Getting Published?

        It’s been 32 years since I wrote this book and used a vanity publisher. I paid a fee in response to an advert to be published. It was a substantial fee I could ill afford but I was passionate to see my work in print. I collected a box which contained a number of copies – I forget how many, but not a great deal – maybe 50. I was so excited to get them home, hold them and see a dream come true. But alas, I was very disappointed when I opened the book and saw the printed pages – so amateur. 

        When I tried to contact the producers, they had vanished from all trace. I felt I had been taken for a fool by a money-making couple. My ‘life script’ told me it wasn’t good enough and I wasn’t good enough. (My school reports always contained the script 'could do better'.)

        The artist was a friend of a friend, a twin girl, Julie Genders. The original pictures I feel sure were in colour. I hope she went on to have a good career with her artful gift. We lost contact a year or two later.

        The book was intended for children 3-9 years of age telling them of bible stories, explaining church services and especially christenings, weddings and funerals. The book should have been something I was proud of, instead it’s been hidden away but the memory of it has kept me determined to fulfil an ambition. It has made me learn and hone skills, it made me love books with a passion, it has shaped who I am.

                                                      

        I continued to write, always. I cannot live without writing something. Lots of notebooks filled with fleeting thoughts, folders of poems and short stories never seen by others; letters to magazines, articles in parish, commercial and professional magazines were printed and boosted my writing confidence.

        As time passed and the typewriter made way for computers. Instead of posting a manuscript and waiting for its precious return, now, sending work off to publishers and agents is replaced by the simple click of sending an email. The wait for reply can, however, still be a long time. Becoming an author is harder than any job interview. Rather than meet people, research of who I’m sending my work to for consideration is a silent process, searching the web to identify which publisher or agent may be interested in my women’s contemporary fiction novel and other children’s books. No doubt some of them research me on the web too. One day, I will succeed in my quest, with the right help, at the right time.

A Feather on the Doormat

A Feather on the Doormat

No, it's not a book title.  Though it could be.  But it's not the title of my (as yet unpublished) first novel.  

I have blogged my novel writing progress over the years: showing you my writing space; blogging about courses I've attended; books I've read etc etc.  I know some of you share my hope that one day my book will be published and available for you to read having spent so much time in the writing, editing, re-reading, editing again and again, sending off to publishers and agents and I am now 50,000 words into its sequel. 

So what's this about the feather?  A white feather on a doormat.  If you found this on your return home what would you think/feel?   This feather on the doormat is found by my protagonist, Sheila Walker, and is to her a sign from her departed mother.  A feather appears at special moments throughout her life that comforts her, encourages her, 'speaks' to her.  Sheila talks to her mum in her head and on this occasion does not receive a clear message back.  She needs to do something, but not quite sure what.  She commences on a quest to find out, acting on impulses and instinct.  It leads to a clearer headspace, a tidier home and eventually a change of direction.  Intrigued?  I hope so.  I will blog some more snippets later, so watch this space.

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Perhaps you have lost a loved one and have had a similar experience?  A robin, a butterfly, a flowering rose on the anniversary of the death of someone close.  Or a whisper on the wind, an inner sense of the deceased being near, a warm breeze rubbing past your shoulder.  There are many different believed signs of life beyond our earthly one.  I hope you find comfort by such occasions in times of grief.

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I know for some people feathers would evoke fear - the fear of feathers is called 'Pteronophobia' and the irrational fear of being tickled by feathers brings about a very high anxiety state, from the mere thought, let alone the action which would undoubtedly lead to a panic attack.  They would be likely to avoid places where they will be in contact with or see feathers ie. a bird park, avairy or visiting anyone with a pet parrot or budgerigar. Perhaps you know someone like this?

However, I hope for you, like me, feathers are lovely to see.  Soft, gentle, reminders of nature and beautiful birds.  Something to sink your head into - a pillow full of duck down, or cover you at night with a feathered quilt.  Perhaps your sofa cushions are feather filled or you have a 'dream catcher' in your window with the feathers blowing in the breeze?  Perhaps you will notice feathers more often after reading this blog?  Do let me know in the comments box below or via Twitter @tweetsue13.

 

Book Review during Lockdown 2020

I have to admit that the title of this book puzzled me all the way through to the end.  But in the end it was clear.

Between the cover and the last page are words, words, words that are a writers paradise - the jargon of the writing world as the protagonist, Lana Green - Author, tells us of her journey to publishing her second book.  She has writers block, she is stuck for a hero, she has diminishing finances but all these lead her to new people, new homes and eventually a new way forward.

There is a love story to uncover, broken hearts and dementia - that cruel twist of fate on a famous writer's life.  There is a writing group, discussions of works in progress and Lana's own dilemma with Mark and Jack.

I became engrossed from the beginning, aware of the luxury of having TIME to read during this big lockdown - time to sit in the garden sunshine, in bed not worrying about 'time to get up' and snuggled in my favourite lounge chair - reading without distractions. 

The Forgotten Guide to Happiness is a delight, an education, a hope as I still await publication offer for my own novel.

Well done Sophie Jenkins.  *****

Education

Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, lived a little girl called Susan.

At school, when she was 5 years old, she would hand her workbook in and then notice the teacher wrote 'V.Good' on her story page.  She didn't know what 'V.Good' meant and thought that the teacher must have written it on all her little friends books too.  No-one took her by the hand and explained, no-one spoke directly to her about her story.  She felt that it was a 'classroom' thing; she was just one of many, she soon forgot it.

When she was 7, or maybe 8, she was sent to see the headteacher for not being able to recite a poem.  It was about ducks dittying - she didn't understand the poem and so the words wouldn't stay in her brain.  It certainly wouldn't come out of her mouth when asked to stand up and say it out so the whole class could hear it.  She understood standing outside the headteacher's office was a form of punishment for doing something wrong so waiting there made her worried.  The headteacher called her into the office and she stood at one side of the desk and Miss Swan (yes, that was her name) sat on her chair the other side.  The headteacher read the first line of the poem and asked little Susan to repeat it and so on until the end of the poem.  It wasn't too bad a punishment.

At 10 years of age Susan was the youngest in the class; one more day and she would have been the oldest having been born on 31st August and the school year started on 1st September.  Susan was the only pupil in her Junior School to fail the 11plus examination.  Her mother visited the school to ask for an extension in primary education, but it was not granted.  Susan had a taste of rejection and failure which became a reinforced message at senior school where she was placed in a 'B' stream and, having been unable to read out aloud had to stand outside in the corridor.  The second time she couldn't read out aloud she had to walk around an empty playground 10 times.

She actually loved reading, silently in her head.  She went to the library very often on a Saturday with her father and brother and would return with a lot of Enid Blyton books and in her teens read mystery and crime books.  She loved the words printed on the page, the chapters, the excitement, the different world she entered between the covers of her comfy bed and the picture on the cover and the words 'The End'.

At 12 Susan came top of the class in English, her favourite subject.  She hated history and geography.  She was teased and bullied in P.E. and found science scary - cutting up a sheep's eyeball and using a Bunson burner and test tubes for experiments.  She was rewarded for her work in English by being 'put up into the A stream' where the pupils had been learning French for nearly 2 years which she was unable to join in with.  In this class Susan was bullied some more and became fearful and anxious of school hours.  At home she could escape into books which was calm and fed her love of stories, libraries, the smell and feel of books.

At 14 nearly 15, she was introduced to a classroom full of typewriters and a spark of new life came into her education.  The printed word was hers to create.  Memorandums, letters and making the school newsletter on a stencil 'skin' and running copies off on a Gestener and having it read by other pupils in the school was thrilling, rewarding, satisfying.  However, no-one said "Well done; you write well; you have a talent/gift."  No careers person told her she could nurture this love of words to become a writer, a journalist, a proof-reader or magazine editor.

Susan left school at 15; her parents wanted her to earn money rather than have any more time at school, after all she was just an average child who failed her 11+ and barely scraped through her CSE's.  She was best at typing so into an office she went.  An older cousin had exceptionally high speeds at typing and shorthand so Susan's parents took her out of the workplace and set her on a path that would enhance her career - full time secretarial college.  It was a government scheme that gave students a job at the end of the course.  Susan loved it.  Being taught the one thing she felt good about - creating works of art with an Olivetti typewriter.  She passed all her grades with high marks and sometimes a 'distinction'.  A sense of pride and achievement formed.  However, shorthand wasn't quite so quick as her cousin but it was 'good enough' to secure her a job at the City of Birmingham Water Department, where at 18 years of age she met a man and fell in love.

45 years wed this year

You will have guessed that Susan is Sue today.  You may be wondering why I am blogging about this part of my life.  Well the Education system failed me - I didn't fail.  It has failed, and still fails children today.  Ok, some fit the mould and do well, very well in fact.  They go onto university and get great jobs.  Others hate school and rebel against getting it by getting into trouble, being excluded and punished for not complying to rules that every teacher needs them to.  Don't get me wrong - I salute teachers, they do a sterling job with their own constraints of targets to meet, OFSTED to please etc etc.  I could teach 6 or 7 pupils at a time but classes of 20-30 children, no way.  How can teachers spend quality time nurturing them and finding out what they are naturally good at and enjoy?

I recently met a young lad, about 8 or 9 years old, who, every time I saw him told me interesting facts about insects, animals, dinosaurs, birds etc.  I told him he could be the next Chris Packham from the television when he grew up.  One day he had lost his smile and no facts were forthcoming.  I asked him what was wrong, he replied, "I have to learn stuff I'm no good at."   My heart melted, it resonated with my childhood experiences half a decade or more ago.  How sad.  I encouraged him to learn at home - write about the animals, draw the insects, read books from the library.  I have moved away and no longer see him but I do hope he doesn't loose his passion for nature.

I did have a good career.  I took pride in my work, marriage and motherhood.  In my 20's I wrote poems, in my 30's I had self-published a children's religious book but that was a bad experience with vanity publishers who vanished with the money I paid them.  The book was cheaply and badly produced and so my writings went into a drawer for 30+ years.  But now in my 60's the passion for writing is back with a vengeance.  In the mean time I have educated myself.  I gained an 'O' level English in my 40's and spent the last decade attending workshops for writers, courses on-line and attended Swanwick Writers Summer School annually.

It is no good saying "If only...." we have to live with what is, not what isn't.  We can make dreams come true no matter what age.  We can encourage others where we weren't encouraged.  We can be the best we can, with what we have, we can tell ourselves "I am good enough" and "I can do this."  We can forgive our past and concentrate on the present.  We can do our best NOW for tomorrow isn't promised.  Do what makes you happy, nurture your talents.  Don't tell me you don't have any, they are there waiting to be discovered, to be said out aloud, acknowledged and enjoyed.

As annoyed and helpless as I am that Education is doing some youngsters a disservice I only have energy for one passion.  That passion doesn't lie in the belief that I have the power or energy to change the system but I do have the will to change me.  I am investing my time and energy in something I should have done many moons ago and hoping I see myself reach this goal.  I have written 100,000 words of a novel and have two others in mind.  When my novel is published I will have a pseudonym because I will have a new chapter of life.  Watch this space!