Tag: Laura_E_James

Things I’ve No Wish To Recall.

Things I’ve No Wish To Recall.

 

I’m remembering things I’ve no wish to recall

Wondering if time does away with it all

Thinking I’ll sink with the weight of the haul

Willingly, I would go down.

 

The surfacing memories bring high tides of tears

I’m floundering around in an ocean of fear

Frightened, I’m killing the retrograde years

Submerging them until they drown.

 

I feed to the depths the thoughts making me cry

Hunting, they’re sharks; they’re silent and sly

Circling, then striking, they eat my insides

Inflicting unbearable pain

 

Recollections are triggered by words, songs or place

The sound of a laugh, a familiar phrase

A programme we watched and then we erased

All gone, and nothing remains.

 

It hurts to acknowledge the guilt and regret

But there were times in our lives I’ll never forget

The love and the laughter will heal my soul

I’m glad I’m remembering the things I recall.

 

Laura E. James

11.09.12

Hands Up.

This is my right hand.

My writing hand.

This photo was taken two years ago. Assuming you’re not squeamish, you can click on the picture and open a larger view of it.

I have had rheumatoid arthritis since I was eighteen. It has attacked a number of joints and tendons which have subsequently been replaced, repaired, reinforced or fused. There are a number of joints yet to receive the Bionic Man treatment. Ahh. Lee Majors. I haven’t reached those dizzy heights yet.

This is from last year, when I had my left thumb fused in the summer, and then revised a few months later. It passed the test.

I’m finding it tricky to locate photos that aren’t too gruesome. I am fascinated with surgery and take a keen interest in the rehabilitation that follows. I have plenty of shots of scars and swellings and bloodied bandages which, one day, may serve a purpose. There is a chance I may use the information in a book. During the thumb fusion, my surgeon allowed me to watch for a short time. It was amazing.

I’m looking at the photo to the right now. I remember having my ring finger knuckle replaced, but for the life of me, have NO recollection as to why my index finger was trussed up. A synovectomy, maybe? I can see a child’s drink bottle in the background, so it was a few years ago.

Ah. Left wrist plated and partially fused. I got quite cross with that. I was desperate to get the cast off.

Anyway, enough fond trips down memory lane. You get my drift.

That’s what my fingers do. They drift. It’s part of the disease, but whilst the rheumatoid cannot be halted, with the use of today’s wonderful technology, the brilliant surgeons and medical staff can rebuild parts of me. One piece at a time.

I so relate to that song.

During my last operation, I spoke to the theatre staff about my goal to become a published author and how grateful I was to them for taking such good care of my hands – my work tools. I recall agreeing to acknowledge their work in my first published book. One day, ladies and gentlemen. One day. For the time being, I truly thank you for preserving my sanity.

My next surgery is this Thursday. My right index finger is to be straightened and fused. That’s about a week in a small back slab and five in a lightweight splint. That equates to a month and a half not typing, tweeting, facebooking or blogging. Unless I use my left hand. Which of course, I will. Be prepared for some really weird words. I am not ambidextrous.

As an aside to this, I think the Paralympians are outstanding. What they achieve is beyond superhuman and I have been humbled by what they must go through every day.

This? This is nothing.

Take care and see you the other side.

Laura x

 

 

To Submit or not to Submit?

To submit or not submit? That is the question I asked myself thirty times.

I am a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association New Writers’ Scheme. It is a fantastic organisation which offers friendship, advice, the chance to meet other writers, agents and publishers and once a year, have one’s manuscript critiqued. The deadline for the critique is August 31st. Well done to everyone who submitted.

At the beginning of this year I had a plan; By July I was going to have a second story written and submitted to the NWS. It started well as I joined in with a challenge set by author Sally Quilford entitled 100k in a 100 Days. The aim was to write 1000 words each day for 100 days, starting on January 1st and ending on April 9th.

By March, I had 60,000 words written, most of which belonged to the work in progress (WIP). My writing came to an abrupt halt late March, when I lost my mum. Everything that followed knocked writing off the agenda.

I could not get back into the work in progress. The last scene I’d written concentrated on the hero’s grief having lost his family. It was not a place I wished to visit. With that in mind, I decided not to submit to the NWS. I emailed the organiser explaining my situation and received a lovely reply which left the door open for me to send in a partial (a non-completed story) and a synopsis if I felt able.

As time progressed and life settled into a new groove, I turned to writing short stories. They were perfect for fulfilling the desire to write without draining my emotional reserves. With aspects of my life hanging in the balance, I derived satisfaction from starting and completing a project within a short time span, and it appeased the guilt of not tackling the WIP knowing I was keeping my hand in.

There’s the telling word – appeased.

In hindsight I think those who know me well realised I was struggling with the idea of not submitting. I had 60,000 words saved in Drive C. I had neglected them. My poor, desperate hero, like me, had to start dealing with his grief. I could not leave him in his state of disbelief.

I began to think about the story once more. I mentioned one or two ideas to my wonderful Romaniac chums, who as ever, were supportive, funny and pillars of rock and again the suggestion was made that I should consider sending in a partial. I then received the same advice from two established members of the RNA.

Have you ever had that feeling someone is trying to tell you something?

At the beginning of July, struck by a bolt of insanity, I declared to my family and friends I would be submitting to the NWS and I would work for as long and as hard as I could to finish and polish the manuscript. I had six weeks, after all.

This Tuesday I didn’t go to bed. I stayed up reading through a revised and rewritten 52,000 words, replacing over-used phrases, correcting chronology mistakes and fixing typos and cut and paste errors.

I went to bed at 07:00, Wednesday, rose at 09:00, and at 11:00, handed the NEW padded envelope, fattened with my partial, to the post office assistant.

It was the first time I’d been out of the house in days.

Okay. So I didn’t manage to write the whole story, but I reached a point about a week before when I knew it was not going to happen. Perhaps I should have written the entire book before editing, but I wanted to submit more than a first draft. I appreciate it is not a final version, but I have presented my work to the best of my ability.

What have I learned? Support, advice and encouragement from family, friends and writing chums are invaluable assets when faced with the impossible, and I thank you for providing all three in lorry loads.

Scrap that. Make it juggernaut loads.

No. Container loads.

And what of my hero? He is out of his disbelief phase and he’s through with the guilt, but he is sinking lower than the Titanic. I wonder if like the sun, he will rise and see the dawning of happier times?

Laura x

 

 

Birthdays and Parties.

Today would have been my mother’s birthday. Having lost her earlier this year, I wasn’t sure how I would react. It was strange not to have bought a present and a card, although I still wished her a Happy Birthday.

I stayed up until midnight to do so.

At noon, our family enjoyed a lovely lunch at the place Mum and I used to go, then we strolled on the hot sand, where the children played on the swinging boats and bounced on the trampolines, and finally, to wrap up the day, we visited a local dairy farm where the best ice cream is produced. I had honeycomb. I recall Mum had that when we were last there. Then as now, the weather was beautiful.

I suspect my mother had something to do with that.

Mum was extremely supportive of my writing efforts and was pleased I had found a nuturing and friendly group within which to learn the craft. Something she was happy for me to do was attend the RNA Conference in Penrith.

The Romantic Novelists’ Association Conference 2012 was my first.

I joined six of my fellow Romaniacs, and met writers with whom I’ve previously interacted via the internet or with whom I had become acquainted at one of the RNA parties. The Conference was sociable, friendly and fun, with a great kitchen party on the Friday night.  I’m pleased to say singing was involved.

Study was involved too, with trade panels and workshops on all nature of writerly things, and I made two pitches to top editors. Once home, it took three days to absorb everything that had happened. Now I realise I have to get my head down and finish book two.  Oh. And find an agent.

That will be down to me.

Laura x

Trying Something New.

I have spent the past couple of days trying my hand at developing a synopsis before having written the story. I have not tried this before, but I understand it is common practice amongst many writers.

Currently, I am 60,000 words into the first draft of my work in progress and until last night, I had no clue as to how the story would end. I took my ‘Keep Calm and Eat Chocolate’ notebook, my trusty purple pen and Sarah Duncan’s advice, and started writing a series of  ‘And then’, uncertain where my scribblings would lead.

In a few hours, spread over two days, I noted down what I considered to be the relevant points of the story. I took the synopsis as far as I could – a fraction over half way, but with a need to finish it, I had to decide on how to end the story. I took the radical move of making it up as I went along, resulting in a few pages of rubbish.

And it was rubbish.

But I was getting words onto the sheet.

Yesterday, I reread my notes. They were wishy-washy, there was very little structure, the chronology, like a time machine, was all over the place, and the final part, like me without a map, had no direction whatsoever, but this made me happy. I had a starting point and I knew what improvements had to be made.

This time, I took a different, larger notebook and settled down to transcribe from the smaller pad. I refined the relevant points, put the events in the correct order, discovered exactly who my characters are and what made them that way and…fanfare please…found my ending. I was so pleased, I announced it to Gajitman, who, bless him, stopped racing in the Alps, put down the controller and listened to me.

I have a real sense of where I’m going with this WIP now.

It seems developing the synopsis before writing the story, works. It totally focuses one’s mind, too.

Which comes first for you? The story of the synopsis?

Laura x

Seasons in the Sun

It’s June, it’s raining and it’s summer. And I missed spring.

The beautiful season of renewal and new beginnings bypassed me as I dealt with the loss of my mother – emotionally and physically.

I say dealt, but I’m still shuffling some of those cards. They’ve not all yet made it to the table.

This last fortnight, I have been sorting and clearing my mum’s house and have spent many hours being reminded of times past or discovering little gems of information I never knew. Some of it made me cry, plenty made me smile and one or two things made me exclaim ‘Mum!’. All of it helped me understand more about myself. It turns out, I’m more like my mother than I realised. That’s a good thing.

That’s a wonderful thing.

Life is a little less perfect without Mum in it, but my family and I are focussing on a positive future, whilst learning how to remember the good times with a smile and not a tear.

Here comes the sun.

Laura x

Retro Poetry: The Female Football Player.

Ah. Mavis, A favourite of mine. I enjoyed team games at school, but I wasn’t particularly good at any of them. What I lacked in skill, I made up with enthusiasm. Sadly, enthusiasm doesn’t get the hockey ball in the back of the goal or the rounders ball past first base. Enthusiasm also fails to get one picked for a team. I was invariably the last girl standing and therefore joined a team by default. I would pick Mavis regardless of her impressive sporting skill. I would pick Mavis because I love her courage, determination and sense of hope.

There is always hope.

 

 

 

The Female Football Player.

Our Mavis wasn’t pretty, but she’d one thing in her favour,

Men forgot about her two buck teeth and the way she used a shaver.

 

 They didn’t mind her two crossed eyes, or her broad rimmed N.H. specs,

They could tolerate her dandruff and the falling, flaking flecks.

 

For our Mavis wasn’t pretty, no one noticed on the whole,

For that something in her favour was the way she scored a goal.

Her rolls of fat were quite grotesque and no one dared to weigh her,

She moved like an ox in the penalty box, our Mave, the football player.

 

Playing soccer was somewhat tricky with one eye made of glass

But she never stopped if out it popped and landed in the grass.

 

The opposition split a rib, they thought our Mave defenceless,

But their luck ran out with Mave about and she knocked them downright senseless.

 

She charged towards the other side and they had to run like Hell.

Her dribbling was by far unique and she could slobber just as well.

 

 She proudly wore her colours; they were stripy pink and black,

And on her chest was her address, with her number on the back.

 Although no one fancied Mavis, what thrilled them most of all,

Was not the way that she could slay, but how she handled balls.

 

There was no one quite like Mavis, to show you ball control,

For she’d tease and trick, and then she’d kick and our Mave would score a goal.

Oh! How the men, they loved our Mavis wearing shorts and not a skirt,

But they’d leave like a shot, if Mavis forgot she was not to swap her shirt.

 

Poor Mavis wasn’t pretty; she had an awful rear,

Miss World was not what Mavis got, but ‘Player of the Year.’

 

Written: 16 – 17 August 1987. Midnightish.

 

Retro Poetry: Harold.

A few weekends ago, I cleared out my wardrobe and came across some old friends, which I thought I would share with you.

I wrote lots of poems in my youth and this one was my mum’s favourite, so I’m starting with ‘Harold’.

 

 

 

Harold

Harold wasn’t feeling well

Poor lad, he’d lost his zest,

So he went to see his doctor,

Who sent him for a test.

 

Harold wasn’t feeling well

And if one thing made him worse,

It was the smell of sterile flooring

And a strict, imposing nurse.

 

But Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he sat outside the clinic,

And he watched as the phlebotomists

Mixed the haematinic.

 

The first man rolled his sleeve up,

And flexed his elbow joint,

Harold wondered why he did it,

But he was soon to get the point.

 

He’d been sitting there for ages;

He had better things to do –

He had a meeting at ten thirty

And another one at two.

 

Poor Harry wasn’t feeling well,

So he started counting sheep,

It distracted him from feeling ill

And it sent him off to sleep.

 

He came around at ten o’clock

And felt better for his rest,

But how long had he waited

For this bloody test?

 

He tapped his fingers slowly,

And studied both his feet,

He picked his dried up elbow

And fiddled with a sweet.

 

But Harold wasn’t feeling well,

He was such a lifeless heap,

So he slowly closed his eyes once more

And nodded off to sleep.

 

His number flashed up on the board,

But Harold did not budge,

So the fellow sitting opposite,

Gave him a gentle nudge.

 

But Harold keeled right over,

He’d have got up if he could,

But he got so sick of waiting,

He fell asleep for good.

 

Written: 01.07.87 9-10.30 pm.

‘Lone Wolf’ Winner Announced.

 And the winner is…

Thank you to everyone who entered the competition to win a signed hardback copy of Jodi Picoult’s Lone Wolf.  Over at the Romaniacs HQ, we asked you to tell us which Jodi Picoult book is your favourite and why?

Having read all the entries, our winner was chosen. We thought the honesty of the reasons for liking their chosen book were touching and well explained, as follows;

‘My favourite to date, is Sing You Home. I read the synopsis and was not too sure, but a friend lent it to me when I was going through a difficult time last year. I had suffered a very painful miscarriage, she never thought to tell me what the book was about (?). But by the time I had got to the end of it I felt it had had helped a lot. I already have 2 beautiful boys so I’m very lucky to not experience what Zoe did, but this was our last chance at having another so longed for baby due to a new treatment I had scheduled for my rapidly advancing Multiple Sclerosis. Anyway, the book seemed to echo exactly what I was feeling, and it helped to me express these feelings to my husband, who luckily did understand a little better than Zoe’s husband, but I still found it hard to express to him exactly how I was feeling. I feel I owe this book a huge debt of gratitude, and I know I will always go back and read it from time to time.
 
I think this is the beauty of her books, they are very real? She has an amazing power of empathy.’
 
This is the winning entry from Donna Trinder, Lincs. Many congratulations, Donna, and I’m totally with you on the empathy front. Lone Wolf is winging its way to you.
You can follow Donna at www.donna-lostandfound.blogspot.com
Once again, many thanks to all who entered.
Laura x

Beg For Rain

Beg For Rain.

Tears are the betrayers of our souls. We can fight and we can turn away, but once they pierce the backs of our eyes, we cannot halt them.

Relentlessly, they come.

Tears have a will of their own. They are strong and will grip our throats and strangle us until we are forced to release them.

Powerfully, they come.

 

Tears will sell our secrets, flaunt our vulnerability and make easy fools of us.

So, with all this said, why don’t

They come?

 

Tears.

Bless-ed tears.

Let them rain down and wash me away.

Let the water sanitise, let their salt sterilise and

Let me be clean.

 

Please come.

 

Laura.