Loose Connections - A Family Memoir

OK, so it's a long time since I last posted anything on this blog. The reason? I've been busy working on the publication of my first book for adults, Loose Connections - A Family Memoir:

Check it out on www.malaikarosestanley.com

Notes from the Cavendish: Endings

My six-week Writing for Children course seems to have passed in the blink of an eye - and I am bereft! I don't like endings. I'm useless at goodbyes. I struggle to hang up the phone and even at the end of a casual get-together with friends or family, I'm never the the one who ups and leaves first and simply says, 'See you later.'

I know, I know - I have 'abandonment issues' - and I know too that endings are what make space for new beginnings, but the knowledge doesn't help.

As a children's writer, reaching the end of a story can be hugely satisfying, but there are challenges too. Children hate to be patronised so the ending doesn't necessarily have to be 'happy'. It might be thought-provoking, bitter-sweet, twist-in-the tale, hopeful, redemptive or whatever. But I think young people, like most adult readers - me included - want a resolution to the problem posed at the beginning of the story. I may struggle with goodbyes, but I still don't like cliffhanger book endings.  

Whether the protagonist 'wins' or 'loses' in the final do or die confrontation, when the stakes are at their highest, what's important is how the main character has changed. What have they learned - about life, about themselves? How have they grown?

And after it's all over? Well, I don't want to be overly-dramatic (OK, I do!) but for me - as a reader, a writer or a course tutor - then comes the let-down, the anti-climax, the sense of being cast adrift, the headlong plunge into limbo and having no idea what comes next... that's where I am now.

I'd love to hear how other people feel about endings... what are the best last lines you've ever read? How do you say goodbye - in writing or in life?

That Didn't Happen

I was diagnosed with breast cancer sixteen years ago, when my sons were aged just 11 and 9. As a single parent, and as someone who had grown up in the care system without any contact to my birth family, I was terrified I would die and that my children would literally be left all alone in the world.

That didn’t happen.

Five years ago, when my sons were barely over the threshold of adulthood, I was diagnosed with secondary cancer and I was afraid I would die and that I would not be around to see them complete their education, start work and relationships and move into their own homes.

That didn’t happen either.

But a couple of weeks ago, I was given the news by my consultant oncologist, who I know so well by now that we’re practically friends, that the tumour in my neck had grown. I was shocked - literally speechless, which as anyone who knows me will testify, is almost unheard of. The medication (Faslodex) which had been injected into both my buttocks every month for two-and-a-half years wasn’t working any more. I needed to switch to something else (Tamoxifen) immediately. I didn’t manage to ask any questions, except the ‘big’ one: what did this development mean for my overall prognosis? The consultant was doggedly optimistic. She reckons I’ll still be trudging to the hospital long after she’s retired.

I’m a little more cautious. Almost exactly a year ago, I’d been told I was in stable remission and I feel like I let myself be lulled into a false sense of security. Why else had I stopped taking the long list of supplementary and herbal medicines I’d taken for years? Why else had I sauntered into the clinic alone to get the CT and bone scan results? I go to hospital so often - sometimes for other, less pressing health problems -  that I always go alone unless I’m waiting for test and/or scan results. I’m heartily sick of the place myself - excuse the awful pun -  so I save up the favours I ask of family and friends.

I loathe the combat metaphors that are so often applied to cancer, with its so-called brave, battle-scarred survivors and fallen soldiers. I don’t want to battle through life. I want to live it. And I’ve been ‘living with cancer’ for so long, I suppose I should be used to it. To a certain extent, I am. I have learned to pace myself and I choose my activities - professional and social - within the constraints of my levels of stress and fatigue. I have learned to cope with the symptoms and with the side-effects of the treatment. I’ve moved past the compulsive touching of my body’s scars and ‘lumps’ and worrying that every ache or pain is a progression of the disease. And I don’t look ill, so I am used to the surprised tone of voice and facial expression that people have when they observe that, far from looking like a wasted bag of bones, I look so well.

I’ve ‘raced for life’ and I make a monthly contribution to Cancer Research UK, but I’m not really a fan of pink ribbons and bows, and I’ve never been a member of any hospital or community support groups or online forums. I have a small, but supportive family and circle of friends and over the years, I’ve made full use of the complementary therapies on offer through The Haven, Cancerkin and Macmillan - and even the activities offered by Sail4Cancer and Odyssey. But these organisations mainly direct their services to newly- or recently-diagnosed cancer patients - and rightly so. I understand that they do not have the money and resources to support someone living with cancer long-term, but that didn’t stop me bursting into tears this morning, when the Macmillan volunteer told me I couldn’t have any more massage treatments.

As I sat on the tube on the way home, sobbing into a soggy tissue and feeling sorry for myself, I realised that since I saw the consultant two weeks ago, I’ve been numb with shock - and carrying on as normal with my writing and teaching. But yesterday, I had to have yet another CT scan to see if the cancer has spread to my skull. And, heaven help me, I am knackered! I am fed up to the back teeth of pulling myself together. Trying to be positive is getting on my tits - and this time, I don’t even care about the bad pun!

Of course, no one knows exactly when they’re going to die. Everyone lives with this uncertainty and in the end, everyone has to face up to their own mortality. And in a weird way, that is one of the positives of any life-threatening diagnosis. Living with cancer has influenced many of the life-decisions I’ve made - ranging from stopping smoking to stopping full-time teaching and becoming a part-time, self-employed writer, and from travelling and spending all my money on holidays instead of saving for a rainy day - but only after I’d pre-paid my funeral expenses, of course.

But today, all I can think of is that cancer scares people - including me. I’m scared that I will die and that I won’t get to dance at my oldest son’s wedding or my youngest son - or my 9 year-old nephew’s.... Today, all I can do is hope that when the time comes, I’ll still be around to say:

That didn’t happen!

Remember Kevin?

You remember Kevin? My Christmas gifted Kindle and the object of my desire since the moment we met.

Things have moved on. We went on our first holiday - to Taba Heights, on the Red Sea in Egypt. I travelled with a girlfriend - a woman I worked with years ago and have known since our kids were babies - and I had grave doubts about whether to let Kevin tag along. I knew there were advantages, of course - most notably that I wouldn't have to pack a kilo or two of paperbacks in my suitcase and that I could convert my work-in-progress into a pdf file to read and review while I was away from home and without my laptop.

That was actually what I planned to do the evening before we left. But horror of horrors, for the first time ever, I emailed the pdf to my kindle address and it didn't arrive. I tried again - and again - and still, it didn't arrive. I contacted Amazon via live chat and asked what the maximum time could be for a download. They assured me it was usually instantaneous unless the file was humongous. Mine wasn't. I sent it again - and again, with the word 'convert' in the subject line - and aaaaaargh, it still didn't arrive! And then... all five attempts arrived in quick succession. I thanked the 'customer service associate' (yes, really!) and signed off.

I can't read a single word on my Kindle, even with my reading glasses, without changing the font size to somewhere between large and extra large (take note, Kevin - it's the way I usually prefer my men too) so that was my next task. Only it wouldn't work. The option to change the font size was simply not highlighted in the menu. I tried everything, before contacting Amazon again. A second customer service associate tried everything too, but to no avail. Eventually, he took my phone number and said someone would be in touch.

By then, I was practically on the verge of a nervous breakdown, already mentally calculating how many frocks and pairs of shoes I would have to unpack in order to squeeze two weeks' worth of real books into my suitcase - and furious that I was missing the football. Technology, I cursed, reverting to my Luddite roots - you can never, ever rely on it! To their credit, Amazon called me before I had time for a total meltdown - and they did solve the problem, but the whole process took over an hour.

And that wasn't the end of my stress-fest. I was still worried about Kevin getting sand in his suit on the beach and that perhaps he wouldn't function so well after that. I fretted that he might bump into someone else while he chilled out on a sun lounger and I went for a quick dip or to fetch a drink from the bar - and that he might simply move on. But my fears were ill-founded. With Kevin, it was always love at first sight, of course, but after spending so much quality time together - on the plane, on the beach, in bed, and on long coach journeys to visit Petra, Jerusalem and Bethlehem, I think I have fallen even more deeply in love. My breath is bated till the next time...

The Best of Times, The Worst of Times

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness...

Well, obviously I couldn’t have put it better myself – it’s Dickens!

The last few weeks have been very fairly eventful and painful for me, but I'll refrain from writing about all the gory details – partly because I have enough integrity not to invade other people’s privacy and partly because I have a sense of shame and want to preserve some semblance of personal dignity.

Unbelievably, Mother’s Day was less than a month ago. I had a fabulous day with my sons – a trip to the theatre, a walk with the big son's dog and an Indian take-away.

Then the earth shifted. A phone call with someone close to me reminded me that not all the mothers I know were feeling quite so lucky and blessed - and that there have been moments when I didn't feel quite so positive about motherhood myself. On the same day, a note through my door informed me that my neighbour had died!

And then the edits on my latest book suddenly turned into major re-writes – the manuscript was too dark and sombre. Could I make it quirkier? Funnier? Shorter? Better!

I tried to find my sense of humour. Remember that old joke? Question: How many editors does it take to change a light bulb? Answer: Does it have to be a light bulb? I sent it to my editor with another ‘joke’ about considering the possibility of sticking my head in the gas oven. She sent back emergency chocolate and invited me out to lunch – but only after I'd done the re-writes!

I still wasn’t laughing. I probably took it out on those closest to me – my best friends, my oldest friends, the lovely sons – and I ran away to the mountains. Literally.

I am back home now. I have apologised. The re-writes are done – at least until the next lot. I will try to remember that like a good story, life is full of ups and downs – and of beginnings and endings.

RIP Kat.

The Spaces between Writing

In a recent blog, I mentioned that I was in a minor panic after suddenly realising that I needed to make a story character costume for World Book Day. But I may have given the wrong impression, because I actually love being up to my elbows in papier maché! Or dirt! Or paint! Or cake-mix!

In the spaces between writing, I like to make stuff.

I moved house a couple of years ago and no longer have a garden. I was always more of an enthusiastic rather than knowledgeable or skilled gardener, but I when I wasn’t writing (or teaching or growing babies), I loved mowing the lawn, planting seeds or even scratching the weeds from between the bricks that edged the patio. These days, arranging the odd vase of flowers, cutting a sprig of thyme or re-potting the occasional plant for our pavement garden is the closest I get to that sort of creative energy. It’s a lot less work, of course, and I console myself with the thought that I still get to appreciate nature every time I go for a walk.

I’m not being self-deprecating here, but I'm not exactly a great cook either. I'm never going to win Masterchef or the Great British Bake-Off, but I am still occasionally inspired to move away from the computer and find the time and space to make sloe gin or bake the odd batch of scones – usually when there’s no chocolate in the house.

I also draw and paint and make collage and, er... life-sized puppets:

          

I guess some people might argue that all this is just procrastination, but I think this sort of activity... this sort of creativity lifts my soul and feeds back into my writing.  I know I’m not alone. After seeing my kitchen sink full of sodden, shredded paper, one friend and fellow author secretly confided in me about her passion for knitting and cross-stitch. Another has brazenly blogged about drawing and painting. You know who you are!

Losing It

Lady M

I know I have a rather odd expression on my face in these pictures and look as if I may have lost my mind. In fact, whenever I do school events, I tend to 'lose it' in a different way. I feel desperately nervous and worried about author visits in advance. I try to tell myself it's a sort of stage fright - a necessary surge of adrenaline to ensure that I can deliver a good 'performance'.

Handa's Surprise - or... er, Handa's Asleep?

But once I'm actually there - face-to-face with two Year 5 classes crammed into one classroom, all dressed as book characters, or three classes in a lecture theatre, all channelling their inner superhero - I focus on the children, forget about the other adults who are there and lose myself in the moment, along with some of my usual inhibitions and reserve.

I think this is probably a good thing for a children's author to do once in a while.

This time around, I had a cold - so I also lost my voice. It's slowly returning and I've progressed from croaky to husky. Think along the lines of Rod Stewart's Losing You: http://youtu.be/u-kWj_kXzVg or It’s a Heartache: http://youtu.be/Dfw_ID95hPw

Flash Fiction for World Book Day

It's Not All About the Writing

I spend most of my time hunched over my laptop, working alone at home. But this Thursday – 1 March – is World Book Day and like many children’s writers, I have been invited into a school for an Author Visit. This year, thanks to organiser and fellow author, Karen McCombie, I will be visiting Year 5 at Campsbourne School in Hornsey, north London. The main focus of my hour-long session will be Flash Fiction and I have already asked the children to make a blank mini-book in advance. I will also do a short reading from Spike and Ali Enson and from Skin Deep, plus a ‘lucky dip’ question and answer session.

So, everything’s under control then? Well, it was until yesterday when I remembered, in a minor panic, that the Campsbourne children – and teachers - may very well be dressing up as their favourite book characters to raise money for charity and that perhaps I need a costume of my own!

From the mask in my picture, you could be forgiven for thinking that I have gone for ‘Burglar Betty’, the good woman who reforms – and marries – Allan and Janet Ahlberg’s ‘Burglar Bill’. But you’d be wrong. The white lumps are the basis of my character’s costume and it occurs to me that I should probably offer a prize to anyone who can guess who it is.

My mask, together with the black cape and possibly some bright red or purple lycra, is actually for the School for Superheroes event the following week at Central Foundation Boys’ School in Islington. I will be running sessions for two groups of ninety Year 5 children from local primary schools as part of the CFBS secondary school transition programme, plus a small, informal session for Year 7 students squeezed in between. I am obviously not at liberty to reveal further details of my superhero identity as it may undermine my ability to save the world...

The day after, I have to be a grown-up and run a one-off workshop for university undergraduates on writing picture books – no dressing up required – and between these events, I have my regular weekly session at another university, offering 1:1 support with academic writing.

Honestly, I love my job!

Kevin and Me

This is an update on my previous post about Kevin.

I am pleased to report that it wasn’t just a one-night stand. Kevin and I have had several dates since we were introduced at Christmas and we’re getting along really well.

He has a new suit – made of lilac faux leather.  I know, I know. It’s a bit out there, but it’s distinctive, protective and, if you ask me, it looks very stylish and smart. It was relatively cheap too, so if either of us has second thoughts about the colour, we can always try something different.

I have sent him lots of free and special offer books and several sample chapters, but I don’t want to give the impression that the two of us are always a cheap date. I’ve bought a few full-price e-books too. To be honest, I haven’t read that much while I’ve been on the move. Most of the bus and train journeys I take are too short for that, but I’m expecting that Kev and I will spend a lot more time together the minute we board a plane and go off on holiday. Fingers crossed!

I’ve also sent Kevin pdf files of my own work. It’s great being able to review and proofread away from the computer screen, but without having to print everything out.  And my agent has downloaded my latest book on to her Kindle. (She loved it!)

Kevin is easy-going and adaptable. He’s happy to perform cartwheels, forward rolls and back-flips so you can view him from different angles and he’s even able to adjust his contrast and size. Now that’s skill!

It’s still early days, of course. We've made it as far as Valentine's Day, but I don’t know if Kevin and I will be settling down together forever... watch this space.

Vocare & Pascho

A couple of months into my RLF Fellowship at the London College of Fashion, I mentioned to a friend how much I was enjoying it. It reminded me of how much I love teaching – the chance to make a difference in a pupil or student’s life, to share in their learning and help them reach their full potential. Teaching, I declared, was my vocation. She was surprised. To be honest, I surprised myself. Where does my writing fit into this? Is it just a job; another career I’ve moved into or is it something else entirely? I’ve been thinking about read more