Things Change

It's been a while since I posted anything on here. I apologise for that - I know you must all be waiting with bated breath... Well, perhaps not, but I apologise nonetheless.

There have been quite a few changes in my life in the last few months. Perhaps the most fundamental of these was that my grandmother died at the end of February. Long-time readers of this blog will recall our stresses moving her from her home to sheltered accommodation to one residential home and, finally, to another. She settled there at least, and the staff were brilliant. When the end came, that plucky old lady survived for a week without food or water, just lying there in her bed listening to Radio 3. She slipped away with one of her best friends by her side and, honestly, it was time. I owe a lot to that little old lady, I really do. I wouldn't have my MA or my PhD if it wasn't for her support, and one of my most vivid memories of recent years is telling her I was now 'Dr Lucy Brown'. That expression of delight will stay with me forever.

Along with Grandma, other things have changed. While I'm still interested in pursuing an academic career at some point, I've come to accept that I'm not ready for that. I need to concentrate on staying healthy and looking after myself. I'm not the first to conclude that academia isn't conducive to that! So what am I doing instead? Well, I've turbo-charged the freelance work I was doing before into something akin to a proper job - with caveats.

I've acquired several ongoing clients who are currently bringing me in a steady income. However, I'm not actively touting for extra work right now. I'm in the very fortunate situation of not needing to bring in a living wage, thanks to living with my father and therefore not having those pesky bills that everyone else has to deal with. This gives me the opportunity to keep my freelance workload manageable and focus on other things as well.

Top of this list is, naturally, my fiction. Expect an update on my projected timetables over the next few weeks but I'm cracking on with the 12 (!) novel drafts in various stages of completion and rewriting that I've got in the bank. They're not going anywhere till I'm happy with them and, fortunately, the freelance work gives me the chance to continue working on them properly.

I'm on a good path at the moment and there are other things in the pipeline too. Let's see how it plays out, shall we?

Quite a Week

To say last week was interesting would be a bit of an understatement. I'm used to the ups and downs that life (and my anxiety problems) tend to throw at me but I rarely have as many blips, bumps and jumps in one short period as I did last week.

My Monday began with computer problems and rapidly escalated with some frustrating family stuff. I escaped to my writing haunt and had a burst of inspiration about the direction of my WIP (I wrote about that here). By the time I got home I was all energised then there was some more family stuff that triggered this response:

In the last half an hour I got inspired and optimistic. Then someone dropped a house on my head. Back to square one.

— Dr Lucy Brown (@CharmedLassie) November 23, 2015

On Tuesday I had the delight of a few hours to myself then it all fell apart again. Normality ensued as I dragged myself in the rain to get some shopping whilst having a mini panic attack. However, as I was walking home I received a text from a Yorkshire First colleague of mine about the meeting later that night and I was back in positive mode. That meeting was excellent and I came away as energised politically as I had been in the creative sense the day before:

One thing I do appreciate about the meetings, though, is that I morph into a confident human being who can hold a conversation.

— Dr Lucy Brown (@CharmedLassie) November 24, 2015

For me, that's pretty successful. So, despite a concerted effort by some people in my life to bring me down, I prolonged my positive mood into Wednesday - then the fun really started when I went to co-working at my writing haunt. Hearing "that's not a customer, that's Lucy, she's part of the furniture" set things up nicely along with an epic breakfast. I was in the writing zone anyway but getting an email confirming that I'd won third prize in the latest Fabula Press competition set me singing in public. That story will be published at some point so I'll let you know when it's available but it's one I'm very proud of.

I dragged my father to a couple of stops on the Artwalk that night, which I thoroughly enjoyed (and picked up a couple of souvenirs below), then came home for a celebratory singalong. Treating myself after every bit of success is proving to be very pleasant and reminds me that I'm probably not completely rubbish.

On Thursday I was meant to be having a freelance meeting but that turned into a six-hour meeting interspersed with checking on a poorly six-year niece. Making her smile was more important than any work, though some of that got done as well. The night ending with me tipping a bucket of filthy water over my legs wasn't the best thing that could've happened however. My trainers still stink.

Then Friday... Well, I'd just sat down to lunch when I heard that my grandmother had fallen face-first out of her chair at her residential home and was bleeding quite badly. They called an ambulance and, while the details of what happened that day aren't something I should share on a public forum, suffice to say there'll be a complaint going in to the NHS about the treatment. Fortunately, she's going to be okay, even if she looks like someone ran her over and she's got a broken cheekbone. At 92, she should really know better than to chuck herself over the room like that. It certainly gave us all a scare and, as a consequence, I spent the weekend hibernating and watching tennis. Britain winning the Davis Cup was the appropriate end to a wacky week.

I'm drowning in work this week and my priorities are all over the place. A little stability and time to work without the bumps and jumps would be a good idea. Then again, I did rather enjoy last Wednesday immensely. I'd better write some more short stories, huh?

Interlocking Projects

Since I decided to knock NaNo on the head, I've felt a little more in control. Keeping up with an arbitrary word count wasn't for me at the moment and anybody who seeks to rub their 'success' in my face can honestly save their time. At the end of the day, it's better for me to be editing a project that's captured my heart instead of fighting an imaginary battle. I'm just not in the mood for it.

The truth is, there are three things at the moment that are feeding into one another. It's created something of a fire storm in my head - I'm always thinking of one or other of these things and, fortunately for me, they're proving productive.  

The first of these is the novel fourth draft I'm working on - 'Max'. It's amusing in some respects. When I wrote the first draft I remarked that, 'The least said about this one, the better! I didn't want to write it in the first place but I was...compelled.' Thinking about the second draft, I wrote, 'I know how I want the rewrite of this to pan out but the thought of writing it makes me feel queasy.' I finally got round to writing the second draft late last year, adding a second viewpoint and making the 'antagonist' a little more well-rounded. My goal, as I explained, was to delve into the characters: 'The first draft was an exercise in cleansing my mind; now I know more of the characters and I'm ready to create something a little better.' So the second draft twisted things a little and I ended up with a happy ending. The third draft earlier this year removed some secondary characters and replaced them with others who complemented the overall plot. And, once again, my antagonist got a bit nicer. In this fourth draft, she's not quite wearing a halo but it's not far off. I understand her. I understand why she makes some terrible decisions and why she comes across as completely selfish and the work I've done on my protagonist to explain why she reacts the way she does has helped. All in all, I think I'm really getting somewhere with this one. 

My epic fan fic venture is another thing keeping me occupied. Now, I know people have varied opinions about fan fiction but I've always found it keeps my mind focused on writing and I can tell stories I want to for my own personal amusement. If it also helps me unwind then that's no bad thing. This story I'm telling at the moment, though, is one that I've needed to write for a decade and it's consuming me a little - I haven't done a complete word count lately but I suspect we're over the 400,000 word mark. So much for a hobby! However, I'm enjoying writing it and I'm enjoying reading back over it. For me, that's the most important thing. 

The third thing that's feeding into my mental state at the moment is Once Upon a Time. I won't go into details but, for those of you who haven't watched the show, it's a retelling of certain fairytales that has a pretty important 'friendship' going on between two female characters. I'm drowning in fan fic and gifs - again, a hobby, but one that's aiding my productivity on the novel draft and the fan fic.

You see, there's a good reason these three things are coexisting in my life at the moment. All of them have family at their root. I learned during the second draft of 'Max' that it was the integral theme of the novel and that's only strengthened as time's gone by. In the fan fic, it's emerged as the defining theme and, well, Once Upon a Time is meant to be about family, even if it's not always clear that the writers know what they're doing. The novel draft, the fan fic and Once Upon a Time all have two parents (one not blood-related) and a complex familial relationship at the heart of them. And, perhaps, that's why everything's working so well at the moment.

There's no doubt in my mind that writing this fan fic and getting overly involved in Once Upon a Time is helping my novel draft. Call it a waste of valuable time if you want but I don't believe that - you can't write before you've learned the value and cost of a particular story or theme. Slowly, I'm figuring that out. 

Some Sad News

I recently learned the sad news that my friend and political mentor Rodney Willett had died. He'd been ill for quite some time but, of course, that doesn't make it any better.

It's no exaggeration to say that, without Rodney, I wouldn't have become so politically interested and motivated. We encountered each other online several years ago and teamed up on a political website along with several other contributors. The difficulty was making it more than a few people shouting in the wind and Rodney's ill-health, along with several other factors, prevented our dreams becoming a reality. However, I'm deeply indebted to Rodney for helping shape my ideas and allowing me a platform to speak long before I had anything useful to say.

In April, having seen his bad news, I emailed to say that I'd passed my viva and to thank him for his influence as I prepared to stand for Yorkshire First in the local elections. When he responded I was deeply, deeply touched by his words. In fact, as I recall, that email made me cry.

He did offer to exchange emails and ideas with me but, whether it was right or not, I didn't want to take him up on that. I felt he had far more important things to do with his remaining time so I left him alone, and I do hope he interpreted that the right way. His friendship and his advice meant a lot to me over the years and I never felt the age gap between us or the physical distance. It's very rare you find people who are truly on your wavelength and I feel privileged that I got to witter on about politics with him quite as often as I did.

In his email he told me that he was devoting time to creating an online companion to his wife's novels (Marcia Willett) and I'd take it as a personal kindness if some of you glanced over that blog. You do get a flavour of Rodney's personality from his prose and he was a very engaging and generous man. I owe him a lot.

After All, It's a Step in the Right Direction

I've been excessively silent on this blog recently and I apologise for that. I'm still lagging behind with my book and classic film reviews but hopefully I can get those up to date soon. The sad truth is that I haven't had much time to read and watch anything or, really, to do much apart from react to things going on around me. It's not the most rewarding of existences and it certainly isn't healthy for me personally.

So where are we at? Well, last Friday I delivered what I hope is the last piece of my PhD puzzle. My thesis corrections have been uploaded and outstanding paperwork delivered so, theoretically, that should be that.

In other news, I was delighted to be short-listed in the 2015 Exeter Story Prize with my short story 'Pongo'. That's one I'm particularly proud of and I'm glad all that hard work paid off. One of the things that drew me to that competition was the ability to submit longer short stories. Sometimes you need the extra space and I don't think 'Pongo' would've squeezed in to a more constrictive word count.

I'm also standing for election again in the Pontefract North by-election on the 24th September for Yorkshire First. Politics is still something I'm passionate about, though I don't go into it much on this blog. However, in fairness, I haven't had much time to go into it on my politics blog either! The last post I managed over there was badgering the previous councillor to resign and, lo and behold, now I'm standing for her seat. Isn't life a funny thing?

My priorities have, quite naturally, shifted with waving the PhD goodbye. Top on the list is trying to look after myself a little better than I have been doing in recent months. Beyond that, there are always other things in the pipeline. Here are the headlines.

• Back in July I developed a priority list of novel drafts. I've got cracking on the fourth draft of 'Max', marking up all the necessary edits and starting on the nitty-gritty of actually implementing them. This is going to be a long process and it may derail the other projects I want to work on before the end of the year. However, I'd still like to get to 'Danni' and 'Izzy' before the end of the year. I'm also working on the assumption that I'm going to be participating in NaNoWriMo this year, though by this point I've usually had a big idea and I'm working on refining it. I need inspiration to strike. 
• On the short story front, I need to get back into the groove. For instance, I currently have four in need of a second draft and another four that I've decided need a complete overhaul before I resubmit them. At the time of typing, I only have three short stories out at submission but there are another two I'm content enough with to send out so I need to get on with that. My aim is to make my co-working day with Wakefield Jelly the main day for short story paper edits again. That's worked very well in the past and it's a dedicated day for escaping to edit short stories (in addition to a dedicated hour of escape each weekday to actually write them). Incidentally, if anyone's around on Wednesday 23rd September, pleased stop by at Create and join us Jelly folk. The group has been going for two years now and, amazingly enough, I've been going since the start!
• I'm also hoping to take on some tutoring work for A-Level students and above. I had some success in this quarter earlier in the year so, if you know anyone who needs a little help with their English studies please ask them to contact me. Hopefully there'll be more on this in the future. 
• Freelance writing and project management is also another string to my bow and is taking up a chunk of my time at the moment. 

There, that's perfectly manageable, isn't it? Who said anything about slowing down? Besides, it takes my mind off the fact I'm essentially flying without navigation at the moment. But, as Angela sings, it's a step in the right direction, after all...even if I don't know quite what direction I'm going in. 

I Hate July

I think it's something to do with July being my birthday month but this time of year always gets to me. It makes me miserable, looking back on the last year and seeing how little I've accomplished and how little has changed for the better. In 2015 it's even worse. The last twelve months have arguably been the most difficult of my life - and that's saying something.

It makes me laugh that at the end of June 2014 I wrote a post entitled 'Pick Yourself Up...', utilising a little Fred and Ginger to convince myself things were going to get better. They didn't. That was the first in a series of posts where I tried to force myself to look on that so-called 'bright side' (see also 'Taking Stock' and 'Escaping the Reeds') and, honestly, it hasn't worked.

In past years, I've tried to force myself over the bump in the road by planning ahead. There were things to be done, things that I felt confident of being able to do. For the most part, it's the second aspect of that holding me up now. Literally the only thing I have confidence in at the moment is my writing ability and if that takes a knock who knows where I'll be? But so I can write - so what? That makes no difference to anything, it changes nothing. The things I can't do are weighing down the scales on the other side and I'm not making enough headway with my writing to keep me afloat. So...what? Well, I don't know.

July's symptomatic of the wider picture, it just brings it into focus. In the twelve months since my last birthday I've ostensibly achieved some things but, arguably, I'm a more pathetic specimen of a human being than I was this time last year. There's no changing that.

As I sit here writing Judy has piped up on the iPod with 'It Never Was You'. It's such a mournful song, full of lost hope. It feels apt but, then again, Judy always does. In lieu of any positive conclusion to this post, any lightning strike of inspiration or happiness, any miraculous reduction of my anxiety, I'll leave you with her...

...Onwards to 2015

Writing this has proved to be tricky. That's probably symptomatic of my general apathy and, really, I have no idea how the next year will play out. I'm dreading it to be fair, with no reason to suspect things are going to get any better in the near future. But let's see if I can pinpoint some specific things that I'd like to achieve in the next year.

In a few weeks I submit my thesis and so, hopefully, in a few months it'll all be over. My plans after that are, quite obviously, dependent on things beyond my control so we'll see where I am at the end of the year.

Regardless of the above, I want to attend a few more conferences this year and also work on at least two papers - I'm trying to set manageable goals but I hope I end up with more than two.

On the novel side of things, the key word this year is 'submission'. At least two novels are about in a fit state to go on their travels and I've done my research about potential publishers so it's just a case of putting them out there. I always said that once my PhD was done with I'd focus on my writing for a little while and that's still the plan.

As for the actual writing, I've already got a five month plan which involves working on five novels. Part of this involves finishing 'Kathy', a draft from 2013 that needs rewriting in the first person and then I'd also like to complete another NaNoWriMo draft in November. We'll see what the rest of the year holds but if writing's all I've got then I'd better make it count.

Equally, I'm enjoying writing short stories at the moment and I'd like to work on a lot more of them and submit plenty in 2015. This isn't really a quantifiable goal but here's hoping for a little more success in this field.

I've signed up for five reading challenges in 2015 because I'm desperately trying to occupy my mind as well as wanting to get through some of those books I've neglected for far too long. The details on all five can be found here, though I'd be amazed if I complete the huge list. Still, that's what challenges are for, right?

Whatever lies ahead in 2015, I can guarantee that I will be spending a lot of time in this lady's company. It's a sad song but, unfortunately, it does sum things up perfectly...

Farewell 2014...

Well, if I thought 2013 was bad... Seriously, there has to be a point where things do actually hit rock bottom and I start climbing towards that pinprick of sky discernible miles above. A good post about the crumminess of this year was written in September called 'Taking Stock' and, I have to say, things haven't exactly improved. The only thing that's improved is my ability to roll with the punches a little more. So, on a personal level, 2014 stank but what about those goals I set myself? First are links to a few successes before we get into more failure.

Short Story Publication - 'To Catch a Fly'

Short Story Publication - 'Aldgate Echoes'

A Wakefield View of Westminster - Available Now

1. 2014 is, barring catastrophe, thesis submission year. It's been a long time coming and, I have to admit, the light at the end of the tunnel is frightening. Completion will bring its own set of problems but if I look towards them I'll panic and flee. So, let's just focus on finishing writing, submitting, the viva and... Actually, let's just think about the writing aspect. Everything else is too scary.
Does submitting two weeks into 2015 count as 'catastrophe'? That's the plan anyway and my only excuse is that, the number of times I've despaired of the thesis in the last year, it's a miracle it's getting submitted at all. And that light at the end of the tunnel? Even more petrifying now. 

2. Some more conferences would be a nice idea - either just attending or giving papers, ideally the latter.
I gave papers at three conferences this year, taking me to Oxford, Nottingham and London. A review of those can be found here but, on a personal level, I'm particularly proud of making it through the Nottingham one due to some incredibly difficult anxiety issues on the day. Taking good from bad, that was a triumph for me this year. 

3. I want to work on at least three academic articles/papers this year. Since I have four ideas already, that shouldn't be too difficult...right? We're going with optimism here.
Erm, misplaced optimism. Although the paper I gave at the VPFA in July is still ripe for expanding into a full essay and that will probably be my first academic task once I've submitted my thesis.

4. On the writing side, I don't want to promise too much. 2014 is the year of the thesis, remember. However, if I don't write then I go a bit batty so there will be work. What work? Well, I have eight novel drafts to play with. I want to do full-scale edits on, say, three of them (and I know which three, which is always good). I've already started putting the polished two out into the world. We'll see where that goes this year. A NaNoWriMo draft is on the cards too, along with finishing 'Kathy' (the novel I failed to complete this year) and maybe another draft about something close to my heart. I'm almost certain no one else could write this idea with the truthfulness required. The question is, do I have the courage? We'll see.
Novel-wise, I've added a NaNoWriMo draft to my bank, although I didn't manage to finish 'Kathy'. I've completed two second drafts and I'm partway through a third. The two novels that are in the best condition, having been through five or six drafts each, were refined in 2014 and I'm ready to submit them. I think. Not great but not bad considering.

5. I'm taking part in two reading challenges this year: the Chunkster Challenge and the TBR Challenge. I've picked out the books so just need to read them now. Easy...
I failed at both of these, as I summarised yesterday.

6. I want to continue going to the gym 2-3 times a week, at least until my membership runs out in August.
Until my membership expired, I managed this one. 

7. I've asked for driving lessons as a birthday present in July. Whether this comes off is still undecided but I do need to learn and this year might be the year. Keep off Yorkshire roads in August.
Given my mental state around my birthday, it's probably lucky this one didn't come off.

8. I've been saying for four years I want to learn a little Italian. I don't really know why but it's a deep-seated thing I do intend to do at some point.
Ha. Nope.

Blogging NaNoWriMo 2014: Draft Complete

Due to a sudden burst of determination, I completed my NaNoWriMo draft within November, with it coming in at 59,325 words, 3,541 of those written last night. Most of those, to be fair, were written during a rushed hour where my determination overtook my sense and I just had to finish it by the arbitrary deadline.

Overall, this goes down as another successful NaNo, though it still doesn't feel that way. However, it's another first draft in the can and I already have ideas about the alterations which need to be made. One of my secondary characters flip-flops throughout the novel and I need to work out how accurate that is or whether she was just dancing to my tune. As well as that, some of the care home residents emerged as much stronger characters than I'd anticipated and I should really cling onto them in the second draft. More about my future writing plans later in the week though.

November was tricky, as I knew it would be. I haven't been feeling very bright and most days I've either burst into tears or sat staring despondent at the wall for an hour. Add to that the fact that I've been battling with the final edits of my thesis for the last two weeks and you've got a pretty draining month. I spent most of last week in a cafe with a 190 page thesis and marker pen in front of me because doing that work at home with my father still off sick from work is nigh on impossible. This blog has suffered this month, I've got some freelancing work ongoing and there's some proofreading I need to do for something else which I'll tell you all about shortly. When I see it written down like that, I'm not surprised I've woken up to the first day of December with a stonking headache. Nevertheless, I won... Here's my celebratory banner and one of my favourite songs of the moment, guaranteed to make me sing and smile - for a few minutes at least.

Things I'm Looking Forward To Post-PhD

Since trying to make any 'proper' goals at the moment isn't happening on account of me reverting to being an anxiety-ridden reckless wreck of a human being, I decided to focus on the more immediate repercussions of finally submitting my thesis in the not-so-distant future. What can't I wait to do?

• Rip the colour-coded rubbish from every page of my sensation fiction and criticism collection, primarily from my poor copy of No Name that looks like it bickered with a rainbow. I wrote about it here a year ago and it's still that colourful, as are my copies of The Woman in White, Man and Wife and The Law and the Lady amongst others. 
• Put all my books back on shelves. There is a tottering pile of sensation fiction novels on my office floor that I repeatedly shelved then got out again until I just thought 'sod it' and left them on my desk. Then I moved my desk (part of me trying to fix myself) and put them on the floor and... Yep, that was two months ago. 
• Have the top of my document tray devoted to something other than illegible notes on Edmund Yates and Wilkie Collins. I could put soft toys in there, have company at my desk. 
• Sleep more. 

Anything I've missed? 

Priority Lists

One of the departments I used to work for tried to be rigidly organised, giving us each of us lists every day about what we were doing and in what order. I did like knowing that and being able to jump straight into another task without having to (me being a summer clerk) hang around somebody's desk until they took pity on me and found me something to do. However, the lists could also have detrimental effects - if there was a task I was no good at or didn't know how to do, the fear would eat away at me until I got it done. Similarly, you couldn't skip a task without explaining/asking for permission first. It became a mini dictatorship and I came to loathe those bits of paper, despite the good they were still doing me most of the time.

So how does this relate to my current predicaments? Well, I'm drowning over here. It's funny on one level, terrifying on another. I'm going to trial giving myself a daily priority list which tries to balance the things I need to do with the things I should do and those I'd merely like to. If it underlines the problem rather than aiding it then I'll discard it as a failed experiment but with my little piece of yellow paper next to me I feel...well, overwhelmed and yet safe in the knowledge that I have a plan.

This is what today looks like:

1. Blog x 2 (for here and One Yorkshire Voice)
2. Type up short story edits for submission tomorrow
3. Check the proofs for my Downton Abbey/Upstairs, Downstairs essay which came through yesterday and need a swift turnaround
4. Two hours minimum on thesis chapter edits
5. Final meeting of the Westgate Writers before our event on Saturday
6. Novel work

Now I could just sit here laughing at the implausibility of all that or I could get on. Perhaps I should've factored lunchtime into all that... 

Escaping the Reeds

There's a moment in one of my favourite films, The African Queen, where Rose (Katharine Hepburn) and Charlie (Humphrey Bogart) are suffocating. The titular boat has been travelling through reeds and, despite their best efforts, they get stuck. They use the oars to try and launch their way through, they get out and pull, only to be assaulted by leeches. Even after this discovery, they are forced to get back in the water, just to have another shot at getting out of there. All the while, they're finding it close and hard to breathe.

If anything serves as a metaphor for how I've felt this week, that scene does it. Trapped, overwhelmed, lost: as though every breath was an effort. Each time I made an attempt to move, each time I dipped my toe in the water to try and navigate an escape, the leeches got me in the form of a memory. Sitting at my computer on an evening has been a device of torture. Far too many connotations and links. But, here's the rub, it's very difficult for me not to sit at my computer to work. All my thesis stuff and writing drafts are on it; my life's work, if you will. But little point in being at the computer when all I do is burst into tears. That's not focusing, in any sense of the word.

Yesterday became my 'getting back in the water' moment. It was my first Sheffield trip since all this kicked off and it was a doozy. Looking at it now, it's probably best to define it as a three hour panic attack that lasted from mid-morning until I got to my meeting at two. It involved some rather unpleasant scenes at the train station where I paced around and looked thoroughly crazy then one of those embarrassing moments on the train itself where I'm standing in the vestibule weeping, just weeping. With the aid of a friend, I made it up to uni and my meeting but I felt as though the life had been sucked out of me again.

My meeting went well, very well. Some positivity began to creep back into my mind, the possibility that I can get through the next few months. Though, when one of my supervisors asked me to think beyond that, I couldn't. With everything that's happened over the last few weeks, I don't have that ability. I just need to look at the smaller picture. The bigger one terrifies me.

Travelling home, I tried to think of ways I could force myself to work. Because the reeds are still there, threatening me every time I sit down to work. So what could I do to turn things around? Well, how about actually turning things around? By the time my dad got home from work I'd made a start on turning my desk around. For four years I've been staring at the same blank wall. That wall has been the scene of many hopeful projections, none of which came true, so perhaps it was time for a change. This is what my view was before:

Turning the desk around has had a few unintended consequences. I feel hemmed in with my chair but, bizarrely, not as hemmed in as I did when I had half the room to kick back in. And, also, I'm now facing my iPod. It's a funny thing, the music coming towards me instead of creeping over my shoulders. It's almost like hearing it anew. This is the low quality version of my desk now:

Of course, Rose and Charlie escape from the reeds in The African Queen. But the reason is largely beyond their control. The rains come, lifting up the boat and transporting it to safety. Maybe that was my meeting yesterday; the thing out of my control that grabbed me and yanked me through. For the moment, I'll ignore the fact that when Rose and Charlie reach safety, they blow up their boat... That may be a metaphor too far right now.

A Song for a Moment

I frequently say, both aloud and in my head, that there's a song for every moment. As a rule, I've found it honest enough. There is generally a song that, if it doesn't encompass the moment, at least makes the moment bearable. That's why me and my iPod are pretty much inseparable - it can get me through the stickiest spots. There are a few songs I can usually rely on to make me smile with their energy; for instance, 'A Parade in Town' or 'High Hopes' or 'Our Time'. These galvanise me, dupe me into thinking I'm okay when I'm not. Sometimes they even manage to alter my mood properly.

But this time the old remedies aren't working. Me and my iPod aren't getting on. Oh, I'm still listening to it when I'm out because otherwise I'd have to deal with people and I listen to it at home to try and fool myself (Marni Nixon is currently singing 'I Whistle a Happy Tune' at me, for reference). But, for maybe the first time, music isn't really helping. Not music I know anyway. There are connotations there, links that would once have made me smile and now bring me perilously close to tears. Most of my Judy songs are off-limits. You can forget all about Liza and Ella Fitzgerald is breaking my heart daily. Everything I used to find comfort in is now increasing my pain.

So I've taken to YouTube a lot. My reasoning is that I'll listen to songs I don't know that well, then they can't have any resonance. For the most part, this has been working; however, when a song hits me, it really hits me. The other night though, while I was scrabbling around for another artist to search for, I landed on Anthony Newley. Of course, I wasn't about to click on 'What Kind of Fool Am I?' but there was one that drew me in, knowing it vaguely and wanting to be reminded. 'Who Can I Turn To?' is from The Roar of the Greasepaint - the Smell of the Crowd, a show I'm fairly unfamiliar with. I'm no longer unfamiliar with the song.

It's no exaggeration to say that I've listened to it thirty times now and sung it myself over and over and over again. It certainly sums up how I feel but I'm not sure it's doing me any good. It's crystallised my problem again, perhaps drawn me back into it (though that suggests I got away from it in the first place, something I don't believe).

There's one thing for sure - I can't stop listening to it.

'Who can I turn to

When nobody needs me?

My heart wants to know,

And so I must go

Where destiny leads me.

With no star to guide me,

And no one beside me,

I'll go on my way

And after the day

The darkness will hide me.

Maybe tomorrow

I'll find what I'm after,

I'll throw off my sorrow,

Beg, steal or borrow

My share of laughter.

With you I could learn to,

With you on a new day.

But who can I turn to

If you turn away?'

Taking Stock

Apologies for the radio silence. It's been a tough few weeks. Actually, everything since my birthday at the end of July has been a mini-nightmare, all conspiring to make this one gigantic monster that's inclined to chase me down the street with fangs bared. I'm holding him off for now but I can't say it's easy.

The less said about the thesis at the moment, the better. I just have to hope the problems I'm having with that (not completely of my own making this time) will iron themselves out. As a side note, I hate Edmund Yates and Wilkie Collins with every fibre of my being. I'd be happy never to see a passing reference to them ever again, though I'm told that feeling fades...eventually.

So - the writing. There's still some good news in the bag that I can't share with you yet but, beyond that, I'm really pulling my finger out. Last week, I took the time to focus on my writing and made a little progress. As I intended to do back in May, I've done a little planning ahead so that one novel ('Max') is ready to be second-drafted. I also cheated a little on my resolution not to do any 'proper' writing and made a concerted effort to finish the second draft of 'Lauren'. We're nearly there with only two and a half chapters left to write and it's hovering around the 60,000 mark at the moment. I've changed a lot about this (added five viewpoints for a start) and it's very rough but getting there, plot-wise. Everything needs tightening etc but that's a job for draft three.

My plans after I've finished that may change. Currently, what I want to do is work on the sixth draft of 'Lily'. That will require concentration, focus on every word, and may not sit comfortably alongside my thesis edits which, at this point, require the same thing. Not to worry - I've got several short stories to write and rework and I'm working on a play rewrite, which I need to submit to somewhere specific by the end of the month. I haven't got much out at submission currently but that's going to change.

To say I'm using my writing as a distraction wouldn't be far off the mark. August was atrocious, punctuated by problems with the boiler that still aren't resolved, a re-emergence of my anxiety issues and some rather more serious problems. My grandmother was diagnosed with bowel cancer. Even when they're 91 it's something you don't want to hear and the doc isn't planning on telling her because of her dementia problems. I've got mixed feelings on that one but my dad and aunt are the ones with the rights over her, not me. As well as that bombshell, I broke up (very amicably, as it happened) with my partner of nearly nine years and there have also been other things going on I can't really discuss on a public forum like this. However, what it all boils down to is a great shift in how I define myself. I've got to change my mindset and fight some long-ingrained habits. Learning to be yourself without other people around to bounce things off can be tricky but, hey, it's not as though I have a choice right now.

I've learned a couple of things in the last month. The first is that I have a renewed confidence in my writing abilities and I really need to hold on to that. The second is that honesty is truly the best policy. It might've made me ill, it might've caused a minor earthquake in my little world, but I feel a bit better for it. Not that I can keep a grip on that perspective constantly. Just have to roll with it for a while, I guess. Finally, the third thing I learned is that I can be strong. As I tweeted last week, I've essentially taken a blowtorch to half my life over the last month. Maybe it was stupid but once I'd struck the match, it was out of my control. And, in all seriousness, the fact that it is all out of my control now is vaguely reassuring. I did the right things for once, the brave things, and the fact that it didn't quite work out is not down to me. I have many things to reproach myself about in the past but, this time, I think I behaved fairly well.

So I'll just continue to roll with the punches. As I've been typing this, a man arrived with no warning to paint our windowsills and the saga of the boiler continues on Wednesday. I may be lonely at the moment, very lonely, but as long as I have my characters around I suppose I'll get through it. Betty Hutton can also help...

Commemorating Reading Time

Last night I was tidying my room (don't ask) when I came across a very grimy jelly candle on my DVD shelf. It should've really been thrown out years ago, maybe when the dirt began seeping into the jelly, but I've clung onto it. Because, of course, there's a story behind it.

When I was working at a company in Stockton in 2008-2009, I travelled in a little early every morning. Better to be early rather than late. And, being me, I took a book to the break room and sat there munching crisps from the vending machine (wasn't big on proper breakfast, sue me) reading until I reluctantly went to do some work. For the most part, I had the break room to myself. It was always half dark, always gave the impression that I shouldn't be in there and should just start working early instead. Towards the end of my time there, though, I found I had company. Whereas I chose a table, she chose an easy chair and read over there. I smiled at her as I walked out of the room and we had one proper conversation - one. Nevertheless, she became a part of my morning.

On the day I left I saw her in the break room and told her it was my last day. Later, I was just getting back from lunch when I saw a little bag on my desk. It was this little candle. I was perplexed, having already been given my HMV vouchers as my leaving present, but my supervisor told me a woman none of them really knew had just dropped it in. When I walked past her desk later (it was the first time I realised she worked on my floor), she smiled and asked if I liked it. I said thank you, she waved it away and that was that.

You know, I never even knew her name. It's a bit perverse that I've kept a memento commemorating the amount of time I sat silently in a room with another human being while both of us read but, then, it's me. So maybe it's not that perverse. I appreciate the fact that a virtual stranger was going to miss my presence on a morning, as I would've missed hers had she been the one to leave.

I'd include a picture if it wasn't really, really grimy. Everything on that shelf is. Perhaps I'll just clean around it this time, see how long it'll last for.

Pick Yourself Up...

Looking back at June, I'm a little shell-shocked. I don't quite know what happened. Ups, downs, spinning arounds; it's had it all and I don't feel any better for the variation. Several writing rejections balancing out that short story publication and more personal setbacks than you can shake a stick at. I always get a little self-reflective as we head into July (my birthday month) but June this year has just made me fearful. Will things continue to get worse? Ironically, given how much trouble I've had from it in the past, my PhD doesn't seem to be part of this bad spell. It's tricky, yes, but I'm winging my way through, I know what I'm doing and I'm getting good feedback. After all this time, I seem to be confident academically. We'll see if that lasts.

So...what next? Well, July will be as fractured as June in some respects. I'm in London for a few days for a conference and I'm sure there'll be some enforced time off around my birthday, though I'll likely spend the day chucking popcorn at my own reflection. I'm drifting from day to day, unsure of what I'm doing save for the thesis edits which I'm deliberately taking slowly in order to get right. My stress levels have mixed oddly with my apathy, meaning I spend half the time restless and the other half miserable. Completing the PhD won't fix this - the problems are too deeply rooted and far removed from academic worries. So I suppose I'm in no rush any more which, perversely, has meant I can attack the thesis with no pressure and it's therefore getting done more quickly - and accurately - than it was before.

I'm restarting my work diary (again, I last restarted it in January and lost the thread again in March). Hopefully this will give me some structure, reminding me that I am actually working and, if I can quantify that work, so much the better. I may need to go back to my old habits of a little work on something then switch - it may suit my restlessness.

If the second half of 2014 is going to be as challenging as the first, I need to prepare myself. And no one assists that more ably than Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers...

Nothing's impossible, I have found,

For when my chin is on the ground,

I pick myself up, dust myself off,

And start all over again.

Don't lose your confidence if you slip,

Be grateful for a pleasant trip,

And pick yourself up, dust yourself off

And start all over again.

Grandmother Difficulties

Yesterday was lousy for so many reasons but perhaps the one that will linger longest is the Wednesday grandmother visit. In the middle of January I wrote about how she wasn't really settling into her new home because what she has an issue with is the idea of being in a home, despite the fact it's a very good one. Since then, things have been a little more even. She was still miserable and moaning but she wasn't crying - I took that as a good sign. Last night all that changed.

When we arrived she was sitting in the alcove by the door. We keyed in the code and the moment the door was open she started wailing. I mean that in the most literal sense - it was nothing short of hysterical. For a while we couldn't get any sense out of her. She was disparaging the staff very loudly ("oh, her, she's not a good one") and screaming "go away" at another resident who stopped to watch the hysterics. When that woman reappeared a few minutes later my grandmother warned her, again very loudly, that if she didn't go away she was going to "clunk" her. I assume the weapon of choice would've been her walking frame, which could've caused quite a bit of damage to the little old lady. All the time, my grandmother's weeping, asking us to "do her in" and generally making no sense.

The story, when we finally got it, seemed to be this. For weeks she's been pestering my aunt to take her to a hairdresser she likes. She doesn't want to look like the rest of the permed women, she says, and she's got a long-standing relationship with this stylist. So my aunt has arranged it for Friday. The trouble is, I don't know what she told my grandmother but at 6:00pm on Wednesday evening she was sat in the lobby afraid that it was "too late" to go to bed because my aunt would be coming. I think this was the trigger for something else, something that's been building since she moved in there. What hasn't helped is that she had an accident a couple of weeks ago when she tried to avoid disturbing the staff by stepping over the pressure pad in the middle of the night and consequently going face first into the bedside cabinet. She has a black eye and a damaged shoulder which can't be helping her mood.

The half an hour visit was just a nightmare. We couldn't get her to calm down and she kept insulting the staff. My father threatened to walk out, which I gently said was not a good idea: it would've left her in a worse state and that wasn't fair on anyone. But then she started troubling the woman who was delivering the pills about the bathroom and my father insisted on making a break for it. Who knows what we left the staff with?

I hate that she's so miserable but, like I said before, there's nothing we can do about it. This is what she chose and her care needs now make other options redundant. But screaming at the staff and other residents is so unlike her, it's alarming. And this talk of suicide is getting more and more frequent. I know the staff there are good but they can't watch her every minute. All it would take is one staircase and there are two near her room... I don't know what we can do. And while it's probably more irritating my father and aunt more than anything else, it's physically hurting me. I got home last night and wept myself. It's a nice circle me and my grandmother are going round, isn't it?

Doing Enough?

It's probably unsurprising that the question I ask myself on a daily basis is 'am I doing enough?' - it's a symptom of this work ethic I seem to have developed in the last few years. Just when I think I can't add 'more' to my to-do list, I find another gear. In the last month, I've started zooming until the figures waving at me to pull over and have a sit-down are inconsequential blurs. My father's resorted to replenishing my Smarties stash without complaint and knocking on the door every once in a while to make sure I eat proper meals. But, still, the question returns, usually at half past two in the morning when I can't possibly turn my mind off: am I doing enough?

My work diary suggests what can only be described as 'epic multi-tasking'. Since I restarted my it in January following a little hiatus I've apparently worked on two novel manuscripts (completely rewriting tens of thousands of one and indulging in some delicate rewriting on the other), written a full-length play draft, a short play draft and rewritten half a single television drama script draft. I've also got more things out at submission that I've had for literally years: two novels to competitions (different to the above), a script and two short stories. In the next two weeks I hope to add two more scripts to that and a novel (yes, another different one) to another competition. And I keep discovering things I want to enter. That's on the writing side of things. On the academic side, I deleted 8000 words of my fourth thesis chapter and drastically rewrote it (with success, I believe) and I'm currently in the process of drastically rewriting the first thesis chapter I wrote way back in 2011-12 (currently up to 9000 words on that). I've been doing detailed research for two essays I hope to write in the near future, doing some Collins biography work to get my facts completely straight and I've submitted two abstracts, one for a conference and one for an edited collected. Usually, when I hop from one project to another, I don't get much done of anything  but the last two months have defied that formula.

But, still, the question remains: am I doing enough? I think the fact is that I'm never going to believe I am. I mean, how long's a piece of string? What's enough? Do you quantify 'enough' by only doing what you 'have' to? In that case, all my writing's redundant. Or do you judge it by the amount of work you'd 'like' to do? Under that glare, I fail completely. I've made a conscious decision to do as much as mentally and physically possible in 2014, and I think I've stuck to that resolution in the first two months of the year. But, no, I don't feel like I'm doing 'enough' because my expectations of myself are ridiculously high. What's the point if they aren't? There's a wonderful line in Merrily We Roll Along's 'Old Friends' from writer Charley that sums up my feelings: 'Well, what's the point of demands you can meet?' Really, what is the point? It means you're not pushing yourself and I am determined to push myself.

Perhaps I'm asking the wrong question. Perhaps it's not 'am I doing enough?' Perhaps it's 'am I doing too little?' that will satisfy me that I'm not failing. That one I can almost always answer with a resounding 'NO'!

'Opening Doors' - Saving My Sanity?

Yesterday, I was having a bad day. I felt unwell and the weather was absolutely dreadful. My umbrella had an argument with the wind five minutes after I arrived into Sheffield so I gave that up as a bad job. There was nothing for it but to get soaked through and live with it. Needless to say, I was a little irritated. Until I wasn't.

I walk a rather odd route up to university, deliberately to avoid crowds and people. When I'm in a bit of a state, as I usually as when I get to Sheffield, the last thing I want to do is walk past people. I was getting lashed by the rain, crossing a road, when the song on my iPod changed.

'Opening Doors' from Merrily We Roll Along is one of my favourite songs of the moment. It has been ever since I saw the show last July. It helps that it comes towards the end of the show, allowing you to recover from what's come before. Coupled with 'Our Time', it allows Merrily to end on an almost happy note. Certainly always has the effect of spurring me on to work. I've never yet come away from this show without the desire to write. It's the jolt I need whenever I get that nagging feeling I'm not a good writer. It helps remind me that I am and how much hard work it takes to get other people to recognise that.

So there I am: soaked to the skin, on a fairly deserted street in Sheffield, with 'Opening Doors' blaring in my ears. What do I do? That's right. I start singing. Loudly. Because at that point I don't care who knows how crazy I am. What mattered most was getting me through that tortuous walk and reminding me that, just maybe, I can be a success after all. Not bad, Mr Sondheim. Not bad at all.

Rediscovering Charlotte Mew

When I picked my undergraduate dissertation topic (a scary number of years ago now), I startled myself. You see, my plan had been to research Virginia Woolf. I'd read Mrs Dalloway during my second year and I was in a modernist phase. In the event, and not really knowing how I came across her, I alighted on Charlotte Mew. I have no memory of how I got from Woolf to Mew - or even why - but it seemed to be a damn good decision. 

I think there are certain moments in your life when you need to cling onto a writer because they offer a sense of security or allow escapism. My third year at university was such a time. Although I'd finally made a friend and found myself actually talking to people, I was living in a house with fourteen strangers who didn't have my sense of being respectful to others. Looking back now, I wonder that one of them didn't get pushed 'accidentally' down the stairs. Anyway, the point is, while I did literally all of my essay and dissertation writing on campus because I hated spending time in the house, the reading was something I did on my bedroom floor.

It was an attic room, a long thin space, and the only reason I'd jumped head-first into a house share. It was gorgeous and I loved it. One afternoon, not long after the household had been fined for a party (which I'd left the county overnight to avoid) I finally knuckled down to reading Charlotte Mew's poetry. I'd done all of the background reading, including Penelope Fitzgerald's wonderful biography, but I'd struggled to find the right 'moment' to properly analyse Mew's poetry line by line. As I read it aloud, the racket from the rest of the house disintegrated. I was sucked in.

I've previously said on this blog that 'Rooms' is my favourite Mew poem - and that's true. But I also mentioned in that post that 'The Trees Are Down' ranks up there too. For some reason, when I think of that afternoon, it's the poem that comes back to me most sharply. I read it over and over, making unnecessary notes in the margins that I don't think I ever looked at once I'd written my dissertation.

Until yesterday, that is. On one level, the poem is about turning points, change. Just at the moment I'm trying to find my courage, just as I had to back then. The poem has the same peculiar resonance it had then. I can only hope it soothes me now as much as it did seven years ago.