September sun

Hello lovely bloggers! I hope the summer has been good and kind to you, and you are all pushing forward with your creative dreams. Do you feel refreshed and eager to forge ahead?

September is my favourite month. It hides a birthday (nope! Not telling! But not a decade changer. *grins*) .

I always feel that birthdays are our individual New Year – the world does a personal pivot and everything and anything is possible. My favourite colours come out to play in September – the beautiful russet and gold-tarnished leaves, the smudged sunsets and chalky sunrises. The last display of the sun is always its most spectacular, reminding us not to forget as the year grows dark and gathers itself inside to crouch by the fire. The blues of the sky shine with a frosted tinge felt in the extremities of morning and evening. Blooms and blossoms are soporific with berries – a woodland walk during daylight hours smells warm and content. The natural world is slowly preparing its bed, although there’s plenty of time yet for one last waltz – Nature saves its best frocks for such an occasion, and dresses each tree and bush with extra garlands. There is so much potential in this magical time of year.

I’m having a bit of a slow dance with the novel at the moment. I feel like I’ve been precariously clinging to the side of commuter life but lost my grip earlier this year and got suddenly and rudely whooshed down the plug hole into the thick of it. There are no port-holes down there; it’s a whirl of Stuff, like a mini cyclone – all of it claiming panicked dominance one after the other after the other – no time to breathe, to take stock of what feels right, what feels important. Every so often I cling to a ledge and try to focus on my heart’s desire – at which point Stuff will shriek with laughter and tug at my arms until I’m back whirling again, all raggedly around the edges.

But occasionally a rope is thrown towards me from above - usually from Wise Lovely Friends, who know me very well indeed, and understand I’m prone to Stuff and Worries. Sometimes I even tear work shirts into strips and make my own escape rope – and  although that is a far rarer occurrence; it does happen, as eventually even a whirly person gets fed up of being whirled and decides to take control.

So I’m clambering up again. I’ve got a holiday booked – a real-honest-to-God-proper-holiday – with beach, sun, swimming, and relaxing. A chance to have a think about where I’m going and what I want to achieve. And I think blogging regularly again will help massively – I’ve missed my connection with authors and artists – from self published stars to wannabe writers, from people up at 5am to scribble stories to people making scrapbooks for their next artistic project, from stylish bloggers who inspire with photography to thoughtful bloggers who make me think, smile, and plan perfect interiors for my castle in the sky. I’ve missed you all! You’re a big part of my creative life.

I’ll be back from my holiday on the 15th September – and will hopefully bring tales of azure sea and sun-kissed sand, of ancient white-washed stone houses guarded by olive trees, of bustling market places in fountain-splashed courtyards, of glistening harbours and boats laying anchor, and of a girl, her friend, their sketchbooks, and possibly a few stray cat buddies.


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See You In September

I’ve not gone away; I’m just being quiet
Too much turbulence caused by emotional riot
I’m thinking in September that time will start anew
Energy will flow once more and this blog will renew
But until then I’m collecting stories and ideas
Conjuring grand plans to karate kick wet sand into fears
I wish you all well in your artistic endeavours
And look forward to catching up in calmer weather
In the meantime if you've a hankering to chat or to witter
Please do click this link and you'll find me on Twitter

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Per aspera ad astra!

Through difficulties to the stars!

Where's me hands?!

It’s been very hard to write anything over the last couple of months, and testimony to that is the lack of blog posts. When you’re feeling sad your fingers are sad too; they droop and wilt over the keyboard, complain of headaches when they strike the keys, and refuse to type anything other than exceedingly bad poetry. But when writing stories is the thing that seems to complete you; that defines how you see yourself; that is at once relaxing and fun and provides escapism, then sooner or later it’ll be time to pick up the metaphorical quill again.

There is so much to say and perhaps I’ll soon catch up relaying marvellous events – there was a brilliant vintage hen party complete with Victory rolls and garnished by the Best of British Swing Ball (a dance, not a sport). There was an amazingly gorgeous wedding in a 15th century Royal Palace. There has been much riffling through vintage fairs to find gorgeous dresses (for above wedding), a visit to Somerset that sparkled through the rain-drops, a boy-band concert that was a nostalgic teenage time-warp, and dancing – much dancing, with a 1940s rock-step and Charleston happy feet.

But there have also been many moments of reflection and wondering about my Curriculum Vitae – my journey (course) through life. Oh, so much Latin today! Partly I’m excited for the future – all those possibilities – but equally I’m fearful, and that’s the problem. There’s a pesky internal scuppering that seems to go on behind the scenes and I’m sick of it! Begone, scampering scupperers.

And what about the never-ending story? What about The Novel? The good news is that I did a read-through a few days ago and like it more than ever. The better news is that I’ve booked two whole days off the 9-5 to write my fingers (and thumbs) off, which is coming up just around the nearest weekend-shaped corner. Bring it on, I say. Let's visit those stars.

The Facebook Friend

'I don't do Facebook', I said, laughing, when my Aunt Olivia asked. She tried to convince me, saying it was a great way to stay in touch, but I demurred. It didn't stop her from finding me on Facebook, though - an empty account set up so a friend could show me some photos - and sending me a friend request. It popped up in my email but I didn't confirm, and so got used to seeing a reminder each time Facebook tried to snarl me.

‘You have a friend request!’ it would say, and there my aunt would be, smiling out from her profile picture.

We were in touch in other ways, of course. She was the friendly face who understood me, the warm voice on the end of a phone, the person who always remembered what was important to me, who took time to ask about my life. We shared the same (rather dark) sense of humour. She got on with everyone – a practical, pro-active person who didn’t dwell in the past but lived for the moment, for the future.

Perhaps familiar with other families who have experienced a lot of bereavement, there is a tendency to look behind, to think that the best of times have already been and gone, something I found very hard to deal with as a young teenager still growing into her life. Olivia’s way of looking ahead was always a much needed breath of fresh air to me and yet she was incredibly thoughtful, such as suggesting that we hold a party on the 20th anniversary of my dad’s death to celebrate his life, and being there for me – and for my mum especially – in so many ways.

When we found out Olivia had cancer a few years ago it was devastating. She took it in her stride, and her positive outlook and strength sent it into remission. During this time we lost another aunt of mine, also to cancer. It felt like there had been some sort of impossible trade – one aunt had sadly passed away but that meant the other stayed, surely?

Sometimes answers to questions stay silent.

The cancer came back in March with frightening speed. Now the talk was palliative, not cure. Now we all heard the invisible clock relentlessly ticking. But we tried to bat that far, far away as we chatted around her bedside. She described her illness as ‘such an inconvenience’ and jokingly told me to ‘keep the receipt’ for the slippers I bought her. She stayed her upbeat, practical self, despite the discomfort and pain, surrounded by beautiful flowers and everyone who loved her.

She passed away last week aged 56.

I opened my email today. ‘Olivia wants to be friends with you’ says the Facebook reminder.

I hope my aunt realised that I was always her friend.

Aunty Olly
1955 - 2012