9/11/21

I’m not American, and I have never been to New York (although it is scrawled on a bucket list of places to visit, somewhere in between New Zealand and the Canadian Rockies). 

I didn’t know anyone working in or visiting the World Trade Centre or any of the people on the planes, and have never met any of the emergency service personnel involved. I have no first hand links of any of those terrible events.

The last thing I want to do today is upset anyone who has close links – which is why I am putting my thoughts here, rather than being another post on the overwhelming rolling feed of Instagram or Twitter. And yet… I can’t let today pass without some sort of a comment. A recognition. A note to say ‘I remember’ – no, more than that. A note to say ‘no one will ever forget.’

But I still feel the cold stab of horror, the incomprehension of what I was seeing as clearly today as I did twenty years ago. It’s as if I can taste the dust and ash. Tears well up simply at the thought of those events. 

And I don’t ever need to see the pictures again, because they are branded into my brain. For ever.

I have no recollection of where I was or what I was doing when the planes went into the Twin Towers – my day-to-day existence paled beside what was happening. My entire consciousness became filled with pure disbelief, then horror, then immense, overwhelming sadness. My emotions were slowly replaced by the countless tales of ultimate sacrifice and bravery, the stories of messages left on the phones of loved ones by people who knew they were going to die, the guilt felt by survivors…

Nothing can change what happened on 9/11/01. But if you are lucky enough to have loved ones – today has to be a day to give them an extra big hug. Today is the day to reach out and connect with the people who matter. To do something you enjoy. To stand for a moment in the sunshine. To appreciate life.

How Hard Can It Be?

I remember thinking this when I decided to write a novel. It was about five years ago, I had a block of a few hours every afternoon to myself and I’d always fancied having a go at writing a book. 

As it turns out, my naivety knew no bounds…

But we only know what we know. None of us is gifted with knowledge past our own experiences. And so, I had no way of comprehending just how hard it is, when I sat down to write that first ‘novel’. I didn’t know it when I sent that first draft away for critique, or when the critique came back suggesting I should go away and learn how to write a novel. I had a stab at a rewrite, then put it in a drawer and began something new.

I didn’t even grasp how hard it can be when I sent part of my third ‘novel’ away for a multiply published writer to take her hatchet to. And, boy, did she ever totally eviscerate my writing and get unnecessarily personal whilst she was at it. Her criticism was extreme. It was enough to make me consider turning tail and running for the hills. Taking up crocheting instead. Or chess. Or deep-sea diving. But I’m very determined when I want to be (some might say bl**dy minded…) and I managed to separate emotion from advice, absorbed the useful bits and sallied forth with a determination which had deepened, rather than waned.

Even when people began to tell me my stuff was good, I hadn’t grasped it. Because throughout all these formative experiences I still had no idea how little I truly understood about the world I was getting into. There was too much ‘I’ and ‘me’ involved in the whole thing. I hadn’t grasped the nettle of what I was trying to achieve – and for whom.

And perhaps the question I should have asked myself back then was how hard can it be to write a decent novel? Because it isn’t difficult to string 90,000 words together into a story and call it done. What is hard is to craft it into something entertaining and fulfilling for the reader. To leave them with more than they had before they opened the cover. To make them smile, or sigh, or laugh, or cry. To leave them thinking about the characters long after they close the pages. To make them want to come back to your books time and again…

I’m edging towards understanding, I think. My first novel (of publishable standard) is a little over a month away from its launch date. I’m building a solid foundation from which I hope to develop, with the help of my wonderful publishers, Champagne Book Group.

What I’m saying is that nothing worth doing is easily achieved, in any field. And that’s as it should be. Finding things hard to achieve is what makes the achievement worth holding close to our hearts. Never give up. Never give in. 

These days I have an alternative question for that naïve version of myself…

Why would you want it to be easy?

Oh- and why puffins? Well… Why not? 

Plus, I couldn’t work out how to import the picture I really wanted, and rather than destroy something in frustration, in this instance I am taking the path of least resistance, instead…

The Case of the Mysterious Disappearing Blog

During lockdown my focus has been hard to maintain. My mind flits off in all directions, making creating anything meaningful a challenge. The writing of blogs completely disappeared from my mental ‘to do’ list. I mean, everyone’s got enough on their plates, right now, without me wittering on as well…

But the other day I got all keen, wrote a blog about whether or not we’re getting a handle on the virus situation (not really), or whether we are like those people at the beginning of pretty much every apocalyptical film I’ve ever watched. You know the ones, carrying on as if nothing is wrong whilst the massive tsunami builds, or the volcano ramps itself up, or the zombies gather in a disused quarry hemmed in by little more than a conveniently placed burnt out car. 

I published the blog, went to check how it looked, and ‘pouf’ – it was nowhere to be seen. I expect I did something wrong, pressed the wrong button or whatever. It’s probably hovering in the ether somewhere, wondering why nobody loves it. But I love a good conspiracy theory, so you can imagine where my thoughts went next.

To cheer myself up, I watched ‘World War Z’. I mean, there’s nothing more uplifting than realising things could be so much worse. Plus, it stars Brad Pitt (with too much hair, in my opinion. And his jaw isn’t quite Rob Lowe chiselled, but I made do…)

And then I went to the wholesalers, and stocked up. Just in case. We now have enough rice for about five years. The dog has Bonio treats galore, and I couldn’t find a bigger pot of hot chocolate powder in the place.

I did leave the powdered milk on the shelf. I didn’t want to be totally fatalistic. I mean, they’ll sort this thing out, right?

Maybe I should have got the milk…

In the Beginning…

The blank computer screen with its blinking cursor is intimidating enough when I’m starting to write a new novel. Chapter 1, Page 1. Gulp. But that’s nothing compared to staring at this blank page… 

Fiction is a walk in the park compared to trying to decide which aspect of real life I want to write about. When I’m writing fiction, I can have my characters do just what I want them to do. Waggles eyebrows in a dictator-like fashion. It’s the best fun. Except when my characters tell me, in no uncertain terms, that they don’t want to conform to my plan and proceed to tell me what they intend to do instead.

Hmm. Perhaps this blog thing won’t be so different, after all. 

I’ve spent the majority of my life listening. I’m the quiet one. I’m the one set on receive, rather than send. I’m happy like that. ‘Introverted’ appears to be the official title, but I like to think I’m more complicated than a label. And my forty-something (clears throat to hide exact number) years on the planet has proved to me that most things about life and people are more complicated than we are led to believe.

So, I suppose that is what my blogs will be about. How nothing is straightforward. How, just when you think you have a handle on something, the sands shift and the goalposts move and it’s a mystery again. And how that’s fine. That’s how it’s supposed to be.

Trust me – I know that’s right, because I heard someone say it.