AUTHOR'S CORNER;

This is the season to be jolly, count our blessings and spread Christmas cheer to our family and friends.  Where presents underneath that Christmas tree are beautifully wrapped and carefully placed.  Where every house tries to outdo the one next to them with spectacular lights and flashing ornaments. When all that matters is the size of that turkey and the creative trimmings that go along with it.  When hairstyles have got to be had and that special dress must be found. Sparkle, sparkle, on Christmas day for all the world to see; that's what matters, right?

My run up to Christmas started much the same this year; I planned to sparkle and shimmer beneath those lovely lights. Anticipating the admirable looks from my family as I, the hostess, cooked up a Christmas feast to die for!  I fretted about the size of that turkey and Iceland was called upon to home deliver me a lorry load of party treats!  I planned it all meticulously, right down to the last detail.  But what I didn't plan for was my daughter going into hospital.

Suddenly my world seemed quite small and Christmas.... what Christmas?   What started off as a sore throat soon turned into tonsillitis and by the time her throat closed up and her face had turned yellow and swelled and the good doctors in A&E had put her on a drip and taken blood tests, I was facing the possibility that it might be glandular fever!

Her pretty face had ballooned to twice its normal size, her eyes hardly open, and she curled up like a foetus.  It was not looking good.  What's more, she had just started a part time job and she had a load of coursework and exams to revise for in the new year.  She is a Biomedical student at uni and had passed the first year with a first!  Now it seemed, within a blink of an eye, that she would not be able to revise, much less go to work.  My beautiful girl, my adorable, intelligent girl, that button nosed, wide eyed toddler that I used to put on my knee was a young woman in trouble.

Christmas preparations fell by the wayside, invitations did not seem to matter and as for my hair and outfit.... who cared??  All I cared about was my child.  And though I like to think of myself as a strong woman, I could not help but burst into tears when she said she thought she was going to die.  No parent, no matter how strong, sensible or intelligent can stand to hear those words come out of their child's mouth. The world seemed to fog up and my vision became very narrow; all I could see was my child hooked up to drips.  

Exhaustion overtook me and my mind was on auto pilot. With three other kids at home (albeit almost grown up) I was like a headless chicken, running from pillar to post.  I dealt with this by going shopping for her in between visiting hours; as if by buying her pyjamas she didn't need and extra toothbrush and magazines would somehow confirm her recovery and magic the illness away!  Thinking about it now, I must have seemed ridiculous to my husband and children; my daughter was lying in a hospital bed and all I could worry about was whether she had crisp new pyjamas to wear!  By day two she had the colour back in her cheeks and her the swelling in her face was going down, by the evening she was talking to me and I even managed to make her laugh!  By the third day she was well enough to be discharged and back to the safety of home!  

As for the glandular fever; which by the way has no treatment and can last between three weeks and six month and in the worst case scenario can cause the spleen to burst or secondary infection of the brain, I was told that it was so far mild, and that yes whilst her spleen and liver are a little inflamed, that with monitoring and a lot of rest, she should make a full recovery.  She is resting on the sofa as I write this and her little sister is listening to her tell of her ordeal, thank God!  

So this Christmas, my happy Christmas is not going to be the massive turkey I have ordered for the extended family that can no longer attend because they might be in danger of catching her illness.  My happy Christmas is not in the decorations that my cat has seen fit to jump and pull at and is now kind of hanging awkwardly.  My happy Christmas is not in that sparkly dress that I had seen in the shop and meant to buy before I was taken up with hospital worry.  My happy Christmas is not about that wonderful new haircut that I was supposed to book myself in for!  My happy Christmas is in knowing that my baby is safe, in having her here, home with us.  My happy Christmas is in knowing how blessed I am to have my daughter, whole, cared for and alive!     

Merry Christmas to everyone and may your loved ones always, always be safe with you!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THEY ASK ME,

They asked me of my childhood, and I said that mine was a troubled one, a distant memory of fears and insecurities. Mine was the child who sat in a corner, sullen and quiet, watching as the world walked past. Mine was the hiding under the covers on a dark winter's night; dreading the darkness and the coming of dawn even more! Mine was the kid who ran home from school to the shelter of my room. Mine was the listening to the voices in the next room, and not daring to sleep in case I stopped hearing them. Mine was of imaginary friends who danced around me, spoke to me and gave me reason. Mine was the child who lived on dreams because the world was too difficult to figure out.

They asked me of my youth, and I said that mine was a youth of folly and wasted times. Mine was the teenager who pretended to the world, who put up a front just so that no one would hurt her. Mine was the kid who smiled at boys, fluttered eyelashes and pouted lips. Mine was the girl who couldn't believe in happy endings; they never happened in the life she knew. Mine was the girl who acted tough, gave it attitude and smoked like a chimney. Mine was the lass who could not see past her fears and hid behind them under the guise of anger. Mine was the girl who could not believe in love and lost a lot of love, and regretted much love.  

They asked me of my fears, and I said mine are the fears of hollow hearts and abandoned souls. Mine are the fears that eat away at the heart and break the spirit. Mine are the fears of secrets kept, of thoughts once thought and feelings never felt. Mine are the fears of reflection of the self, the mirror image that so cruelly stares back at me. Mine is the fear of the fear that lingers in my eyes. Mine are the fears that linger deep within my mind; of ghosts of past creeping into my life, of cries of far reaching me once more. Mine are the fears of truth; truth I know to be true about myself, truth I can not deny.

They asked me of my pleasures, and I said mine are the pleasures that are not of me, but a mere extension of myself. Mine are the pleasures of laughter heard, of hands clapped to the rhythm of a song. Mine are the pleasures of smiles and giggles, of innocent happiness. Mine are the pleasures I see upon their faces, the sparkle in their eyes. Mine are the pleasures of seeing their achievement. Mine is the pleasure of their first love, their first steps into the big wide world. Mine is the pleasure in watching their confidence and knowing they feel safe; knowing that they will grow and grow and never fear their own growth. Mine is the pleasure of my children's pleasure!

They asked me of my regrets, and I said mine are no regrets.  I would have had regrets if I had not been that timid child; the child that ran home from school and hid under the covers, listening to my imaginary friends as they drowned out the sounds of the row in the next room.  I would have had regrets if I was a dopey teenager; if I was meek and not as feisty as what I was.  If I did not flutter my eyelashes, or pout those lips of mine!  I would have had regrets if I had never feared; if the thoughts in my head did not frighten me or the image of myself did not scare me.  I would have had regrets if my eyes were always clear and no memory of past ghosts ever bothered me.  I would have had regrets simply because I would never have learned how not to make the same mistakes with my own children!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

LET'S GET CLOSE AND PERSONAL!

Most artists of any kind bear a considerable amount of scars from life; those very scars are what makes them want to express their emotions into art form.  It is the fuel that drives them to create and showcase those emotions through various methods; music, art, drama, writing.  That scab that sits so roughly upon the senses, itching and smarting as the hands of time scratch away at it. Indenting a little more each time until a visible groove slowly appears.  And what is this scar, this scab that refuses to disappear? What is it that wrecks our very essence and turns us into the cynical creators that we become?  It is not love, nor hate, for love and hate are easy to come by and easy to lose.  It is simply the unforgiven!  

In the war of emotions, unrequited love, unquenched hate, and all the feelings in between, the only one that is hard to come by is forgiveness.  For it is not even an emotion, not a proper one. Forgiveness or the lack of it comes with a myriad of emotions, from sadness, bitterness, loneliness and even deep love or a dark, helpless need. All rolled into a mass ball of confusion, drenched in a loss of dignity and pride.  To forgive would mean to take your naked emotional self and bare your soul wide open to the wrong that has been done to you.  To forgive would mean to betray your own soul, to belittle yourself, to effectively admit that you are worth so little, measure so small, feel so irrelevant, that whatever has been done against you is okay by you!  To forgive would mean to abandon that last shred of defence you have left.  To give away the little power you have.  For in order to get to the point of needing to forgive you would have had to have been very wronged in the first place.  Forgiveness is the last defeat. If defeated how will one continue, how will one face another day, how will one create?

If one forgives it is like wiping from history the wrong that has been done, and if that happens, then what was the point of the wrong and the bad feelings you had to endure in the first place?  How do you live with yourself if you were to just let it go, all those years of torture, all those nights of self berating, all those tear stained heartbeats that drummed your sorrow would be for nothing, for no one!  

It is easier not to forgive, it is less questionable to hold on to a burning anguish than to let it go and have to question yourself.  In not forgiving, you know where you stand; you were wronged, therefore you shall not forget.  But if you did forgive, suddenly your position is weakened, you can no longer hold on to self assurance and doubt, doubt about your self worth, your integrity, your part in it all, will set in and you my friend will have to admit to your part. Much easier to wallow in the shadows of the wronged than to stare at yourself in the harsh mirror of self exposure.  Much kinder to be the victim than the fool.  Much sweeter to feel the pain of injustice than to endure the humiliation of error.  

The self is a proud creature and has got to be self assured in order to survive; it is the nature of the self to do so.  If not to gain grandeur, than to at least hold on for just a little longer, to survive a little further. 

But in not forgiving, in not letting go, we hold ourselves captive in our own emotional prison, and it eats away at us until one day it simply consumes us and leaves us but a shell, a hollow carcass that can never again be filled.  In not forgiving we are not holding power, but instead we are giving power away and living our lives through the person who has wronged us.  In not forgiving we are trapping ourselves in the moment for ever.  In not forgiving we are allowing our aggressor to own us, to own our souls and minds.  And we dedicate our souls to them, we dedicate our art for them, we create through them, through their bad deeds!  Not only have they wronged us, they now own us.  

Letting go is the hardest thing a person can do, and yet it is the most liberating thing you can do.  Letting go is when you can do, act and think without the memory of the wrong deed ever coming to your mind.  Letting go is when you can catch yourself unaware and realise that you have not thought about it for a very long time. When the silence of the night no longer bothers you, and your thoughts no longer invade you.  When the feeling of dread is no longer a part of who you are and your heart does not ache.  Letting go is simply dropping that person who has hurt you and letting them fall into the abyss of forgetfulness.  Because as long as you remember them, they live on and their power grows and the effect of what they have done will be ten fold each year.  And before you know it, that one bad thing they have done to you will be a lifetime of tears and heartache and a wasted youth. 

And as for negating that bad act by forgiving; that bad deed that the other has done to you, think about it, it's in the past, the hands of time have already passed over it and wiped it away....it is no longer there, and just like a burnt out star, it is just an echoing light in the blackness of nothingness!           

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THINGS A WRITER SHOULD ALWAYS REMEMBER!

I have recently been a little despondent; my resolve, my determination, my ambitions to make it big in writing has somewhat dwindled and seems to be fast fading as I desperately await accolade for my work.  In an attempt to perk myself up and infuse a little motivation into my life, I found myself searching the net, late last night, searching for some literary inspiration, some guiding hand or words of wisdom!  I love writing, I live and breath words and in almost everything I encounter I come up with a scenario in my mind and a new plot for a book!  I am only ever truly happy when I write, and miserable when I don't!  But of late, my resolve has weakened and my faith in my own ability has faltered....it happens, I am only human!  And yes, I know I am a good writer, I know that I am published already and am 'living the dream' so to speak. Except the dream is not as....dreamy as I had imagined and sometimes, when I find it hard to get book signings or promote my work, the dream fast turns into a nightmare!  Common phenomenon amongst writers, I know.  We start off with quite a lot of self doubt and when we finally make it to the publishing houses, we are eager not to fail, this in itself makes us believe that we can and will fail!

But my bored and feeble efforts to search the net for some inspirational quotes have paid off, for in finding them, I found inspiration and new found hope.  There is nothing quite like hearing it from the horse's mouth, no one can explain you better than another writer.  So in finding this new found inspiration, I have decided to share and remind the rest of 'us' writers that we truly are magical and wonderful beings with a talent that is a pure gift from God!

  

Yes writers see the world differently, they really do see the world differently and are moody and temperamental with it.  But oh so brilliant at interpretation of it, that mostly our books are magic!  We weave magic in our words and bring life upon the pages.

 

 A good book is like a whole world for the readers to immerse themselves in.  Never forget the power in our fingertips, the power we possess, the joy we can bring, the thought we can invoke!

A writer is a being who has a lot of words inside their heads.  Just as a musician sees the world in notes and keys, an artist sees the world in shapes and colours, a writer sees the world in words, in scenarios and in spells that can literally transform peoples' thinking!

 

 I suppose the reason we are so passionate about our writing is the fact that in our writing there is an element of ourselves, hidden within the chapters of our stories.  In essence we are sharing our soul with the world, giving away secrets and allowing the whole world into our world.  failing is personal rejection!

The art of writing is actually and truly discovering what you believe!  Not what your parents have taught you, not what society wants you to believe, but what you know to be true, how you see the world. It is the most liberating thing in the world!

And what's more, here is a few things you must remember to keep you on track....

If you do not believe, really believe in your writing...(forget what the agents think, what the publishers say) if you doubt yourself for a moment, your writing will be...doubtful!

Writing is a skill.  making up stories is a talent.  Remember, like any other craft, practice, practice and practice!  The talent is there but the skills must be developed! If you can write a novel, then baby, you can write.  Now polish up those skills!

Every single writer on the planet has dark, blocked days.  It is a big effort to drag yourself to that computer and make something out of a blank page, especially when there is no guarantee that you will ever be published, ever be read or ever 

make any money!  The determination is the only reward you have!

And after all your hard work, guess what?The hard work has just begun!  You will need to dispel with your self assurance and take a long hard look at your work and dismiss that you thought brilliant and restore that you deemed good!  It is almost like rejecting your own child for what they are and making them what they ought to be!

This is the truth and probably the saddest part of being a writer; nobody actually cares that you are writing a novel, nobody is actually that interested in your unfinished work.  It does not matter to anyone that you have been writing a novel for the past year!  If relying on praise is what you are hoping for...well then baby, you need to find another job!

AUTHOR'S CORNER;

THIS CHRISTMAS

Christmas, the time of joy, the season of reflection and giving. Where we gladly put ourselves out and trudge around the shops endlessly searching for the right gifts for our nearest and dearest.  Where we joyfully wrap presents and lovingly place them beneath the tree that we have so carefully decorated; anticipating with great delight, the smiles on our family and friends' faces.  The turkey, that sought after turkey that we order weeks in advance and search the net for the best recipe, or the latest way to make perfect roast potatoes.  Such an infectious celebration, that even those of us who are not of the Christian faith participate, with fairy lights, bobbles and Halal or Kosher turkeys and ethnic twists on age old recipes! Well it is Christmas after all, and the whole world seems to be in celebration, cheer and laughter, that woody winter scent, nights spent in front of the fireplace, chocolate boxes and shortbread biscuits, why not?  This is the only time of the year, where it seems to me to be a time when I can self indulge without feeling guilty.  

Personally, I love Christmas, I love the smells, the feel, the sounds, the way the days close into darkness and the way the nights seem to last forever.  I adore Christmas, because Christmas is when the television channels way up and actually give us value for our money!  Shops are brighter and are adorned with rows upon rows of beautiful clothes; cashmere, wools, silks, sequinned dresses and sparkly heels!  Chestnuts roasting on the streets, and children singing in huddled groups.  I love Christmas!  I love Christmas dinner...yum!   But whilst we are all cheerful (rightly so) and engrossed in Christmas, please may I request that we all take a moment to give a thought...

This Christmas, give a thought to those around us, and please, let us remember them from time to time.

This Christmas give a thought for all the elderly; they once cared and looked after you in their youth and sacrificed for your well being.  They also once had made your Christmases special and many a times have they made you believe in the magic of Santa.  

This Christmas spare a thought for the beggar on the streets; just because you feel full does not mean that he does!  Just because you are able to work, does not mean that he can!  Just because you have surplus food that is thrown away each evening, does not mean that he has!

This Christmas, don't look down upon the man who sleeps rough; if he had a home to go to, he would have gone there!

This Christmas, spare a thought for our soldier who is stuck out in a foreign land defending our country so that the likes of you and me can enjoy our Christmas in peace! Spare a thought for him as he looks on upon the chaos and destruction, with only the memory of his loved ones to keep him going.  Our tinker soldier, defending us.

This Christmas, think for a moment of the broken hearted mother; whose son is not beside her, but in a far off land, weeping for him as she stuffs the turkey and puts on a brave face for the rest of her family.  

This Christmas think of the runaway, who is not a rebel, but a poor, defenceless kid, who has no choice,who still needs love.  Think of that kid and don't walk past.

This Christmas, think of them who are deprived, they may be thousands of miles away, but don't let that be an excuse for their suffering!

This Christmas, amidst your shopping, your festive preparations, your turkey basting and your cheerful lights. This Christmas, in spite of your busy schedules, and your shopping bags and that long night spent decorating that Christmas tree, please, please, stop for a moment, pause in your tracks, and spare a thought, a single thought, feel a single wave of compassion and shed a tiny tear...for our brothers and sisters of the human race!  For surely this is what Christmas is all about; thought for the human race; the human face!