Singing trees and sadness

Well, the week off did the trick, thanks, and we've had a couple of days out locally this weekend. Yesterday we went to see a panopticon - its more descriptive name is the Singing Ringing Tree - very Enid Blyton. It only sings in the wind, so was very subdued yesterday. Silent even.

Time to get back to work...

I decided I'd change my play idea into a story, and to offer it to WW as a serial. Seeing as I've only ever sold them one story that's probably - almost certainly - pushing my luck. But still, it's good to have an aim. Further to Pat's recent post - I think it was Pat - about getting to know characters, I dutifully wrote a half page on each of the characters and - as if by magic! - more plotline elements presented themselves. Brilliant! I must do more of this getting to know the characters. Sadly, now a story which was going to be light-hearted with odd touches of pathos is in danger of becoming 98% heartbreak. Must rein that in. I'm not sure how other people manage this because it seems to me that the further you find out about anyone, real or imaginery, the more sadness you unveil. Most people have regrets or tragedies or events that make them feel at best winsome and at worst suicidal, in their history. And that's what seems to attract me. Wow, miserable or what? and this is me when I've got a grip!

So, can you write light-hearted stuff and still have fully-formed characters? I'm not sure that the characters in all the TV sitcoms are fully-rounded, are they?

The embarrassment...

A week ago I had a day off. A day's sick leave. And nowadays when you return to work you have to have a Return To Work Interview. This is dressed up as a benign, can-we-help-you-in-any-way thing but really it's designed to stop you from having the day off in the first place. Or to think twice next time. Obviously it'll be most effective with those people who feel gulty ringing in sick even when they've got raging appendicitis, while the ones who take a day off to go shopping with their bezzy mate will carry off their fibs with aplomb as usual. That's life, I suppose. But I digress...

Anyway, I had this day off sick, and on Thursday I had my return to work interview. Well, things have been pretty stressful for...well, ever since I started work there, and what happened, I got into the interview, and cried. I actually cried in the bloody return to work interview!

So, now my line manager thinks I'm an over-emotional nutcase. I could see her shrinking backwards from the table and gazing at me with wide eyes full of horror. I think she was very glad indeed that I have a week's holiday scheduled for next week. Me too. I need time to live it down.

Hope you all have a lovely, chocolatey Easter.

All quiet on the teaching front. Or not, as the case may be.

Well, 2009 has been rubbish for me so far writing-wise! Probably Mars and Pluto up to their old tricks but honestly, how long does a Cancerian have to wait for a favourable heavenly wotsit?

And on the teaching front - just as bad! - a series of misadventures among the students involving suicide threats, drug dealers hanging round, self harm, petty theft, and final warnings, has made life interesting to say the least. Bring back the calm old days. I'm assured that the Asian ladies I'm soon going to be teaching for 4 hours a week will be a doddle to someone used to dealing with disaffected youth. Let's hope so...

Everything's ticketyboo

Aren't some words just lovely? And isn't 'ticketyboo' chief among them? A Flanders and Swan kind of word, if ever I heard one. Doesn't saying it instantly lighten your mood?

What about licketysplickly? How fantastic a word is that? And which singer-songwriter managed to get licketysplickly into his song lyrics? (I'm assuming there's just the one, but who knows? Maybe it's a lyrical regular...)

There must be dozens - peripatetic's nice; frilly - I quite like the simplicity of that; perspicacity... Oh, I can feel a visit to the freerice site coming on...

I'm writing! Or am I?

Why do fictional characters taken on a life of their own? How do they do it? They're make-believe, right? They shouldn't be able to do that. When writers say stuff about characters deciding on their own lines and adding levels to their own personalities, I tend to huff and puff about affectation and literary arty-fartiness.
But I've just had a germ of an idea - this in itself is a rarity. Well, more than a germ; I knew exactly what I was going to write. And it's taken on a life of its own. The minor supporting strand has become the main feature. The main plot's been shelved for another day and, even at that point, maybe some other idea will barge it out of the way? (Given that the main idea heavily featured grumpy dustbinmen, maybe that's not too bad a thing?)
It's a bit like automatic writing, aided by some long-gone spirit of a writing antecedent. Well, bring it on!

Not everyone's truth is the same

If there's one thing guaranteed to raise my blood pressure it's the tale of yet another mother who's selflessly decided to keep and look after her disabled child and - give them a medal, someone - now thinks that child is the best thing since sliced bread and writes their disability-enhanced life story in the Mail or The Guardian. I'm pretty sure that usually these stories have their hearts in the right place - showing the population at large that children and people with disabilities are actually all individuals just like the rest of us is good. But still they make my blood boil...

All too often there's a tendency to over-egg the 'Hey, it's a great life' pudding, and I find myself wanting to write in and say, actually, it's not always fun bringing up a disabled child. I love my learning-disabled son to bits, not just because I'm his mum but because there are lots of very lovable things about him - he's enthusiastic, affectionate, polite, funny and often kind. He offers insults and compliments with the same disarming honesty because he doesn't know how else to be but straight with you. Now that I'm not faced with always having to be at his command I see how truly lovely he is and I'm happy when we meet with him at the weekends.

But bringing up a disabled child isn't always fun so why give people the impression that it is? It's not fun if yours is the one who never stops moving, who wants entertaining all day after a sleepless night, when you're dead on your feet and just want to nap. When you have the one who can't walk but is becoming too heavy to carry up to bed at night. When you're a dad needing to take out your un-toilet-trained twelve year old girl. When their temper's uncertain and you're passing a group of young lads who might be okay but equally might rise to the bait of your youngster's anxiety-fueled aggro. When school's cancelled at the last minute and you're suddenly panic-stricken, wondering how to fill another day. Or worse, when he hates the respite place and you just can't bring yourself to send him for that overnight stay even tho' you know that another night without peace and quiet is going to put a load more stress on you and the rest of the family.

How is any of that fun? Is it me? Am I missing something? In our case, my daughter had depression and IBS for the two years before her big brother moved out. How do you put positive spin on that? Despite his overall loveliness, Buster was, as a child, iron-willed and constantly demanding and, as a young person, capable of some pretty bad/physical/dangerous behaviour.

But quite apart from all that, what sort of effect do these writers have on people who are struggling with their lives? The ones who don't always see the sunny side because life's so flippin' hard? Just like talking about someone battling cancer and defeating it can make others who 'battled ' it without success feel worse about themselves (obviously didn't battle hard enough!), those articles can make good, caring people feel like bad parents. 'Hey, you just have to love enough and have a sunny enough disposition and you'll be fine. I managed it, why can't you?' - that's what they seem to be saying.

Makes me cross. Can you tell??

Cheeky boy...

One of my students reminds me of Cliff Michelmore. Reputedly 17, he looks and dresses at least 65, has Cliff's hairstyle and general demeanour, the only obvious difference being a very dry sense of humour. All things considered, therefore, I took it pretty well when he looked me up and down recently and advised me kindly: 'Honeysuckle, don't wear those clothes tomorrow; they're not very 21st century.'

And then he shuffled off to watch some more trains.