Nastasya Parker

Summoning Enthusiasm

This Week’s Bit of String: A snail on the school path

Hurrying to work early on Friday, before the whole student population returned for the first time, I saw a snail on the pavement. It was a not unpleasant, if snotty, shade of green, and working its way across the path.

I veered around it and we both continued at our different paces and directions. I hoped it would make it to the relative safety of the rosy hedge before torrents of young people poured forth.

And I imagined a Sliding Doors moment for a student coming back to school, maybe an adolescent boy on his first day of a new school year. He’s walking with his friends, everyone talking tough. He has a choice: he can hop away from them for a second to avoid crushing the snail, or he can obliterate it beneath his black school shoe, and perhaps boast about his conquest.

Maybe his friends are already playing Grand Theft Auto and other violent games which he isn’t allowed to play or which his family can’t afford. Maybe they all went on adventurous holidays over the summer and he was caring for a sick parent or grandparent. His choice regarding the snail could impact his reputation and his self-image and alter his entire first day, thereby affecting the year ahead.

I’m probably not going to write this story. Two short stories I’m currently working on, nearing submission level, deal with adolescent choices and to an extent, the culture of toxic masculinity, although one of my pieces is mainly about an adult sibling dealing with the fallout. And it’s kind of enough dealing with it at school.

Poor Choices

Besides, projecting this choice onto a character and bringing in a hot topic detracts from my own personal responsibility. Why didn’t I stop for a moment and move the snail to safety?

I was in a rush because I needed to sort some issues for a struggling student. But the flexibility to pause and act on observations regarding others in need, that’s essential too. What does my failure say about me as a teaching assistant? What does it say about my writing, am I making things up to deflect truths or to reveal them?

*There were a few times this summer when I was about the speed of the white alpaca. Seen on a Cotswolds wander.*

Since I’m being candid, I’ve been dissatisfied with a few of my choices lately. I always plan ahead, pace out the writing requirements among everything else. School holidays are meant to be quite writing-focused, although they do generally require a fair bit of housework and gardening. With our kiddo’s wedding and my parents’ move over the summer, I meant to get ahead with my writing goals, and I almost did… but that of course coincided with the hot, tiring end of term.

I found it was nice sometimes to just sit and watch a Pixar film or something. When I came back from the US and had a few days before school started again, I did some editing and the requisite housecleaning and preserving and cooking, but I didn’t write much new. I spent some intensive hours working on a jigsaw instead. And goshdarnit, I enjoyed that.

Hyperdrive to Hyperspace

Again, I was conscious of my shortcomings. Leisure time is downright dangerous. I give myself an inch, I’m at risk of taking a mile. And now school has begun with its rush, and for the first 2 days I didn’t even have time for a treadmill session, let alone working on my novel or a story.

But the panic of time slipping away might just be kicking me into gear. On Saturday I edited another story, did a critique, wrote this blog post half while in the car to have a farmer’s market hike with my husband, and added 500 words to the novel I haven’t worked on since May. It feels good.

Constraints on my schedule can force me to utilise my time better. Additionally, even while it can exhaust me, work does inspire me.

*Having time outside helps everything, too.*

On Thursday I was on hand for a Year 12 English Literature lesson, and learned that the word enthusiasm comes from the Greek for “being possessed by the gods.” Yes, that’s what I want! As nice as it can feel to spend some time watching movies and doing very little, working with a passion feels amazing.

And I get to see that in my students. In just 2 schooldays I’ve learned so much from a new Year 12 student about Paul Dano films, Riddler incarnations, and applying media theory to a Russian videogame. Meanwhile, a returning Year 10 (now Year 11) boy tried to convince me that vegetables are a government conspiracy.

“Miss,” he chides, with a knowing smirk and twinkling eyes, “you know what the government is like. So if they’re the ones saying vegetables are good for you…”

Back to school can mean long days and stressed nights, but also random rabbit holes and frenzied writing spells. It means constant reminders of other’s humanity, as long as I pause amid the rush and examine what it all means.

What does back to school mean for you? Have you felt “possessed by the gods” about anything lately?

Reader, I Cried

This Month’s Bit of String: Black and white schoolhouse portraits

Located at the gateway to the grandest peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains, the hotel leans into a a rustic theme in its main corridors and lobbies. The site was a shoe peg and crutch factory in the late 19th century and then briefly part of Draper and Maynard, makers of baseball gloves. Babe Ruth’s might have come from here.

Graffiti at the Basin in the White Mountains reads: "What makes you happy?" — Graffiti at the Basin in the White Mountains

Various chimneys and smokestacks remain, and oxidised tanks with screws big as elephant toes swoop over the wine cellar in the restaurant. This is now a rightfully popular venue with excellent catering. But in the tower leading up to the room where my husband and I stayed, the stairs were strangely hushed, reminding me of when we took the auto road to the top of Mount Washington last year. Higher than birds fly, the silence was stunning.

Vintage photographs cover the walls. Group pictures from schoolhouses or factories, girls in pinafores and boys in shorts. I’d rush over a landing and with a jolt, my eyes met the sombre gaze yesteryear’s children.

Does that ever happen to you? The sudden recognition that each face in old photos was as human as you and me, as complex and full of need. I wondered whether they lived full lives or if they felt they had to settle for less. And I hoped they experienced at least one day of complete, earth-shattering joy.

Perfect Day

This was where our son married their wonderful partner just over a week ago. There was a small, beautiful ceremony, so heartfelt and precious that even the officiant choked up, and then a reception in the hotel where we stayed.

Photo of my son in a blue suit with his bride, who wears her wedding dress covered with stitched flowers. Her head is on his shoulder as they sit on a granite bench in front of hydrangeas. — Our brave little loves.

I could not be prouder that I have a child, biologically a son, who loves so hard they cry. That they arranged and played the piano recording used for the processional, and that the handful of guests featured friends cultivated from all over the world, each one excited and inspired and supportive, on both sides of the aisle.

I’d gratefully relive the day again and again. I remember flashes of our own wedding, when Bear was two-and-a-half and my new husband still lived overseas. Those were some frantic factors to contend with, so as soon as our special day was over, it became patchy in my mind.

Back then, I didn’t have time to record the most marvellous details of my wedding day. I’ve never even managed to put the photos in an album. Now, I have daily scribbles in my routine. They got a bit backed up—it took me 10 pages and 3 days, while life carried on and there were still many moments to be maximised. But I have an account, at least, and pictures I was able to snap myself now and then.

Overflowing

It was handy having a room at the hotel, because I could pop up and redo my make-up a couple of times. I was tearful all through the service and I still can’t remember the speeches without welling up slightly.

Why do we cry when we’re happy? It’s a response to the overwhelming emotion, isn’t it, like sweat for our feelings. A bid to moderate our sentiments’ temperature or they cannot be borne.

After the lovely wedding eve rehearsal dinner beneath the elephant-toed pipes, my husband observed of the kids, “They don’t seem nervous like we were. That’s good.”

A wedding centrepiece of assorted blooms in yellow, white, pink, and purple — Our daughter-in-law and some of her wedding flowers.

“I wasn’t nervous,” I said. “It was just so intense.”

Marriage is, after all, a momentous choice. We close off countless alternative worlds and focus on what one person can offer us. More dauntingly, we vow to offer all we can to that person. I know that’s why I cried privately while driving to my wedding.

And maybe, on some level, we cry because pure happiness and true good fortune are scary. We may feel unworthy.

I am praying the utter love and beauty and sincerity of our Bear’s wedding will ward off misfortune. When I looked into the black and white faces on the hotel corridor walls, even as I grappled with the reality of those figures’ humanity, I was calculating.

If they grew up to be deeply satisfied adults, how does it affect my own family’s odds? Just in case there’s a limited number of content existences to go around, like the minuscule percentage of 9s (A*s) handed out nationwide in GCSEs. Does our happiness tempt fate, meddle with universal justice?

But maybe, extending love and committing, as our precious kiddos did 8 days ago, to face life “together with a spirit of curiosity and patience” shows courage and dedication enough to earn this joy. Can it be possible?

Summer Wishes

This Week’s Bit of String: This Week’s Bit of String: Cinnamon and wintergreen, train whistles and toll bridges

Have you noticed how, if you only visit a place on certain occasions, it seems time stands still there?

Admittedly, I’ve been through Heathrow Airport more than usual in the past year, since my family’s had a lot going on. But 3.5 months passed since my last trip home, yet when I checked in for my flight back to New England yesterday, it felt as if I’d just been there.

I know pretty well what to expect in Terminal 3 now. The bathrooms smell like Tiger Balm, a mix of cinnamon and wintergreen. I think it’s their air freshener spray or something. I could see it swirling beneath the light, murmurations of vapour droplets.

On the other side of the Atlantic, I checked into a hotel after my late night flight. Here, the elevator and corridors smelled inexplicably like Vaseline, or hot tarmac. But there’s AC and ice machines, mini-fridges and not one but 2 queen beds in my room. It wasn’t quiet, staying near the industrial harbour outside Boston. I could hear train whistles fret through the night, and the chatter of a soap opera playing in the next room.

I told myself it was like staying over at my Grammy and Grandpa’s house, in a railway town, and fell asleep for 4 whole hours.

At 5:30 in the morning I set off, walking to the bay. Little rabbits grazed on park land and the water reflected the sky in a beautiful shade of metallic blue. I had time to take in the rocks on the shore, the smokestacks rosy in the sunrise, the impressive expanse of the Tobin Bridge plunging into the middle of Boston’s towers, opposite.

I needed the reminder that I love exploring new places and trying new things. With my family moving, I’ve been anxious and my longing for the familiar has prevailed, plus being downright busy. After this morning’s jaunt, I feel renewed and ready for a mix of new and old, and to view the familiar from different angles in a new place, just like this morning I framed Boston in the distance beyond the sand-coloured posts of the Bridge.

Luggage-Free

So this morning I had time, plus my bags were all at the hotel. Since the school year finally ended on Friday, I have relished taking walks without the LL Bean backpack I bump along to work with every day. Without that load, relief has eased my neck and shoulders.

The night before I left the UK, with my massive list of cleaning tasks nearly complete, I went for a walk with a friend, to catch up before my flight. We stopped at a bridge over the local stream and stared into the shallow water as we talked. Spires of bindweed rose on the riverbank, the layers of heart-shaped leaves reminding me of dribble castles on an ocean shore.

We saw a rat wriggle downstream, and dragonfly zipped along. A vole kept creeping out from the foliage at the base of the bridge wall, then retreating, then scampering forth again.

What a treat to just observe. I haven’t been doing enough of that lately. It’s such fun to write descriptions of these settings in my daily scribbles rather than accounts of Year 10 shenanigans.

Big Plans

The summer will be busy. My family have worked so hard emptying not one but two houses, and moving into a new one. There’s still a lot of sorting out to help with, and then my kiddo’s wedding.

I’ll have five critiques to do for other writers, one story of my own that needs finishing, one that needs editing, and a new one to write, plus submitting my novel to a few more agents and if possible, working on my current novel-in-progress. There are miles to hike (partly to burn off the root beer and Dunkin Donuts), and lakes to swim.

But I hope that sometimes I can just sit and observe. What about you?

So, a benediction for summer:

May your hikes be baggage-free
May the wildlife cavort in front of you as if you were a Disney princess
May your hotel pools be empty, and your airplane or other transport seatmates be entertaining
May your water bottles stay chilled
May your characterisations be kind and your descriptions sharp.

Love to Hate

This Week’s Bit of String: On the bad list

Year 10s strike again, keeping us extra busy now exams are finally done and the Year 11s have mostly left. There are the usual tousles: squirting water bottles at each other or nicking a pair of scissors and cutting each other’s hair during lesson.

Worse, some of the boys who actually behave all right in class have caused a stir amongst their peers by teasing or revealing lists of People They Hate.

A Year 10 girl I work with is worried. She feels angsty about the added drama. And though she doesn’t say it, no one wants to learn they’re on such a list. We can tell ourselves we don’t deserve it, but if we learn someone dislikes us, it shakes us to the core.

When I was a freshman in high school, I referred to hating someone and the senior I adored with all my heart informed me, “Hate is a very unattractive quality.”

Talk about being shaken to the core. I shied away from the word and indeed the feeling pretty much ever since. I’d been talking about a man at our church who had been so unstable toward his daughter, a friend of mine, that she had to go into foster care. But still. I’d let it slide in order to not be considered unattractive.

My student is older than I was then. She carries grudges with the expertise of a heavyweight lifter, but I’ve never heard her use the word hate about a person, much less a literature character. Yesterday in English class, we discussed our semi-grudging admiration for Lady Macbeth.

As a sophomore in high school, I wrote an essay comparing Lady M to Scarlett O’Hara from Gone with the Wind. You had to credit their grit and determination, but you wouldn’t necessarily enjoy knowing them in real life.

Maybe, I mused, that’s another gift books bestow on us: the chance to admire someone we’d have to dislike outside the page.

Empathy Versus Rage

Likewise, in books we can dislike a character without feeling morally compromised. I recently read Ann Patchett’s State of Wonder, and a character in there annoyed me quite a lot initially.

Dr. Swenson is formidably hard-working and intelligent, but she seems convinced she’s superior to everyone because of it. I really wanted someone to stand up to her, or prove her wrong with quiet composure. Briefly, I even rooted for her to be killed off.

In real life, there are plenty of unpleasant people in my work, but I always seek reasons to extend, at the very least, sympathy to a student who’s a bully. There’s a boy in Year 10 who shouts, “Do you have to be so violent?” when I tell him to stop talking while the teacher’s talking. Or I’ll go to start him on his English class assignment, and he’ll smirk and ask me, “Do you even gym, bro?”

Not that clever, this performance for his mates. But I’m not sure this boy can read very well at all, so he probably feels insecure and embarrassed about that. The odds are stacked against him and therefore, he deserves my care and not my anger.

It makes a nice change to let myself get mad at someone, safely within a book’s pages.

Gender Gap

I wonder if gender plays a role in our feelings for book characters. Lady Macbeth has been stigmatised for centuries, but as a result I think a lot of women feel an affinity for her.

Since I study Macbeth with new classes every year, I see a lot of Lady M but she grows more inscrutable to me, in a way. Why does she so quickly become obsessed with Macbeth becoming king? (Uh, spoiler alert, by the way.) Was her lot so terrible, and how did she believe it would improve? Shakespeare doesn’t really give us enough of a “Before” picture to understand her motivations.

And if Dr. Swenson in Ann Patchett’s novel was a man, she’d be as insufferable as tech bros with their idiotic God complexes.

But she is a woman instead, and so while her arrogance offended me, I also trusted that this more modern writer would execute enough twists and possibly allude to enough backstory to make me care about Dr. Swenson and give her credit by the end. Until then, I enjoyed the ride, relishing the opportunity to detest someone with zero consequences.

Who are the literary characters you love to hate?

The Right Fit

This Week’s Bit of String: Shifts and sheaths, babydoll and serving wench dresses

Our kiddo’s wedding approaches, and my husband had a lot of ideas and excitement about trying on suits. He’s more clothes-conscious than I am. It’s probably not inaccurate to say he has a little more spare time than I have. But his excitement makes me happy.

I just wasn’t thinking about what to wear for the August wedding. It would be nice to slim down, which hasn’t happened because secondary schoolers and housework and writing rejections cannot be borne without peanut butter, cheese, or chocolate.

*Just remembering this dress I saw in an art gallery window in New Orleans a few years ago…*

Anyway, I’m a short, curvy sort of creature and it can be challenging to find suitable clothing. I had not yet expended time, effort, or money toward the Dress Quest.

Which came as a huge shock to the nice gentleman working at Moss Bros in Cheltenham. I sat to admire my husband’s suit possibilities, and when he ducked back into the changing room, the shop assistant leaned down to ask me what I’ll be wearing.

“Oh, I have no clue,” I chirped.

I don’t think he’d have been more surprised if I planned to wear sackcloth or a heavy duffel coat.

And he wasn’t wrong to react that way; it was time I focused.

All that week, my son wasn’t feeling great, flagging as the school year ended at their work. (If only it were ending here!) Although they live across the ocean, I fielded various complaints and offered encouragement. So at last, I recognised what a special occasion this is. I’m still involved in parenting, my kiddo is my very best buddy, and they’ve found a brilliant, delightful, gorgeous partner. It’s time for me to be proud and confident

Easier Said Than Done

Thus the Dress Quest began. I do like to cross jobs off my list, so I threw myself into it, darting into shops and grabbing dresses. This is no easy feat since apparently designers ONLY make long dresses these days. I have to bunch them up in my arms while still combing through the clothes racks.

Then donning and doffing them in a cloud of coconutty gorse-scented Furze perfume, which I always sample whenever I’m in a city that has a Lush branch.

*Lucky Baby Oberon literally can wear sackcloth and still look stunning.*

Puffed sleeves seem to be back, which would thrill Anne Shirley if she existed. There were also quite a lot of voluminous skirts, and nightgowny pastels. I didn’t find much that flattered me. Marks and Spencer had a lot of browns and creams. Have they even met summer? The people who make clothes must have lovely air-conditioned offices and don’t conceive what it’s like to work in a 3-storey secondary school with a greenhouse roof, often at least 5 degrees C hotter than it is outside.

The result of my first fitting frenzy afternoon was a single dress, not that I bought it because it was a size too small, but I at least knew what to order. Throughout the week, on top of work and everything else, I engaged in the arduous back and forth of online ordering and returns. I don’t
normally do this. It’s such a lot of time and money. Ordering several garments from three different shops, and a second round with one of them, I ended up with one top and one dress.

At least it settled my wedding dress Quest. I have a willow-green dress which clings in a rather fetching manner.

Surprising Success

I was somewhat buoyed in this Quest by a story acceptance. That may sound irrelevant, but a bit of good news goes a long way. Even further than a Reese’s peanut butter cup.

I’ve been very busy on the writing front lately, but haven’t had anything published or performed in 1.5 years. That’s partly because I’ve been working on a new novel, but I do have some quite excellent short stories I’d entered into a couple competitions, to no avail.

*A little sunset walk on the Solstice. Thank goodness the days have been super long, or how would I get everything done?*

Amidst the various stresses this year brought, the emotions of my parents leaving our longstanding family home, and our little Bear getting married, I would run through issues and solutions in my mind while walking to and from work. I hit on my publication drought as a big but potentially-fixable issue. I thought, if I were a stereotypical male artist, the lack of success alone would be enough to throw me into full self-destructive mode, buying a sportscar and sleeping with anything that moves. Good thing I’m a woman, with plenty enough else on my to-do list to keep me grounded.

After returning from seeing my family and helping them out at Easter, I enrolled in the Jericho Writers course aimed at finding a literary agent. I re-worked my query letter and synopsis for my Eve novel, and began another full-book edit.

As I launched Dress Quest, I also had just completed 3 critiques of others’ work, and was working on 3 different events for the Women Writers Network on BlueSky. I had 2 short story competition deadlines I was editing for. I only found out about one of them because I was trawling the Internet for content to post for WWN followers–and that was Trash Cat Lit, which accepted my story, Flora of the Dead, just 3 days after I sent it.

Check out Trash Cat Lit, where my story will appear in their Summer issue on 1 July! https://trashcatlit.com/

Maybe I just needed to spend more time and effort looking for the right fit, as I’m currently working on with my novel. Same with dresses, I guess; this past weekend we went to the local shopping mall for the first time in years and this time I found not one, but TWO dresses that look gorgeous on me, if I do say so myself.

How do you find the most suitable outfit, or market for your work? Is there an easy way that I don’t know about?

Community Stories

This Week’s Bit of String: French Wars of Religion

Our first views of the Dordogne region, after landing in Bergerac’s two-chamber airport in 36-degree heat, were flat and bright. The only break in the horizon seemed to be a single spire in the distance.

That spire turned out to be very near our destination. Last week, I accompanied my talented musical husband and a 21-piece band to Bergerac, which our town is newly twinned with. They host a jazz festival, Jazz Pourpre, each year and our local big band would play 3 different gigs in as many days.

*Saint James, Bergerac, with its Cyrano statue*

Jazz Pourpre takes place behind the mid-19th century church of Notre Dame. At the opposite end of the street is a monument to the French Resistance, so the band played their final concert under the word RESIST running down the obelisk into the white peak of the tent.

I don’t know how strong the Resistance was in Bergerac during World War II. But it has sometimes been staunch in its individuality. It was a Huguenot stronghold in the 16th century, during the Wars of Religion, and most Catholic buildings were destroyed while the nuns and clergy were enslaved or executed. Hence the formidable height of the Notre Dame, built later in the 1800s with a vengeance.

The great old church of Saint James was left standing, but emptied out and used as a fortress. Among all the relics the Protestants destroyed was a supposed piece of Christ’s cross, gifted to the town by Charlemagne when he passed through. I know there’s little chance it was an authentic artefact from Biblical times, but having been treated as such for eight centuries, that scrap of wood would have been the subject of prayers and pilgrimages and played a role in many lives.

Sometimes a story’s worth lies in what it means to people, not its authenticity.

Atrocities were committed on and against both sides in those wars. There were terrible massacres of Protestants, which our French Catholic guide didn’t mention specifically. But on our tour of the town, she did tell us: “At that time, a human life was worth no more than a chicken.”

Tale Keepers

I kept busy exploring and scribbling about what I found, while my husband and the band played and managed various logistics. Our French hosts from the Twinning committee would wander over and ask me what I was writing about.

One monsieur elaborated on the far-reaching effects of the Wars of Religion. When the Catholics “won,” he said, many Protestants fled the country. But they didn’t want to live without the wines of Bergerac, so they established trade and Bergerac shipped wines up the Dordogne River. Taverns in Bristol were supplied by Bergerac at one time.

*This picture sums up a wonderful 3.5 days*.

However, the Bordeaux region noticed the exports passing through, and according to my new friend, they invested in and developed their own vineyards, then stopped Bergerac’s shipments on the Dordogne and insisted that the Bordeaux wines be exported instead. So we end up with Bordeaux wines being the most famous, centuries on.

The man who was telling me this had lived in Paris for 30 years, even spent a summer working at a camp in Little Rock, Arkansas, and his three children live throughout the world: Bournemouth, Netherlands, Guatemala. But he’s settled in Bergerac and passionate about its history. Likewise, our tour guide Catherine had not been a Bergerac native but was a generous font of local information.

With the lovely Bergerac twinning committee organising transport and meals and even a boat tour on the Dordogne for us, we sometimes wondered what our town on the post-industrial outskirts of the Cotswolds could offer in return.

But as transplants to the area, with no family nearby, we have a lot of experience making it a place worth visiting. Whenever family do come to see us, we find a fair bit to do around here.

We hugely value the local knowledge guarded by those who’ve spent much of their lives here. We may have a fresh appreciation for how it all presents itself, though.

On Our Doorstep

Our town is only one-quarter the size of Bergerac. We too have a central church called St. James, dating back to the 15th century. It was the site of some carnage in 1698 when the steeple collapsed, and the bellringers inside were killed. Now, it hosts a free book fair on Saturday mornings. Behind it, there are a couple trees which are stunning in springtime with an unparalleled froth of blossoms, and further along there’s a little system of alleys entangled with a small water channel.

Bergerac has a much bigger knot of medieval alleyways, but I do love the little stone arches in Dursley. And I don’t think Bergerac still displays a 19th-century sign instructing townspeople not to wash offal or entrails in the spring. Dursley has, thank you very much.

Our town used to be the site of a massive engine factory. A minor work of literature was based in this factory, like a Kafkaesque version of Sinclair’s The Jungle. Peter C. Brown worked in the Lister factory when he wrote Smallcreep’s Day, about a bored employee who explores his workplace and finds all sorts of surreal happenings.

We used to have a Smallcreep Street named after the character. It’s a fantastic character name, isn’t it? If I were giving a tour, I’d definitely include that.

What stories do you know about where you live, and how did you find out about them?

Never Said That Before

This Week’s Bit of String: Another Year 11 group flies the nest

“Miss, what are you going to do without us, when we’re on study leave?” It’s the last English lesson with bottom-set Year 11s, and a particularly loquacious boy is curious.

I assure him the Year 10s will keep me busy, and he nods sagely, “More grey hairs for you, then.”

I had worked hard with this little fellow, insisting he can absolutely pass, if he focuses. Many times per lesson, redirecting him toward tasks he’s somehow oblivious to, reminding him to face front and stop making silly faces for attention. I joked last week I’ve named a couple of my grey hairs after him, and I guess that made him proud.

*Some unique and sometimes broken pieces*

“Will you sign my shirt on leaving day? And write about the grey hairs?” he asks.

Sure, kiddo. So long, and thanks for all the grey hairs.

We have another seven hot and tiring weeks of school left after the half-term, but the Year 11 low-set English class I’ve supported for the last two years will only be in for exams, and a couple of revision sessions.

It’s been a journey. There’s still a way to go before most of them reach a destination, but progress comes in many forms. And they are who they are, each with very distinct personalities, strengths, and stresses. The exam results won’t be stellar, but hopefully they’ll take some encouragement with them and I’ll certainly take some tales with me.

At the beginning of their Year 10, I had to request of one boy: “Please don’t stick my highlighter up your nose.”

Note the personal pronoun here. He had refused to produce his own equipment, I loaned him some of mine, and he treated it like a preschooler might.

However, during our final English classes in Year 11, several students used borrowed highlighters and pens and classroom glue sticks to build towers and balance them. This was while the teachers were imparting strategies for taking exam papers, but hey. Personal growth!

This is the class with the Trio of Fortitude. One member of the Trio came into school every day but one this term, while up till now he averaged two days off per week. Again: progress.

Breaking Records

One of my dad’s most famous sayings is “I’ve never said that before.” He relishes using it to mark life’s many unexpected encounters.

To me, this is a fun way to notice stories. It can denote unusual occurrences, or different ways of looking at the everyday.

*It was a particularly stressful term in various respects. Here’s some medicinal purple I found.*

Each year group I work with spawns plenty of things I’ve never had to say before. It can be exhausting, but on the bright side it means my job continues to be interesting. It’s 11 years now since I was helping a group revise for GCSEs and had to dispel a 16-year-old’s notion by saying, “Women don’t get pregnant from dildos.”

In one of my revision groups just this past week, I worked with our semi-reformed partial attender from the Trio of Fortitude. He’s a clever but uninspired boy, all scrawny angles and tattered uniform and imperious glances. Also in the group was a mischievous, elfin, blue-haired girl who has been a selective mute for her entire school career.

They kept kicking at a chair between them until she managed to trap his legs against the table with it. He complained of having his bones crushed, so I wrote on the whiteboard: No bone-crushing allowed.

“It’s official now. You’ll have to stop.”

She let the chair go with a disappointed sigh. The boy said, “What if she amputates my leg next?”

So I added to the board: And no nonconsensual amputations. I’d never said that before. Hurrah for some more special memories.

Progress is as Progress Does

For one of the very last lessons on Friday, the teacher brought the group out to the field to play rounders. I sat in the shade with a few others, including a particularly childish fellow who didn’t want to play sport, but was clearly bored.

He complained about the dewy grass. “Miss, my bum’s wet. My bum’s wet, Miss. Miss—”

*I do believe they’ll all find their path eventually.*

“I heard you the first time. Thank you for keeping us informed.”

Maybe there should be a category of “I never wanted to hear about that” to go with “I never said that before.”

Less than ten minutes before the lesson ended, on his last day of secondary school, this same 16-year-old came out with: “I should probably learn to tie my shoes.”

There was something I might help with. I spent 2 years trying to help his class remember themes from Lord of The Flies and identify personification, and remember the Poor Law of 1834 which motivated Dickens to write A Christmas Carol… The whole time we worked on that, this boy and a few others could still barely construct sentences. Standardised exams leave no time to teach basics.

But on the damp grass while others hollered over rounders hits, I helped him with his laces and he did seem to get the hang of the first knot.

They know they’ve annoyed me sometimes, but that I always try to help, and in that way perhaps we’ve both achieved something. They learn to open up a little, and I am reminded to count small signs of progress.

What are some ways you’ve made progress lately? Have you had occasion to say something you never said before?

The Deal-Breaker

This Week’s Bit of String: An empowering walk to work

After a not-entirely-fun Bank Holiday weekend, I set off to work Tuesday morning with a mix of Mika, sea shanties, and Noah Kahan playing on my earbuds.

Exams start in less than a week, equating to hours of sitting next to my SEN student while she attempts to answer papers designed for only half the population to pass. In a month, my parents will move out of their home after 37 years, a huge task which I can’t help with from overseas, but in my house I’m clearing out my son’s things and some of my own. During the long weekend, I spent hours going through school notebooks, birthday cards, crafts, story drafts, sheet music, and a few tiny little outfits and stuffed toys. I feel wrung-out.

I’m also doing lots of agent research, and the book I started over the weekend, Sally Rooney’s Intermezzo, was not proving enjoyable. I’ve heard her name a lot, and literary agents mention her.

But this book is full of dense, page-long paragraphs cataloging every thought the characters have, and the minute actions of their daily routines. Also the characters are of the relatively privileged, but miserable ilk.

While I walked to work that morning, I thought: What if I just didn’t read the remaining 300 pages of Intermezzo?

And I knew it was the right choice because beyond relief, I felt liberated (which is hopefully how I will also feel, instead of mournful, when boxes of Bear’s old things go to the charity shops). I felt MIGHTY.

There’s a lot I can’t control. But I AM a loving mother who’s just recycled half her precious child’s finger paintings and 95% of their schoolwork. I frequently scythe through passages of my short stories and chapters of novels to make them more readable. I am capable of ruthlessness and this was an opportune, low-risk situation in which to wield it.

A Rare Relinquishment

I’ve only left one unfinished book in recent years, and that was Murikami’s The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles. It had one of those male narrators who thinks everything is about sex and all girls want to sleep with him. Not a lot seemed to be happening, and I decided to use my time better.

*Is this the sort of display that will impress an agent?*

During my education, I read plenty of classics and plenty of books about unfortunate souls. From Hawthorne’s the Scarlet Letter and Bronte’s Jane Eyre, to James Joyce’s Dubliners and Kafka’s entire oeuvre, I put in the time and have relished the majority of those works.

But here I am, looking through agents’ requirements and all the preachy advice. At every step, writers are told to “Show, don’t tell” and to cut everything not indispensable to the plot. Where then does Ms. Rooney come off narrating (through her prematurely midlife-crisisy characters) every single thought in these interminable paragraphs with no differentiation for dialogue?

Nope, I was done. A couple weeks ago, I read a fun “romantic” genre novel to enjoy myself, and there are plenty of literary books I can enjoy too. If they, you know, have a plot heading somewhere at a decent pace.

Part of the Job

My target is to read 3 books this month, and I still can fit them in. After my fateful decision on my walk to work, and then the manic workday, I visited the town library and checked out an Anne Tyler novel. I’ve loved what I read of her before. She’s brilliant at “showing.” She’ll describe a character’s physical appearance in a pithy way that reveals their life philosophy as well. Yes, sometimes in her books she’ll walk you through each step of a protagonist’s actions as they execute a task, but she’ll do it in a revealing way. There’s a Raymond Carver-esque quality to it.

It’s also useful for me to read another Anne Tyler novel because I have been citing her family sagas as a comparison title to The Gospel of Eve. So, it’s research as well.

*The great bit of the long weekend: we celebrated our 22nd anniversary with an evening walk to a local garden centre to eat pasties, drink ciders, and listen to live music.*

There’s no doubt that reading is an important part of a writer’s work. It’s good for everyone to read a range of stories, but at more taxing stages in our lives/ creative endeavours, it’s best perhaps if reading doesn’t feel like a chore.

As fatigue accumulates and I feel often on the verge of tears, I’m working on fewer writing projects at a time to focus on querying, and I’m prioritising exercise and fresh air. I will take a week off from the clearing-out project too because there’s only so much ruthlessness I can stand.

Maybe if I’d picked up Rooney’s book at another time–perhaps when my child was still right here, running around me and telling me stuff–then I wouldn’t have minded it so much, and would have persevered. For now, Intermezzo has joined the ranks of the many books I’ll be donating to the charity shops.

What are your deal-breakers with a book? How far do you think we should push ourselves in our reading?

Labels: Friend or Foe?

This Week’s Bit of String: A heart-wrenching question

In a back corner of the school library, I’ve begun daily reading sessions with one of our Year 10 SEN boys. There are multiple clues in the book he’s reading that the narrator has autism. I asked him what he noticed about that, and he responded by asking what autism means.

*Paths are important, but sometimes it’s nice to stray from them…*

Then he asked, “Does that disability help them get good grades?”

He is very concerned with criteria of success. He considers career paths based on how much money they might provide. And he assesses circumstances by how they might affect one’s grades and prospects.

He worried, “Do I have a disability? Or am I just stupid?”

It’s heartbreaking to see students who, despite various strengths, feel so defined by their struggles that they long for the justification a diagnosis provides.

Judging a Book by Its Genre

Labels are useful because they give our brains an easy path to follow. We think, “Ah, something is this, therefore I know what to do with it.”

If a student has learning difficulties, we might provide literacy and numeracy support. If someone is neurodivergent, we’ll ensure they have spaces available to re-regulate when routine is disrupted.

Book publishers and, one assumes, readers alike appreciate genre labels because they give us an inkling what to expect. Is the read going to be gritty or cosy? Genres can help with that.

Labels can be limiting too, though. That happens for students with disabilities and in a more minor way, can happen with books. We tell ourselves we’d never dream of reading something from that genre.

*I loved this book. Don’t knock it unless you’ve tried it.*

Since I’m in a couple of critique groups, I send work to different writers every month or two. I read all sorts of pieces that come to me, and I comb through each with a view toward maximising potential, and provide detailed feedback. But every now and then, I receive a comment on my work saying, “I don’t usually read this genre, so I can’t comment.”

This happens to the opening of my novel retelling the Creation myth from Eve’s point of view. I think of it as Commercial Fiction, a sort of catch-all. Madeline Miller’s Circe was a massive hit after all, Disney has been re-filming the Percy Jackson series, Margaret Atwood and AS Byatt and Stephen Fry have all retold myths with great success.

But maybe some people dismiss it immediately as fantasy, or women’s fiction. I should work up my courage and ask the next person, “What genre do you think it is, exactly?”

“What Do I Have?”

Somewhat like my student anxiously asking, “What do I have?” while I showed him his EHCP to explain that he’s not, in fact, stupid, I do rather wish someone could just tell me what genre my book is instead of me trying to work it out. When querying agents, there’s no room for a mistake; they won’t give you a second chance.

But it is a bit rubbish, the genre system. Lots of books combine elements. Last week, I participated in the Women Writers Network discussion on women writers who blend genres, while this week, I’ve interviewed Lindz McLeod. She’s an incredibly hard-working writer covering speculative fiction, short stories tinged with horror, and also dabbling in retelling versions of Jane Austen. Truly, her imagination seems limitless and her appeal should be, too.

Stephen King has said that every book is a mystery. I agree with that. And even books without romance have relationships.

*Now I want to visit all the crumbling stately homes and eat all the cheesecakes.*

After my busy Easter break with the emotional roller coaster of traveling to the US and back, I returned to work. During the first couple weeks, I had a few writing commitments including the interview, while at my day job we gear up toward GCSE exams. I needed a fun and “easy” read so I picked a Milly Johnson book out of my TBR shelf. Her books are classed as Romantic Fiction so I hadn’t gone out of my way to read one before.

The Perfectly Imperfect Woman was the perfect read for me that week. A rollicking pace; clever, piquant descriptions; a well-rounded, super-relatable protagonist more on a journey to come to terms with a torturous past than to find romance. Oh, and there was cheesecake, and great big mysterious manor houses. There were multitudes contained within the genre label.

The idea of being “perfectly imperfect” is resonant to many of us, I suspect, and it’s the kind of attitude I want to foster in students. While understanding there will always be struggles, to work out the purposes worth struggling for, and the right support.

Do you have any theories or assumptions about genre fiction? What’s a book that impressed you from a genre you don’t usually read?

Rooms Like Open Books

This Week’s Bit of String: A broken magnet and psycho kitty paintings

My last post ended on somewhat of a cliffhanger when our catsitter had to cancel. As with writing and other creative endeavours, I couldn’t plan for every contingency.

Now we’re back from our travels. In the meantime, our house was inhabited by my husband’s co-worker, her husband, and their two little kids. Like a tantalising story or at least a sitcom, their emergency of home renovations taking a turn aligned with our small crisis, and my husband managed the last minute arrangements on the Sunday. I finished my cleaning and caught my flight, rising at 3:30 a.m. Monday, while he joined me on Thursday before Good Friday and the other family moved in.

*I hope the kids weren’t old enough to fathom my magnetic poetry (a weird mashup of motherhood and Shakespearean sets).*

There was little time to childproof, or to worry how Obie the cat would tolerate sharing his home with children. Obie was very happy to see me on my return, but not desperately so. I think he was fine.

In the recycling, there are boxes from children’s chocolate Easter eggs and construction toys. I washed the sheets and replaced the towels. The only sign of young guests inside was a broken magnet. I have some shaped like tiny jam jars, perfectly tactile and definitely something I’d have reached for as a kid. Only, they haven’t been moved around much lately, and so when it was grabbed, the jar broke off. I’m disappointed for the children that they didn’t have a better experience with the magnets.

I wonder what memories they’ll take with them from here. What images will stick in their minds as they grow up, long after they’ve forgotten the circumstances of why they stayed? At least they’re probably too young to notice the bedroom paint jobs we never got round to updating, or the cracked kitchen tiles we’re too scared to lift up. Goodness knows what can of worms that would open.

Detail Selection

My family did a housesit/ catsit when I was little. We stayed at the new pastor’s house, with a big black and white cat called Asia. I remember lounging about in the living room patting Asia and listening to my new favourite tape on our brown Fisher Price cassette player. It was the Animal Alphabet tape, with a song for an animal starting with each letter of the alphabet.

(Yes, even Q: quahog. And X was a roundup of Latin animal names, a very catchy ditty.)

*Hello, Officer. I’d like to report an anti-cat hate crime.*

They had a sunny living room, whereas we rented a log end of a farmhouse which was rather dark. And they had a swingset. There was also a secret passage in the house, which we later pretended was Underground Railroad-related, although it probably was more modern than that.

I’ve no idea why my family of 6 were chosen for this job, because in addition to minding the house and Asia the cat, at least some of the pastor’s 6 kids were also there. I was 5 years old, meaning my youngest sister would have been an infant. It’s a bit of a mystery what we were doing there, but sounds and images remain in my memory. I can see why I occasionally opted to hang out with the cat, though, rather than 3-9 other kids at a time.

Packed with History

While we were away visiting my family just now, we helped with some sorting and packing, and also with house hunting. My husband and I aren’t doing the moving, but my family’s search for a new house—to meet the needs of my parents as they approach their 70s, my autistic cousin, and my neurodivergent youngest sister—has been quite consuming.

The first house they looked at, about a month ago, had 21 rooms. It was massive, built in 1910 and kept in the same family until now. We went along for my parents’ third viewing, last Friday. The rooms are filled with dark antique furniture and floor-to-ceiling metal safes. The extra furniture, in turn, is filled with vintage toys and books.

We saw broken baby dolls and Little People playground sets. Plus, the above paintings of cats which were clearly painted by dog people ascribing the wickedest intent to the feline species.

We also found that the house had maybe the original wiring (called knob and tube). The windows need replacing, the external paint contained lead so probably the internal paint did too, and the bathrooms were so dirty it seemed they’d need gutting. Outside, a covered in-ground pool was buried in dead leaves. Once it had been surrounded by a large patio and lawn chairs, with lantern posts now cracked, and a listing playhouse in a far corner.

It saddened me that no one could halt the decay of what must have been a beloved family spot. How did the late antiques dealer owner feel when he collected rare pieces but the grown children never helped maintain the home?

For me, traveling to see my family and assist with whatever I can is a bit tiring, sure, but it’s imperative. I hope international chaos or health crises never stop me from making the journey. Especially since my family did find a house to buy while we were there—practically all in one day. It came on the market Easter Monday, we all viewed, and the offer was in by Monday evening.

It’s light and spacious, built in 1993. It has fewer than 21 rooms, with some open plan which will be great for our lively gatherings while reserving quiet areas, too. There’s even a swingset and slide in the yard, viewable from the wraparound deck. 5-year-old me would have liked it as much my current self is eager to lend a hand turning it into a home.

What resonates when we peek into others’ houses can raise new questions while also illuminating our own thoughts and concerns. Are there random places that stand out in your memory and may have inspired your creativity?