Yet again, time is elusive. The sun has been shining, intermittently albeit with bouts of continuous rain, unfortunately a fair bit while at Glastonbury.The glue like mud resulting in pulled leg muscles with the effort of pulling ones wellingtons out of it.The result, a human resembling a new born foal, trying to make its legs work after long periods of rest. Although, fabulously the sun shone, all day, with ferocity on Sunday. And woe betide anyone who didn't put on their sunscreen. Well that was me and I was reminded why I am usually so careful as my skin glowed and blistered. I had missed a patch of my decolletage. And only now is the pain abating with the skin all peeled, surprisingly leaving a hint of biscuit which is as much as my fair skin could ever wish for.
So it back to the reason for having a blog. My previous promise to write more regularly has yet again been elusive as it is again another month since I've been able to make some time to write again.
I have excuses, plenty of them. June was an extraordinary month for busyness with one of my close friends coming to stay, other friends coming to stay, a wedding in Ireland and Glastonbury and there lies my fully booked diary. But now I have no excuses as my diary has a few windows of space, well more like a whole set of patio doors of space but I'm OK with that it means that I can get on with my life and do the things I want to do with blogging being just one small part of it. So enough of the preamble time to get back to the story of a long lost Father.
I left off, on a bleak Christmas in 2001 after a terrible break up knowing that I had to find the elusive Father. I had tried to trace him on a couple of occasions. The first time when I was 15.
My starting point was South Dakota as this was the last address I had for him, so I at least had a starting point. I wrote to the South Dakota Chamber of Commerce explaining that I was trying to find my Father and one day I received a letter from a lady called Joan Likness. She had tracked down a Mark C Lincoln on my behalf because she was touched by my letter, and not because it was her job. It's always surprising when you are at the receiving end of a random act of kindness. So a carefully written letter was constructed to sent to my Father. As only a 15 year old can, I listed the exams I was taking and a little bit about my life. And those were the days when stickers were part of every 15 year olds pencil case and I stuck lots of little love hearts all over the letter and then with trepidation sent the letter to the good old US of A. And I waited and waited and then one day I received a letter.
Disappointment filled my being as I looked sadly at the very letter I had sent with 'Return to Sender', 'Not Known at this Address' on it, all the little love hearts still intact. My first attempt had been thwarted by the gypsy movements of my father. And it was years before I tried another attempt.
Exams, moving to the Isle of Wight, starting college studying Graphic Design and then a move over to Southampton the years went by swiftly. It was my second year of college when I tried again and this time through the Salvation Army - whom apparently are very good at tracing lost relatives, specifically those of ex American Servicemen from the war who had fathered children. And alas there was even less success here, not even a response from the salvation army.
In my early teens I'd even written to Cilla Black hoping she of all people would be able to reunite me with my Father, again no response.
So that leads me onto the final time I tried to trace my father which I feel will warrant a whole raft of separate blog posts, which I'm hoping won't take a month to produce.
Sunday, 3 July 2011
Saturday, 30 April 2011
Part II of Dr Who
The last post I drafted 6 days ago and it's only today that I've been able to have a quick read and post it before starting again. So, ever determined, here I am . . . and it's about time I started with a little of my story, and how I ended up here. Writing, or trying to write, or trying to write in a manner that would make the content even marginally entertaining to any of you who come across it.
So in a country far, far away. There was a princess who was waiting for her prince. No . . . hang on a minute, I've ended up way to deep in my imagination, the fairytale, time to drag myself out quick sharpish. And, relax, back to reality.
I've held for a long time a fantasy or being able to entertain people with words. I prefer to consider my words before I speak, although this is unlikely to be the case after a few to many beers. I prefer to listen and observe rather than be the maker of conversation. I guess I may class myself as an evesdropper of sorts.
Anyway, I've digressed again, moving away from why I want to tell a story.
My upbringing was one like many. An absent Father, brought up by my very loving Mother with loving Grandparents who lived close by. This is a situation which has been sadly normal for many families in this day and age. My Father worked abroad and I have only two memories of him up until the age of 31. The first one waiting excitedly for him to arrive, constantly looking out of the window and wondering where he was and the other time in the Little Chef in Camberley, probably about 1978. Although thinking about it, these two memories may have been just the one visit. He would write and send presents occasionally, which I loved. One thing that I didn't do was write back which has been a constant 'what if' question. This was a guy who sent me presents and I had no understanding of the implications that my lack of writing would have on our future relationship. So we lost touch. He was out in the world just a figment of my imagination but never to far from my thoughts.
If there is anyone reading this who has a similar experience then you may have heard of the pychological impact this may have on you as an adult - the abandonment theory.
In its most basic form, as a small child losing a parent, the subconscious believes that losing someone will always happen and will work very hard to protect you to ensure this doesn't happen again thereby avoiding any hurt and potential future pain. So relationships will be built with those who are unsuitable, who are married, who are likely to leave you and those whom you've only just me and are never likely to see again. This way you are at no real risk of being truly intimate and therefore truly hurt again. But be assured these are not intentional choices as the desire to be completely loved and settled are at the forefront of the mind. And so the pattern continues with the desire for intimacy deeper than just sexual intimacy but without the emotional tools to know how to get it? And so I continued on this journey until one particularly bad breakup left me on Christmas Day deciding that I had to find this elusive person, my father. And so the journey began.
The question is, how much should I write in any one post, how much detail and how much of myself should I unveil. This is after all, my journey into writing rather than a story of my life. Time to ponder . . . .
So in a country far, far away. There was a princess who was waiting for her prince. No . . . hang on a minute, I've ended up way to deep in my imagination, the fairytale, time to drag myself out quick sharpish. And, relax, back to reality.
I've held for a long time a fantasy or being able to entertain people with words. I prefer to consider my words before I speak, although this is unlikely to be the case after a few to many beers. I prefer to listen and observe rather than be the maker of conversation. I guess I may class myself as an evesdropper of sorts.
Anyway, I've digressed again, moving away from why I want to tell a story.
My upbringing was one like many. An absent Father, brought up by my very loving Mother with loving Grandparents who lived close by. This is a situation which has been sadly normal for many families in this day and age. My Father worked abroad and I have only two memories of him up until the age of 31. The first one waiting excitedly for him to arrive, constantly looking out of the window and wondering where he was and the other time in the Little Chef in Camberley, probably about 1978. Although thinking about it, these two memories may have been just the one visit. He would write and send presents occasionally, which I loved. One thing that I didn't do was write back which has been a constant 'what if' question. This was a guy who sent me presents and I had no understanding of the implications that my lack of writing would have on our future relationship. So we lost touch. He was out in the world just a figment of my imagination but never to far from my thoughts.
If there is anyone reading this who has a similar experience then you may have heard of the pychological impact this may have on you as an adult - the abandonment theory.
In its most basic form, as a small child losing a parent, the subconscious believes that losing someone will always happen and will work very hard to protect you to ensure this doesn't happen again thereby avoiding any hurt and potential future pain. So relationships will be built with those who are unsuitable, who are married, who are likely to leave you and those whom you've only just me and are never likely to see again. This way you are at no real risk of being truly intimate and therefore truly hurt again. But be assured these are not intentional choices as the desire to be completely loved and settled are at the forefront of the mind. And so the pattern continues with the desire for intimacy deeper than just sexual intimacy but without the emotional tools to know how to get it? And so I continued on this journey until one particularly bad breakup left me on Christmas Day deciding that I had to find this elusive person, my father. And so the journey began.
The question is, how much should I write in any one post, how much detail and how much of myself should I unveil. This is after all, my journey into writing rather than a story of my life. Time to ponder . . . .
Life as a Time Traveller
It's just a couple of days short of two months since I posted last and I'm sure I don't remember where that time went. My own personal Tardis is living inside me and moving time faster than Dr Who.
You see, the big plan is to practice writing, develop my writing, develop my own personal style for my novel. You know the idea, the novel that we all have inside us? My plan to get there is quite simple to start, for I only need to write the shortest of posts everyday, to get the fingers moving, the grey matter sparking, the creative juices flowing and I've already failed at that. But I guess as ever the true motivational speaker will tell you, you've only failed if you never try again.
Here I am, starting over. I refuse to live a life most ordinary, it's not in my nature, although my life has been pretty ordinary so far. A constant internal struggle like a herd of cats trying to get out of a sack tied up with rope is my most everyday feeling and the way to quieten the cats is to write, exercise and spend time with loved ones. I'm doing two of those things now.
It's time to re-set the Tardis and continue on the course set, with no deviations along the way into self sabotague, fear and doubt.
You see, the big plan is to practice writing, develop my writing, develop my own personal style for my novel. You know the idea, the novel that we all have inside us? My plan to get there is quite simple to start, for I only need to write the shortest of posts everyday, to get the fingers moving, the grey matter sparking, the creative juices flowing and I've already failed at that. But I guess as ever the true motivational speaker will tell you, you've only failed if you never try again.
Here I am, starting over. I refuse to live a life most ordinary, it's not in my nature, although my life has been pretty ordinary so far. A constant internal struggle like a herd of cats trying to get out of a sack tied up with rope is my most everyday feeling and the way to quieten the cats is to write, exercise and spend time with loved ones. I'm doing two of those things now.
It's time to re-set the Tardis and continue on the course set, with no deviations along the way into self sabotague, fear and doubt.
Tuesday, 1 March 2011
Zumba and wobbly moments
My slight fear of my blog being found, my bigger fear of it being read and the consequent nasal snorts that could ensue are enough to pretend I'd never even started it.
What blog? Who me? You must be mistaken? Writing, noooo, must be someone else.
Practice makes perfect, so they say. Well one does hope that it does. So, 'up yours' to fear and criticism, I'm practising, I'm learning and one of these days I may even let people know about it. Not yet though. I'm not quite ready yet.
So I Zumba'd and watched myself wobble in the floor to ceiling mirrors, my face going red and shiny and I giggled. It is only very fit people that look good exercising, anyone else just looks like a fool, probably resembling a raspberry fool.
I could quite easily avoid exercise if it wasn't for a desire to be leaner and have more energy. I can tell myself any number of lies to avoid it but that wouldn't help me get to where I want to go.
It's those wobbly moments we may decide it's to hard; could never achieve it anyway, so switch on the television, and remove the fear as we stare mindlessly at the screen.
And round we go, never believing, never trying. Always with a thought that hangs there like the cobwebs you just can't quite reach at the top of the stairs, telling yourself you'll sort them out one day.
So I wobbled about writing and then I firmed up and my fingers moved over the keyboard. So, much like the exercise that I'm now investing in, to firm up my body. Here's to investing some time to writing. Soon I'll be able to tell a story and as my writing firms up, so will my arse!
Here's to little steps towards big dreams.
What blog? Who me? You must be mistaken? Writing, noooo, must be someone else.
Practice makes perfect, so they say. Well one does hope that it does. So, 'up yours' to fear and criticism, I'm practising, I'm learning and one of these days I may even let people know about it. Not yet though. I'm not quite ready yet.
So I Zumba'd and watched myself wobble in the floor to ceiling mirrors, my face going red and shiny and I giggled. It is only very fit people that look good exercising, anyone else just looks like a fool, probably resembling a raspberry fool.
I could quite easily avoid exercise if it wasn't for a desire to be leaner and have more energy. I can tell myself any number of lies to avoid it but that wouldn't help me get to where I want to go.
It's those wobbly moments we may decide it's to hard; could never achieve it anyway, so switch on the television, and remove the fear as we stare mindlessly at the screen.
And round we go, never believing, never trying. Always with a thought that hangs there like the cobwebs you just can't quite reach at the top of the stairs, telling yourself you'll sort them out one day.
So I wobbled about writing and then I firmed up and my fingers moved over the keyboard. So, much like the exercise that I'm now investing in, to firm up my body. Here's to investing some time to writing. Soon I'll be able to tell a story and as my writing firms up, so will my arse!
Here's to little steps towards big dreams.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
Writers block . .
My third post and already I'm struggling with what to put up here. Well, there is so much to write, the question is where to start, what with, who with and the nagging doubt that anyone would find it interesting.
The best place to start, apparently is at the beginning but the beginning requires much more to write about than I have capacity for today.
So today I'll start with a book recomendation http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Write-Dirty-Story-Publishing/dp/0743226232/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1298821379&sr=8-1. I haven't written a dirty story, yet, but I'm sure there's one in me, before the menopause hits and the desire all but dries up.
And I thought I'd also post the one poem I'd written which should be the starting point of telling my story and why it leads me to want to write a fictional story in the future with specific aims which are not just to try and get rich!
Dad
So Glad We Found Each Other
I've never really known you,
But I love you with all my heart
It's a cruel twist of fate, that kept us far apart.
Hate used to fill me like a tightly coiled spring
It was only adding alcohol that freed the beast within.
Then one night my Dad phoned from far, far away,
Then you told me that you loved me and the hate began to sway.
In its place new feelings formed, something far superior
A feeling of deep love which was almost scarier.
Many hours together we spent on the telephone
Laughing, reminiscing, imagining each others home.
I knew I had to see you, to believe that you were real,
And when I met you for the first time, I didn't know how to feel.
I never had a vision that you were a superstar,
Or even really rich driving a silver Mercedes car.
I just never thought you loved me,
How could you from afar?
But now I know differently and the hate is just a scar,
Never to be seen again dragged up in a bar.
I hope life lets us know each other more fully than before,
And our father/daughter relationship will prosper even more.
Fear and love replace the hate and insecurity,
But now it's just enough to know that you've always loved me.
Oct 2002.
That's all folks, until next time.
The best place to start, apparently is at the beginning but the beginning requires much more to write about than I have capacity for today.
So today I'll start with a book recomendation http://www.amazon.co.uk/How-Write-Dirty-Story-Publishing/dp/0743226232/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1298821379&sr=8-1. I haven't written a dirty story, yet, but I'm sure there's one in me, before the menopause hits and the desire all but dries up.
And I thought I'd also post the one poem I'd written which should be the starting point of telling my story and why it leads me to want to write a fictional story in the future with specific aims which are not just to try and get rich!
Dad
So Glad We Found Each Other
I've never really known you,
But I love you with all my heart
It's a cruel twist of fate, that kept us far apart.
Hate used to fill me like a tightly coiled spring
It was only adding alcohol that freed the beast within.
Then one night my Dad phoned from far, far away,
Then you told me that you loved me and the hate began to sway.
In its place new feelings formed, something far superior
A feeling of deep love which was almost scarier.
Many hours together we spent on the telephone
Laughing, reminiscing, imagining each others home.
I knew I had to see you, to believe that you were real,
And when I met you for the first time, I didn't know how to feel.
I never had a vision that you were a superstar,
Or even really rich driving a silver Mercedes car.
I just never thought you loved me,
How could you from afar?
But now I know differently and the hate is just a scar,
Never to be seen again dragged up in a bar.
I hope life lets us know each other more fully than before,
And our father/daughter relationship will prosper even more.
Fear and love replace the hate and insecurity,
But now it's just enough to know that you've always loved me.
Oct 2002.
That's all folks, until next time.
Thursday, 24 February 2011
Drink and write if you dare . . .
Today, is, by all accounts, day two of practising my writing abilities, or lack of them, so that one day I may have the ability to write a whole story that people will actually want to read without throwing it on the nearest bonfire or donating to the nearest charity shop regardless of what charity it's for.
I'm sure that a couple of bottles of beer and a large glass of wine should potentially steer me away from doing this, but I fear, that it's having the exact opposite effect. Bugger. This could be bad.
Trying to find time to write is . . . a challenge. I work full time, have set up a business (primarily to give me time to write), have a boyfriend (sounds like a toyboy, unfortunately he's not), have a cat, have a house to run and now as, if anyone is reading this will know, have started a blog. Madness I'm sure, but then I'm not allowed to give blood anymore as I may have CJD, due to a blood transfusion in the 90's. And, no I don't have HIV, or Hepatitas A, B, C, D or whatever, or any other blood disease that you may get from a transfusion. But my brain may turn to CJD wallpaper paste due to said transfusion? So if you are unfortunate to be reading this, and by some miracle, enjoying it, suck it up while you can as it may not last forever.
Anyway, I've kind of kept this blog secret. There's a part of me that thinks I have no ability, and there is every chance that this is the sanest thinking I've had in a long time, there is a tiny part of me of course that thinks I may have a little bit of something to write a little bit of a story. Tonight I made the mistake of mentioning to aforementioned boyfriend, what I'd started. Now he's intrigued and wants to read what I've done. I'm not entirely comfortable with this as he has a PHD, is slightly OCD with his obsession with grammar, and is a writer himself, having given up the day job for a large sum of cash to write and direct a low budget zombie movie.
Part of not publicising this is that, maybe, some people may come across it and read it, by accident? Rather than knowing that friends and family have to try hard to be polite about it, if I push it their way. It means that by maybe 'being public' I have more incentive to push forward to do something day by day, rather than give myself an excuse of 'tomorrow' if just in Word on my laptop. And it feels a little bit exciting to think that maybe someone I don't know might read this and like it.
So aside from all that, I haven't been home tonight, I've had curry, beers and wine and am at my fellas house (still not a toyboy) on my laptop, endeavouring to practice writing.
Shoddy so far. I have a couple of books about writing a novel and a book about writing dirty stories. With the menopause looming, dirty stories seem to be more about mud than bodice rippers and multiple orgasms. In due course I shall refer to them after reading them and share the knowledge.
For now I have to tell you about my apalling memory. I finished reading a book last night, there was a word I didn't know the meaning of and thought 'I must remember that and look it up'. I forgot, and still haven't remembered. If you've read the previous post you'll know this is likely to be the first of many half stories, nearly stories or just a plain old fact dressed up as a story, to come. You have been warned.
Sweet dreams to any poor soul who happens upon this blog.
I'm sure that a couple of bottles of beer and a large glass of wine should potentially steer me away from doing this, but I fear, that it's having the exact opposite effect. Bugger. This could be bad.
Trying to find time to write is . . . a challenge. I work full time, have set up a business (primarily to give me time to write), have a boyfriend (sounds like a toyboy, unfortunately he's not), have a cat, have a house to run and now as, if anyone is reading this will know, have started a blog. Madness I'm sure, but then I'm not allowed to give blood anymore as I may have CJD, due to a blood transfusion in the 90's. And, no I don't have HIV, or Hepatitas A, B, C, D or whatever, or any other blood disease that you may get from a transfusion. But my brain may turn to CJD wallpaper paste due to said transfusion? So if you are unfortunate to be reading this, and by some miracle, enjoying it, suck it up while you can as it may not last forever.
Anyway, I've kind of kept this blog secret. There's a part of me that thinks I have no ability, and there is every chance that this is the sanest thinking I've had in a long time, there is a tiny part of me of course that thinks I may have a little bit of something to write a little bit of a story. Tonight I made the mistake of mentioning to aforementioned boyfriend, what I'd started. Now he's intrigued and wants to read what I've done. I'm not entirely comfortable with this as he has a PHD, is slightly OCD with his obsession with grammar, and is a writer himself, having given up the day job for a large sum of cash to write and direct a low budget zombie movie.
Part of not publicising this is that, maybe, some people may come across it and read it, by accident? Rather than knowing that friends and family have to try hard to be polite about it, if I push it their way. It means that by maybe 'being public' I have more incentive to push forward to do something day by day, rather than give myself an excuse of 'tomorrow' if just in Word on my laptop. And it feels a little bit exciting to think that maybe someone I don't know might read this and like it.
So aside from all that, I haven't been home tonight, I've had curry, beers and wine and am at my fellas house (still not a toyboy) on my laptop, endeavouring to practice writing.
Shoddy so far. I have a couple of books about writing a novel and a book about writing dirty stories. With the menopause looming, dirty stories seem to be more about mud than bodice rippers and multiple orgasms. In due course I shall refer to them after reading them and share the knowledge.
For now I have to tell you about my apalling memory. I finished reading a book last night, there was a word I didn't know the meaning of and thought 'I must remember that and look it up'. I forgot, and still haven't remembered. If you've read the previous post you'll know this is likely to be the first of many half stories, nearly stories or just a plain old fact dressed up as a story, to come. You have been warned.
Sweet dreams to any poor soul who happens upon this blog.
Wednesday, 23 February 2011
Can you look like an anonymous arse?
And, so, I continue into the great unknown of knowing whether I have any ability or just bundles of wishful thinking and the ability to daydream without the aid of any artificial imagination enhancers. Does an ice cold beer count? So where to start on practicing writing to create my novel? I've really no idea. Many years ago I paid for and attended, at least twice a Creative Writing course. Twice was enough to realise that the course was really about listening to what everybody else had written. It felt very self indulgent. Well, it might have, if I was any good and wanted to share my masterpiece. I'm not and I didn't.
So the humiliation starts here. If this blog gets public, it's not because I intended it to, it's sheer social media witchery, which I've had bugger all influence over.
Oh, and if you should happen to be reading this, there's a crucial fact you should know. I'm crap at telling stories. Great half stories, stories without a punchline, even forgetting most of a potential story after the first line has left my mouth. Story telling is not one of my skills. So be warned. I'm not convinced my grammar is great and my Mother repeatedly tells me how crap I was at spelling when at school.
Here's to . . . improving?
So the humiliation starts here. If this blog gets public, it's not because I intended it to, it's sheer social media witchery, which I've had bugger all influence over.
Oh, and if you should happen to be reading this, there's a crucial fact you should know. I'm crap at telling stories. Great half stories, stories without a punchline, even forgetting most of a potential story after the first line has left my mouth. Story telling is not one of my skills. So be warned. I'm not convinced my grammar is great and my Mother repeatedly tells me how crap I was at spelling when at school.
Here's to . . . improving?
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