Regarding my book-writing progress, I wasn’t feeling hopeful at all these last ten days. I also knew I was due to write a blog post but didn’t know what to write. I tried not to panic about not knowing, as five more days went by.
Gardening is one of the things that soothes my soul (makes the world brighter) and gets me back into balance. So I decided to stop worrying about writing today and visit my allotment plot.
(For those who don’t know, a plot is an allotted piece of land rented from the local Council. Its purpose is to grow vegetables and fruit, and some flowers, if you wish).
I spent several hours working on my plot and felt so much better. I dug in the dirt, weeded, hoed, stretched every muscle, erected bamboo cane supports and planted some runner bean seeds. The seeds were very easy to push into the fine soil. I patted them down lovingly and watered them in.
When I got home I had a long soak in a bubble bath. Then I read an old diary entry from last May, where I had written an outline plot for my book and sketched out the three acts. I was surprised by (and liked) what I’d written.
“Hey, maybe this bookof mine is okay after all?”
I had started to feel more hopeful.
Then I sat down at my desk, turned on the fairy lights and wrote this blog post.
Having felt despondent for over a week, feeling I wasn’t getting anywhere fast – either at my allotment plot, or with my book writing, I realised my despondency was just a state of mind.
Gardening had eased my troubled mind. I’m doing fine after all – and so too (I think) are both plots. 😉
I’ve started transcribing my earliest diary (1972) and I’ve also transcribed a notebook, that was really an Autograph book, from 1966 (I was six).
I remember asking all my family, and anyone else who came to the house, to write something in my autograph book. No one wanted to write more than their name:
“It’s an Autograph book, you’re only supposed to write your name.”
“I know, but can you write something else as well?”
“But it’s an autograph book. You’re not meant to write anything else .”
“I know! Write something else. Pleeeease.”
“Like what?”
“Something else. Just write something.”
After much pleading and persuading from me, most people had a stab at writing something, other than just their name.
My Mum wrote:
By hook or by crook, I’ll be first in this book.
“Is that all?” I asked, “Can’t you write something else?”
“It’s supposed to be short. It’s a rhyme. I’m saying, I’m the first in the book. That’s it.”
“Can you write something else?”
“No, that’s it.”
It was Christmas. My Dad’s friend John Kenny was visiting us. He wrote:
May you have many more happy Christmas days.
Well, I was only six years old, so I would hope so.
My sister wrote:
Laugh and the world will laugh with you, Cry and you will cry alone.
I didn’t understand it. I asked my Mum, who explained it to me, then I did understand it. Why wasn’t anyone writing happy things in my book?
Next my Aunty Sheila:
Little Willie in the best of sashes
Fell in the fire and was burnt to ashes
By and by the room grew chilly
But no one liked to poke Poor Willy.
“So, he fell in the fire? And was burnt?
Why?
Why didn’t they want to poke him?”
To me, poke meant prod. I didn’t know it meant stoking a fire. It was a sad story and I didn’t see the humour in it, at all. I just wished someone would write something jolly in my book.
On the next page I had drawn a tower block (I lived in a block of flats). At first, it appears that the building is on fire, with me in it – and, like a time-lapse photo, I’m in three different places. I know it’s me, as I’ve written the words ME and drawn arrows, pointing at all three people. I’m waving out of two of the windows and a chimney pot, with a camera in my hand.
Looking more closely, I realise the building is not on fire. What I thought were curling flames seems to be a winding route, or path, from ground level to chimney. Or it could possibly be a Rapunzel-like rope.
Far below, on a path leading from the block of flats, are people with guns in their hands, taking aim at something. Along the paths are other people, all with one leg raised high, at right-angles to their bodies. They are either dancing, running, or goose-stepping.
I think around this time I was watching The Man from Uncle on t.v. I also think this was my first Story Board.
The camera might be from a spy briefcase set we had. It was probably plastic, but the camera worked. However, from what I remember, I think I mostly took photos of drain covers and pigeons.
My Nanny wrote:
I slept and I dreamt that life was beauty.
I woke and I found that life was duty.
And that was the last time I ever asked anyone to write in my autograph book. I just wrote in it myself and drew pictures.
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