My Gran and Other Animals.

   Today is the one year anniversary of my Nans passing, and here I wanted to share the lighthearted autobiographical piece I wrote about her and read at her funeral. It's comforting to remember her as she was, I hope you like it.

My Gran and Other Animals.

We’re in the kitchen Nan and me. Its morning and there is a small long haired Yorkshire Terrier sitting with it’s nose pressed against the radiator behind the kitchen door. I do not know this little animal.

It’s not a new experience, finding mystery furry creatures in the house. In the 70’s Nan was always bringing home strays of the four-legged variety. One actually rang the doorbell one night, a small pregnant tabby cat we named Mitsy, on account of her soft mitteny fur. She stayed about 15 years and took her last breath in Mum and Grans arms.

Nan never could resist a furry face.  She once got in a fight with a very large man on Cloudsley Road because he hit his dog. “Pick on someone your own size!” she said.

     “What are you like Nan?” I said, “Giving me a heart attack with the fighting with big men over dogs.”

If I grabbed one of her jackets to pop to the shop, I would always find the following in her pockets; Tatty bits of tissues, monkey nuts for squirrels, special dog choccy buttons and smelly biscuit animal treats, particles of which would inevitably end up under my nails.

“Nan” I’d say, “Its like pets-R-us in these pockets, what are you like?”

“Well, I have to have something for all my furry little friends” she’d say.

These days Nan had moved from bringing home strays, and feeding any living thing that showed up (including a wounded pigeon that got stuck in a neighbours airy for a week, “I gave it boiled chicken and ham” she told me) to looking after other peoples animals, mostly without mentioning it to me or mum beforehand.

On occasion she would hide them in her room, then release them quietly into the house hoping we wouldn’t notice (It’s hard not to notice a black and white mongrel watching your telly with it’s paws up). She was afraid we would say no, a word foreign to Gran.

“Nan, why is there a small dog staring at the radiator?” I say.

     “Oh it’s not staring,” she says, “It’s blind.”

     “Right,” I say, “Who’s is it?”

     “It’s Eileens, she’s visiting relatives in Wales.”

     “What’s its name then?”

     “Ooo, I don’t know,” she says, ‘”I’ve forgotten it.”

     “You don’t know its name?” I say.

She’s not really concentrating. She’s looking in draws, sorting and rummaging, apparently trying to find her lottery ticket. The sun newspaper is open, waiting, with the numbers ready for her to check. She is wearing a pair of wonky glasses, having only one arm on them, they are the most recent victim of her propensity to sit on things.

She actually sat on mums cat ‘’Rhettmans’ once. We feared for his organs. Mum cried out in panic. “I’m nowhere near him,” Nan said. The cats face expressed adamant disagreement, and he velcroed himself to mum, who spent the evening kissing him, rolling her eyes at Gran and making jokes that I should watch myself or nanny might squash me.

“I do know it’s name, it’ll come to me in a minute,” Gran says, having located the lottery ticket, “wont help anyway, it’s deaf.”

     “It’s deaf and blind,” I say, “how does it know it’s alive?”

      “I don’t know,” she says, “it’s very old, it’s got no teeth either.”

     “Poor thing,” I say, wanting to stroke it but fearing I’ll give it a heart attack to add to it’s troubles.

     “Oh that’s it name,” she says, having finally sat down, “it’s Wanda.”

     “Wanda,” I say, “It’s a wonder all right, a wonder it’s alive.”

She can’t help laughing, and gets up to open a pouch of food.

“How’s it gonna eat that?” I say, watching her intently, as if waiting for a magician to perform a trick.

     “Aah bless It,” she says, giving it a little stroke, and gently putting it’s face in the juicy meat, “it’ll have to gum it I suppose.”

It’s present day, the phone is ringing. Someone answers, there’s a silence, a rustling, and a pressing of buttons. I know this drill, so I wait. “Hello,” she says finally.

     “Oh hello,” I say in a  posh official voice, “I’d like to speak to Smuffy Gran please, is she available?” (Smuffy is my nickname for her) I hear giggles down the phone followed by a little snort of laughter.

She tries to put on the same voice, “Yes, Muffy Gran speaking,” she says. She always misses the S, but her willingness to play along delights me.

     “How are you Gran?” I say.

She does another big snort laugh and I know what’s coming, her latest faux pas. Examples of which include; riding her bike wearing her jacket upside down, putting the cat food in the tumble dryer and then not being able to find it, realising at 3.30pm whilst standing in front of the fresh meat section of Marks and Spencer that she has been wearing odd shoes all day, and spending a whole weekend looking for her false teeth only for mum to spot them hanging off the back of her cardigan when she gets up to close the shutters Sunday night.

     “What have you done this time Gran?” I say.

     “I tried to ring Barbera on the sky remote control,” she says laughing, “I wondered why the telly kept changing channels.” I crack up, this is possibly my favourite to date. “ Nan,” I say, ‘”they broke the mould when they made you.” 

They did.

By Kelly J Hitchen July 2013.

Blocked?

I've never thought of myself as a blocked writer, because whenever I want to write I can. I have never ending ideas, and the well doesn't feel dry for me.

But tonight I am reading chapter two of Julia Cameron's wonderful book The Artists Way, and I've had a bit of an eye opener!

The truth is I haven't worked on my main novel for a long time, and though I have done bits and pieces of writing and did send a story out to Alfie Dog fiction which they published on line, called 'Remaining silent'...I AM actually pretty blocked, stay with me I will explain.

I always thought blocked was can't write, stuck for ideas, nothings coming, the lights on but nobody's home...but a new understanding of blocked has come to me as Julia talks hard truths about 'crazy makers' and the way we 'use' each other.

I have blamed and bemoaned the fact that I write so little on account of my health issues, which to be fair it probably is largely to do with that.  I am recovering from very long term ME, which apart from having Doctors insult me for 14 long years about my health issues, it turns out that I have had some pretty serious problems going on, and a vast array of them, least of which include the fact that my cells don't make or recycle enough ATP, which is basically energy!

All this affects my focus, and my ability to just sit and work, to push through and get on with anything. As I type there is so much washing up in my kitchen not one bit of surface space is visible. It's choices, do I write this blog and have a bath, or do I wash up. I don't have the energy resources to do them all, frankly I've chosen this. I haven't written a blog in nearly a year. The washing up can wait.

So my health issues do get in the way of my writing, but as I unravel the psychology side of my condition, which obviously is important (and I feel validated to do it now I don't have GP's telling me it's in my head) I can see some important connections between my creativity, and my belief system and the things that are unhelpful in my life and the reasons that I allow them.

I'm not blocked for ideas or inspiration, but I'm blocked in what I believe about myself as a creative, and I avoid this and keep myself blocked by choosing (or I have done in the past) what Julia calls 'crazy makers'. Destructive ego centred people who's 'drama' is distracting and energy sucking.

If I'm really honest, and I was brutally honest with myself, I saw that to a degree I have been a 'crazy maker' to my boyfriend, also a creative, a deeply talented one. Always some crisis with my health, just when he has set time aside to work on his music...

But here's the thing, I can also see that he has used me as his 'avoidance' also. We have both been blocked. Blocked as in an unconscious self destructive pattern of allowing and creating distraction in our lives, because we are willing to go to any lengths to stay blocked because of the alternative...

The threatening and at times terrifying challenge of living a creative life of our own and achieving success in our chosen field.

"Our crazy maker is a block we choose for ourselves to avoid our own trajectory" Julia says, and I agree.

The crisis of my long term ill health, and being in an unhelpful dynamic with another blocked creative, who mutually use one another unconsciously and create distraction from the thing we are both afraid of, really cuts off my creative energy and leaves me wiped out, miserable and frustrated. This is not a comfortable realisation.

It's a brave and courageous life to live as a creative. To give up the securities that others enjoy (until or unless one is successful). The self discipline one needs to have, the strength to cope with rejections and, for me, to be any writer at all I have to reveal myself, be willing to be vulnerable and authentic in my work 9and relationships), and that's risky and scary.

My partner and I are having a brief time out, a successful decision really, one that has led me to come realisations like this. We will be much better together unblocked and self aware. We just needed some space to break the pattern, and break it we hopefully will.

For me, I need to be aware of the self destructive choices I make to give my energy where I should preserve it. It's important as creatives who we choose to spend time with and be around. Drama and negativity suck energy, suck creative energy clean away and replace it with more 'block,' more distraction from the creative life that would make us fullfilled.

I got the following quote for Brene Browns book 'The gifts of imperfection'...

"Don't ask what the world needs.  Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it.  Because what the world needs is people who have come alive."

In the movie 'The Dark Crystal,' the baddies (Skeksis) suck all the life energy from the little people called Gelflins (who are very pretty also, and mostly look like Victoria Beckham!) and they walk around grey and sad inside, listless and apathetic.

I think a lot of people feel like this, and don't realise how the choices we make, the boundaries we don't have, and the inability to protect or even believe we deserve to protect ourselves and our creative life force, from the negative destructive energy of some of the people in our lives, means we walk around grey like the Gelflins.

I want to take responsibility for my God given gift of creativity, be honest with myself and start creating a creative life of my own, bravely allowing myself to be unblocked and walk into the mystery of what will unfold with a heart of faith rather than fear...

And now that bath...nurturing self is very good for creativity! (Even if the kitchen stinks!)

Hurrah!

So since I last wrote 2 days ago, I have made a start!

Yesterday I did a final edit on a short story called 'Remaining Silent.'

I also reviewed a piece I began work on when I was doing Lynne Barrett-Lee's short story writing course at Cardiff University 'Telling Tales' (I highly recommend this course). I'd like to develop this piece into a short story.

Today I worked on a short story I also began on the above mentioned course called 'Smells like May' which I like as it's written in the 2nd person, a style I enjoy because I love the energy and immediacy it produces, and also that it's not used that often so it feels quite fresh.

I also read the first 3 weeks worth of notes from the Telling Tales course and wrote all the key points up on the wall (I use lining wallpaper and pin it to the wall, something I learned whilst doing my Degree in Acting. Big piece of plain paper for scrawling on and brainstorming, I find the movement helps my creative process, and writing things big in colour gets my brain juices going!)

I then had an idea to write some backstory for one of the main characters in my novel. I'd like to develop him and give him more depth. The female character in my novel is so fully realised that you are straight in there with her, and on her journey, but the guy not as much and I don't think I did enough work on him in my planning...

Well let's face it, I didn't do any planning. I wrote the opening lines of the novel on a napkin on one of the rare occasions I was able to leave the house, about 14 years ago, just after I first collapsed and became housebound!

I wrote the novel little by little over the years, on bits of paper when I was able to sit up in bed.  Sometimes when I couldn't sleep until 4am, I would grab a piece of paper and just write down the characters thoughts, sometimes I'd manage to write a whole scene.

Sometimes I wouldn't write anything for months, or even a year and then a few years back I stayed with some friends for a long spell, and they cared for me, cooked for me, and it meant I could use the strength I had to try and piece all the thousands of bits of paper together into some kind of coherent narrative.

It took several months, but I did it.

But now I have a six part novel, that needs serious editing, and I find the prospect completely overwhelming. It seems just too much to try and hold in my head, when concentration is so tough anyway.

I have learned a lot about the planning process and would never write a book the same way I did that one! I wonder wether to write a different book using the planning skill's I've learned and maybe go back to the first one when my health and stamina is much improved?

Procrastination! Yuk.

Anyway, I have made a wonderful start, and it feels so empowering to be able to sit at a desk again, even if it is only for a short while. I have been productive!

The fear creeps in, 'how long will it last?' and the answer is I don't know, but I do know that I'm learning new skills to manage my health condition and support my body's systems.

I may not be able to do some writing every day, but I can keep being honest about my process in this blog, and do what I can. I can just show up and see what happens.

Some Kind of Start, Methinks...

Sadly my health nosedived around the time of my last blog post back in January, and I have not done any creative writing since.

In my list of reasons I wrote at the start of the year, as I thought about things that distract me, health problems were on the list.

I don't want to dwell on that much, it is what it is, but I've been thinking about how to start writing again, when I feel so out of that space and I guess full of all the self doubt I had when I wrote the distractions list.  Writing that list got me started, so I thought why don't I blog about the 'not' writing?

Perhaps it will free me up to write again.

Get the bogies out of my unconscious into the light where I can see them.

I suppose the disappointment of finding myself too unwell to focus or sit at the desk was really hard. It felt devastating.  It's happened more times that I can count.

I had started to get a flow going, started building stamina that I hoped would take me back to being able to have a go at editing my novel. I so want to finish that thing!!

I also had categorised every idea or piece, including just notes, for stories and projects I had written dating back to when i was a kid, and I could see I had an impressive body of work to get stuck into.

I had started to believe in moments that I could actually do this, be an author who produced regular work.

What my work needs is hours, time. To put in the hours, to persevere, to go over to get the standard as it needs to be. My health condition has meant so little energy, and being able to work up to an hour at most. Super frustrating.

Now I am slowly recovering, very slowly. I am also advised not to push myself as my Mitochondria (the energy component of the human cell) needs to recover from the relapse I have had.

So, how do I start writing again, with limited energy and focus, when one needs to get the flow going and 'get into it', which takes about the time I'd have to work?

Do I just accept that until I recover more I just cant put in the time at a desk? Do I at least start blogging again? (my brain really needs something to think about outside my recovery).

Do I just start reading the first draft of my novel, meaning I don't have to be sitting at my desk?

The answer is, I really don't know.

But here's a good thing...I've been threatening to start blogging again for a couple of weeks now, and today, even if it was right before bed, I have done it!

Some kind of start, methinks...

So Much to Say!

One of the things I find really frustrating, is that I have so much I want to write about, and so many project ideas, sometimes I don't know where to start.

I constantly have new ideas, and ideas for my older ideas...

I'm passionate about so many things, and want to explore them through writing.

When will I ever find the time and energy for all these projects?

I have a novel that needs a lot of editing, that I want to finish to standard, and send off. It's a rites of passage novel, about drug addiction and it's repercussions.

I also have rough outlines, I want to turn into clear detailed coherent outlines for 4 books, that have themes of soldiers, Afghanistan and the many ways that impacts all individuals involved.

I also have limited time per day that I can concentrate mentally and get any work done.

Then there's short stories to adapt, finish and prepare for sending off...

All around me there are stories and inspiration, things that matter, things I want to explore.

I feel frustrated by my own limitations.  Yes frustrated.

I want to do so much!

Don't we all.

I guess I will just make a start and do what I can today.

Oh, and I found the first novel I ever wrote yesterday.  It's dated, but there's some really juicy stuff in there and I had a idea of how to re write it.  I even had a new title for it, and into my head last night popped the theme. It was exciting, and I thought;

      I need about 10 lives all happening at once so I can do all these projects!

I guess I need to decide what's burning the most.  What project is the kid in the class with it's hand up, bursting, and yelling, "Pick me!"

Perhaps a little 'cultivating patience' is required too. (Smile).

How I love William.

Throughout my life people have tried to teach me to understand Shakespeare.

Some have been more successful than others.

I have read books. I have a degree in Acting from Middlesex University.  I have been in various productions of Shakespeare and even played Hamlet.

I understand some of his plays better than others, in this I doubt I am alone.

Sometimes I don't really understand at all and yet the language still moves me, the rhythm, the words.

It can be quite a profound experience for me.

Hamlet is my favourite.  Endless brilliant quotes from various characters, that role off the tongue, speak truths and make philosophers of us all.

Today I wanted to share my favourite sonnet.  The language and meaning of which impacts me in ways I cannot articulate, and wont, so you can have your own response.

I will say this. I'd read and liked this sonnet for a long time before the day I read it and GOT IT, like a thwump in the heart, some flower opening up inside and releasing it's scent.

Enjoy!

Sonnet 29.

When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

Trusting the Discovery.

One of the most important things I'm learning about being a writer is that it's about discovery, not control.

It's been said to me that writers have a lot of control, and in some ways that is true.

We can make characters live or die, by the choices we make in what we write.  Create babies and bring new life; send stories down any path conceivable.

With a pen and paper/keyboard and screen, we can be a little 'like God'.

However, I seem to write the most effective and powerful pieces when I show up at the desk, and enter the unknown prepared to discover.  Trusting that something will be created from nothing.  That it isn't all about me.

Create. A verb
1. to bring into existence
2. to cause something to happen as a result of one's actions.

Into existence.

Cause something to happen.

This is not to say that I don't have some kind of plan, or a strong idea of what I want to say, or the theme I am going to explore.  I may even be quite clear about a character.

I may have a structure of the story or novel.  Or I may have none of these things, and start with nothing, trusting that even the planning will come.

I start somewhere, and like an act of faith,  I trust that I will discover how this story unfolds, how the theme is explored, how this journey takes place.

Before I saw it like this, I was too afraid to start anything.  Too afraid "I couldn't do it" (as I shared at the start of the year).

Tasks just felt too big for me.  My ego couldn't take the pressure.

My good friend and actress Sarah Baron, has asked me to write a one woman show for her to perform in a festival in Scotland in June.

We just spent some time together talking over, brainstorming and making notes about the theme of the piece, the characters, where it's set, what we want to say basically.

Now I have to write it.  I have to write a 25 min piece, with 4 different characters, that has redemption, engages an audience, tells a story, and serves our theme.

That's the sort of thing that would normally have me hiding in the nearest vat of chocolate.

But not when I choose to trust the discovery, and put in the sweat.

I have not got a clue what to write, and I'm a bit scared about it.

But I recognise that there is work and planning I can do, and then it's an act of faith again. It's just showing up, trusting in what I've learned along the way, and that I do have some skill as a writer, and just begin.

It's a sort of spiritual experience.

I read it somewhere, or heard another writer say, that it's like the thing is already written somewhere 'up there,' and I'm just showing up to tune in and channel it into being 'here'.

So I think being a writer is not about control and power. It's about the creative process of just showing up, of trusting, of knowing it will happen, of entering the unknown and discovering.

Show up. Start somewhere.  Trust the discovery.