliet.
    At break time, she disappeared. James was worried she’d got lost. He didn’t see her go. She simply vanished. She came back later, her face like polished wood. ‘Where have you been? Everyone’s been looking for you.’
    ‘Just out.’ Her skinny arms dangled by her side.
    James laughed. ‘You can’t just go out during school.’
    Marianna ignored him. But he wasn’t put off by her frostiness and followed after her. ‘Do you have any brothers and sisters?’
    ‘I have a sister and a brother. Both are older than me. They look after me now that our parents are dead.’ Then she was gone again.
    James could think of little else except how she must have felt losing her parents at such a young age; then coming to a strange country. She was only twelve, the same age as him. He couldn’t imagine going through all that.
    Marianna arrived at the afternoon with dark circles under her eyes and looked even paler. ‘What happened to you?’ Her skin resembled painted ivory.
    ‘What happened to your parents?’ James found the words falling from his mouth.
  Silence.
    He was beginning to give up waiting for an answer, when she spoke. ‘They were burned alive,’ she said, walking away.
    She had a strange walk; like she was being dragged. Her limbs were limp. He hadn’t noticed that about her before.
    Marianna became more expressionless, if it were even possible. Her eyes were fixed. Big and bulbous, as if painted by a young child. She didn’t speak to anyone unless they talked to her. She replied with one word answers. She kept her head down and lugged her limbs around school. He swore he saw bits of string draped around her shoulders, but couldn’t be sure.
    That was it. He was going to follow her home. She intrigued him so much, he couldn’t concentrate. He had to find out more about this strange girl.
    Most of the other kids noticed how weird she was and they laughed at the way she dressed. Her uniform was the school colours, but looked like something from the Victorian age. Older girls were impressed. ‘Wow you’re so Steampunk. Where do you get your clothes?’
    She shrugged and dangled her way through the corridors to her next lesson.
    As soon as the bell chimed at the end of school, James got up and pushed his way through to the door. Marianna had already gone.
    His heart galloped along with his feet to keep her in his sights. She walked for miles, with James darting from tree to bush behind her. It was getting harder to be discreet as she led him down country lanes. Thank God, it was already getting dark.
    She finally stopped at a little stonewalled cottage and knocked on the door. Didn’t she have a key to her own house? Or perhaps she hadn’t gone home. The door opened and an older boy stood aside to let her in. There was no mistaking the family resemblance. He was a caricature of her. The door closed and James was left in the dark.
    He crept up to a bush in the front garden and peered through the window. Another girl was in there, sitting stiffly with string hanging around her shoulders. She had the same complexion as Marianna and the boy.
    James breathed in as long as he could and tried to steady his hands. He realised he’d never felt real fear before. He thought it was strange how he’d got through his first twelve years without ever being truly scared. Until now.
    He knocked at the brass lion face. Marianna opened the door. She spoke without moving her lips. ‘What are you doing here? Please go away.’ She pushed him away. Her hands and arms were wooden. He looked into her eyes. Her pupils were huge. Her eyebrows were painted lines. Her hair was like wire wool. Her brother and sister had equally exaggerated features. Her brother’s nose stuck out in a sneer. Her sister had rosy cheeks in perfect circles. He could smell fresh paint. They had turned into the Marionette puppets he’d seen all over Prague.
    The only word he could find to say was ‘how?’
    A voice came from the brother, whose pursed lips remained still. ‘It’s a curse on our family,’ it said in a Czech accent. ‘Our papa was a puppet maker who worked for Čeněk Procházka, the most famous marionette maker in Eastern Europe. He was very poorly paid despite all the hours he worked on the dolls. So he decided to sell his own puppets on the internet. Why work for a pittance when he could start his own business?’
    James stood as still as their faces. The voice continued, ‘Procházka found out, sacked Papa and put a curse on our family. Mama and Papa knew what was happening as soon as their flesh began to harden and limbs became loose. He told us to get as far away as possible, then he set fire to the house with him and Mama inside.’
    Petrol fumes filled the air as the brother doused himself and his sisters with the clear liquid.
    Marianna picked up a lighter. ‘You must go now. Please don’t see this. Goodbye, James.’

So You Want to Write a Novel

How not to go about writing a novel.

The Ghost (unfinished)

Faces appear, always familiar, but I never know them. I always think I do. I think I'm in a parallel universe dipping in and out of each side. Never belonging to either world.
I sit on the outside, always watching. Always listening. But I'm never involved.
A lady stops me and asks me the time. I want to start a conversation, but I don't. I want to talk to people, but I don't. I'm not good at small talk. I prefer to be deep, but not many people like that, particularly if you don't know them.

I like the insane. I'd be happy working in a mental hospital where people hear voices and see things no one else sees. Perhaps they're from a parallel universe too. Who can tell?
Perhaps the insane are perfectly normal and everyone else isn't. Cats stare at things that are not there, and dogs bark at things we cannot hear. Are they mad too?

I am a ghost, who watches the world go by and people walk right through. I observe people's daily lives, but never get involved. I see the middle-aged woman across the road walking her dog every morning. She has a little Jack Russell, who trots along on his tiny legs as fast as he can to keep up with his owners amble.
I watch the man two doors down go out with his wife who wears sunglasses during the winter and long clothes in the summer.
A harassed mother pushes a pram up the road with a little boy trailing behind. She looks exhausted at half past eight in the morning.

I sit in my group that I go to three times a week and listen to the haunting stories of its members. Some of them make you want to cry for the lives they've lost. But others make you want to scream at them.
I'm not telling people my story although they say it will help. Help me move on and the voices may disappear. But I worry what will happen then. The voices keep me company. They're from my parallel world. They tell me what to do when I can't make decisions. I don't think I can live with the silence.

The woman with the scarf is talking about the disaster she's having with her son in law. I'm trying to work out what the disaster is, but I can only tell that he has bought a whole load of logs for the open fire they didn't need. He's inside her head she says. She wishes he and her daughter would find somewhere else to live and leave her alone. She says she doesn't need looking after.

A man with the jittery knee is contemplating suicide again. I want to get out. I feel suffocated with the depression and paranoia around me. I don't want to help them get better. They don't even want to get better.
The idea is the people who are coming to the end of their year's therapy will help the lost souls who have just arrived. But there's no obvious difference between them.

I have been here for three months and still haven't told them anything about me. I clam up and my mouth cannot be prised open. I'm too busy listening to the voices who tell me that they will hate me if I speak.
I listen to the girl who was beaten by her father and then married at sixteen to be beaten by her husband. What kind of life is that? My problems are nothing like the others. I wasn't abused as a child, or as an adult. In some ways, being invisible is far easier. At least if no one can see me, I can't be hurt.

A woman in her forties talks about the anger of not having her own children. She was too wrapped up in looking after her crack-addicted partner and suddenly she realised she'd left it too late. The drug-addict boyfriend is dead.
And all this is supposed to help? I crave the comfort of my empty flat as the counsellors draws the group to a close.

My heart lifts when it's time to go. And I leave unnoticed while the others have their small-talk and goodbyes.
I wonder if I bumped into anyone, would they notice? Would they feel bone, muscle and body against them, or a soft breeze flutter against their arm? Would they look around at the quietness and shiver?

At home I sit at the window and watch the people live their lives in front of me.

© 2010 Melissa Crow. All Rights Reserved.

Flash Fiction: Life of a Mother

This is a piece of Flash Fiction, inspired by the short story  'Beginning, End' by Jessica Soffer. I intend to develop it further, but it wondered what people thought of it as it is.

Life of a Mother.

You were born during the Second World War. You avoided the bombs and waited for news. Your father returned from the war. You wondered who he was. You went to school and left at fourteen. You were your sister's bridesmaid. You trained to be a secretary. You answered calls at the telephone exchange. You listened to people's conversations.

You met my dad at a dance. He tried to touch you. You slapped his face and went home. You forgave him. You got married. Dad wanted to be an accountant. You told him he'd be the best. When he failed an exam, you said he'd pass it the next time.

Then you wanted a family. You lost a baby. You had my sister. You lost another baby. And another. You cried. You moved to a new town. The doctors were helpful. You gave birth to me. You lost another baby. The doctors said it was for the best.

Your fingers started to stiffen and they wouldn't relax. You fell down. A lot. You went to the doctor. You were sent for tests. They said your muscles were slowly wasting away. Your brother said you'd end up in a wheelchair. You said you would not.

Dad drank too much and was out all the time. You told us things would be okay. The doctor said dad should stop drinking. You diluted his wine and told him he could do it. He hasn't had a drink in nearly forty years.

My sister went to college and started a new life. She told you she was moving to London. You wanted her to stay at home. I went to college and started a new life.

Your walk became a slow shuffle. You fell down more. You were scared to go out. You stayed at home. You watched the trees and the birds through the window. You watched children walk by on their way to school. You told us about what the neighbours were doing. You never complained.

We talked on the phone. It was your lifeline to the outside world. Dad woke you up to announce you were going to be a grandmother. You told everyone.

You met your first grandchild. But you could barely see her. You met your second granddaughter and sang nursery rhymes. You watched them learn to walk.

You developed a cough that went to your chest. The doctor came in. You took the medicine. It didn't help. You told dad you loved him. The whole family came around at Easter. You watched your grandchildren play.

The next morning you watched the Easter service on TV and mouthed to the hymns. You talked to my sister and reminisced about my childhood.

You fell asleep. You didn't wake up.

© 2010 Melissa Crow. All rights reserved.