Nastasya Parker

Mythology and Me

This Week’s Bit of String: Candles on a motorbike

At nearly 11 pm on Easter Saturday, the taxi driver from Athens airport told me about the seasonal traditions in Greece.

“From the execution Friday until midnight when it turns to Sunday, many people will not hammer, or cut, eat meat, or do anything with violence. It’s out of respect because of the crucifixion.”

*Inside the Byzantine Panagia Kapnikarea on Easter Sunday*

Then, at midnight, there are fireworks and prayers, before family feasts on Easter Sunday. Freshly arrived in Athens for a city break, my husband and I wandered out at midnight. Down a narrow street we saw the bobbing lights of a candlelit crowd, and we heard the prayers chanted in a nearby Greek Orthodox church. People poured from its marble steps carrying lit tapers—all manner of people: goths, senior citizens… One middle-aged woman came out with a bouquet of 5 lit candles, and climbed behind a man on a motorbike and they rode off.

Not everyone participates, I’m sure. As Iakovos said, “It depends what you desire.”

And of course there’s the other side of the coin, be it Euro or drachma. He told me how much he loves being a driver, especially for tours when he takes people to further ancient sites, such as Delphi or Mount Olympus.

He has particular praise for Mount Olympus. According to him, there’s a spot up there known as the Throne of Zeus, where no wind or snow or rain ever strike, as if it’s divinely protected.

“It makes you think they really knew something,” he says of the ancient Greeks.

Building a Religion

How we interpret such things and act upon them does, as he said earlier, depend on our desire. How often do we believe something we really don’t want to?

When we first learned about Greek myths in school, I was in 8th grade. That’s a lot older than British students learn about them, and maybe for that reason, I did not enjoy the subject. To me, the gods seemed selfish, not to mention cruel and misogynistic. My opinion hasn’t changed much on that, to be honest. I had to read lots of ancient Greek play in high school and college, and I like the genre of modern retellings, but the original stories don’t appeal much to me apart from being cultural references.

*Gorgeous weathering on these pillars from Hadrian’s Library*

I do think myths have huge value in what they might tell us about the people who believed, maybe even created them. What does it say about people that they would make sacrifices from their own, struggling lives to such seemingly callous deities?

What we found breathtaking in Athens were the monuments made by people. The stunning Propylaea, the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, the Porch of the Maidens alongside the Erechtheion. How incredible that parts of the Pantheon still stand after almost 2500 years of invasions and natural disasters. And the beautiful little Byzantine church the Panagia Kapnikarea, nearly a millennium old. These are marvelous places, designed and built by humans with much toil and cooperation. Yet they make me wonder about a presence even more powerful.

I guess that’s what art can do, inspire you to believe in something greater, even if it’s just a previously unimagined hope for the future.

Likeability Vs Relatability

Looking down at the city of Athens through the Propylaea above, or through the Roman arches behind the Odeon, we had a stunning view over the chaotic crush of buildings, the worn, aged mountains, and the sea beyond. I imagined ancient people coming up here to sacrifice, worship, or be entertained, and wondered what their view was like. Maybe that was enough to keep them worshipping.

Raised in a Christian family myself, we were always deeply attuned to the suffering that Easter springs from, and I like the Greek orthodox idea of acting on that seriousness by refraining from aggressive activities for a couple of days. Maybe my upbringing contributed to my complete horror and aversion of anything execution-related. I am still mystified how Christians sit with the belief that an innocent deity suffered and died for their sins personally, and don’t constantly agonise over that.

*Getting the right balance… Porch of the Maidens, Erechtheion, Athens*

I once wrote a novel scene between American educators preparing for the 7th grade mythology unit. The Christian teacher describes the Greek gods as “petty and selfish—no better than people.”

On the other hand, he says, “Jesus actually became human, and that’s as accessible as it gets.”

But He never sinned, thinks the teaching assistant. Being human would be a cinch without guilt.

Could it be that ancient Greeks appreciated having dieties with lusts and impulses that reflected their own?

Conveying a religion must be like the constant political tussle over how to best message people. Meet people where they are, or urge them to strive for better? And as writers and creatives, we work to establish that same balance: creating characters who are likeable and also relatable, events that are dramatic and also recognisably everyday. It’s getting that juxtaposition between majestic ancient ruins and the settlements below; the prayers on loudspeaker and the candles on motorbikes. Our ability and taste for this will vary, one might say depending on our desire.

What do you think of the classical myths? Do you find the supernatural accessible?

Asserting Authority

This Week’s Bit of String: A new monarch in town

“How do you spell author?”

“A-U-T-H-O-R,” I obliged the boy. My family was providing childcare for another family from church. Their oldest was maybe 8 at the time, not quite a decade younger than I was. I always had a soft spot for him, found him gentle and reflective.

We were at my parents’ kitchen table, colouring. The boy had decided to make a picture book. I was probably doing homework, and wandered off after a while on other pursuits.

*Me with the crown they gave me (ok, not just me) at Goodrich Castle*

Later on, my brother told me our young guest had written his book. It was a kingly tale of Arthur and his knights. Only, when I’d assumed the little boy wanted to spell author so he could do a little “About the Author” page, he was actually asking me how to spell Arthur.

I had caused him to create an entire picture book about King Author and his glorious feats of derring-do.

This made me giggle, and it’s resurfaced in my memory as I plan my next novel. In a way, is an author a monarch? Do we rule over the kingdom (queendom, perhaps) of our imagination?

Uneasy Lies the Crown

Writing, as with any truly driving creative endeavour, is a tough gig. You want to express yourself genuinely, but you want to be widely accepted and received. It’s emotionally bruising.

But what I really struggle with sometimes is making decisions, then forging on alone. It’s up to me to invent an entire story, develop intriguing, complex characters, then come up with plausible trajectories. In the words of King George III as portrayed in Hamilton, “You’re on your own…” There are certainly times when I imagine I’d like to have democracy, some sort of constituents to steer me.

*My very own fritillary, growing in the front garden*

The etymological root of the word author is ‘one who causes to grow.’ In fact, it has the same root as actor: a doer, a performer, an initiator. However, no one really does this solo. An actor takes direction and usually works with an ensemble. A gardener doesn’t cause a seed to grow all on her own; there’s sunlight and water involved. That’s why, as writers, we are constantly developing our ideas under the glow of other literature and art and the hydration of feedback.

In our writing, we also have characters to keep us company. While perhaps not as vocal and irascible as human voters in a democracy, they’re still more volatile than planted seedlings. You don’t always know what you’ll end up with, nor should you. At work, our Art students are heavily cautioned against deciding too soon after receiving their exam brief what their finished product will be. It’s called “design fixation” and it would lower their grade. Instead, they need to show evidence they’ve explored a range of ideas, researched various artists, and grown through the process.

Wrestling with Authority

So our creative work draws from all sorts of sources, and can evolve. We’re not creating free of influence, far from it. But it’s up to us to get things moving and keep them moving. We’re pretty important. It’s obvious, but worth noting that the word author also links strongly with authority.

For a lot of us, assuming authority goes against our nature. We might particularly shy from it when watching it run amok in current administrations with distinctly authoritarian leanings. (The term authoritarian was coined in the late 1850s, early 1860s–I wonder if it started in the US, and whether it was the South or the North first using it?)

In my job, I have to inspire respect from my students, but as a teaching assistant rather than a teacher, I can be friendly and nurturing too. There’s an added dimension this year. We have so many special needs students, we require quite the company of teaching assistants, too many now for the few medium-paid TAs to line manage.

That’s why at the beginning of this year, I became a line manager on half the pay grade required to manage staff.

The head of our department framed this development as potentially forcing the administration’s hand. Maybe one day, they’ll realise they have to pay us more. Seems unlikely; if they’ve got us doing it now, why change?

She told us: “I will do my best to make you believe this is worth your while.”

Those semantic gymnastics impressed me. I remain skeptical that there will be any financial value to the endeavour, but it showed me that even those with authority aren’t always comfortable with it. If she’d been confident about what she was initiating, would my head of department have twisted her language so tortuously?

Several months into being a line manager, I’m getting better at navigating the computer programme required and meeting the deadlines. The person I’m managing has valuable working experience and a masters degree, so my role isn’t to boss her around, it’s to help channel her tremendous strengths in support of our students and team.

That’s more like what we do with our creative ideas. We serve as conduits, not just despots. How do you exercise authority over creative endeavours?

A Flaw-Finding Mission

This Week’s Bit of String: A 30-year-old reading list

Last week when I couldn’t sleep, I invented a new game: Trying to remember which books we studied each year of high school, back in the mid-1990s. This joins other such spectacular entertainment forms as How Many Second Grade Classmates Can I Remember? and Recall the Layout of All the Holiday Cottages I Used to Clean for a Living.

One of my British secondary school system gripes is the paltry amount of books read for English. Two whole years studying nothing but Lord of the Flies, Macbeth, A Christmas Carol, and 15 war poems is such a drag.

On the other hand, we read quite a few books in our slightly deprived rural American high school. In 9th grade alone, we read Romeo and Juliet, Animal Farm, Of Mice and Men, and I think some form of The Odyssey. We also read Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry, which I didn’t like much, and Cormier’s The Chocolate War, which I detested. It seemed clear he’d written it, with masturbation references and stupid boy behaviour, to impress his teenage son. Not my demographic.

*“Everyday Use” is about historic quilts–whether to display them, or use them. These quilts are part of the annual show at Billings Farm, Vermont.*

In 10th grade, we read Macbeth, Lord of the Flies (sound familiar?), Old Man and the Sea, and I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I was not a fan of the latter. We also read a volume of memoir essays and short stories, the first things I loved reading in high school. My favourite was an Alice Walker story, “Everyday Use.”

If we hadn’t been required to read such a broad selection, I might not have connected with any of it. I’m glad I didn’t lose interest, because the curriculum had terrific offerings in our junior and senior years.

I don’t remember what I was reading for fun during the first two years of high school, or if I bothered. I had plenty of homework, and my own made-up story-world I constantly nursed. Maybe that was why I resented certain assigned books. I preferred my own stories, woven around my experiences.

So at 3 in the morning a few days ago, I realised: my adolescent self was a narcissistic reader.

Inconvenient Truths

I see it in a couple of my students. Simon Armitage’s war poem “Remains” is great for spotting narcissistic readers. It’s written clearly in the vernacular, sometimes using collective pronouns which almost make you feel complicit. Most of the chatty girls and fidgeting, shouting-out boys stop and fall under the spell.

But one boy from our Trio of Fortitude has to always be the victimliest victim who ever victimmed, so he slouches through the succinct tale of war, PTSD, and substance abuse. This boy can’t pick up a pen because he has a cut on his finger, or his stomach hurts. He is cross that no one has helped him during class with his homework yet, and he might get a detention because obviously he’s not going to do it in his own time.

Now, as a teen I generally behaved myself in class and did the work, mostly on time. Ish. But I wonder if I had it in for Maya Angelou because at the age of 14 I, too, fancied myself the victimliest victim.

For at least a couple years of my adolescence (I think I got better), I was limited in my ability or desire to truly support other people. I became painfully aware of this years ago. I hadn’t realised that maybe this self-centeredness affected my reading. I just kept assuming the books weren’t very good.

Ready or Not

I’m a big advocate of reading for fun. So I won’t begrudge adolescent me for being self-involved 3 decades ago. If we’re honest with ourselves, we all have phases even as adults when we don’t have the strength to read certain things. It’s useful to remember that’s not the books’ fault.

Against the backdrop of negative news in my native country, I like to read books of plucky individuals banding together. I probably won’t attempt rereading Maya Angelou’s memoir of tribulation at the moment, but I do know now that I actually like some of her poems quite a lot.

*These caged birds were painted on a Glasgow wall, 2019.*

While there are always plenty of reading options to suit any mood and even, I daresay, any impending apocalypse, what to write can be a conundrum. I had this issue during the pandemic as well. When the world is suffering severe pangs, and we don’t know what it will give birth to, how do I bring forth a new big project? If I plot and start a novel referencing the current situation, that’s going to change by the day. If I start penning a contemporary novel without referencing current circumstances, is that callous? Does anyone even want to read more about the present chaos, after exhausting ourselves with the news?

Considering all this, I’m setting my next project in a place I love, and I’ve decided to set it during the first Trump election and administration, 2016-2017. We still had the “Not My President” fig leaf that he’d lost the popular vote, and we thought some people just didn’t realise how greedy and racist and misogynistic and authoritarian he was. This parallels the journey of my characters, as they wrestle with learning that maybe they’re not as kind and upright as they have tried to present themselves.

Which brings me back to my discovery about myself. Recognising our own flaws opens us to appreciating more outside ourselves, and I feel as if starting with my characters’ flaws makes me a little less protective of them, a little more open to the courses their journey can take. They say we should never judge a book by its cover. We shouldn’t judge by our adolescent opinions, either.

Have you encountered any books you ended up really changing your mind about?

Staying Creative

This Week’s Bit of String: An accident-prone day

You know those days when everything goes wrong? Last Sunday, I had a few chores left on my weekend list. I needed to change the sheets, but inadvertently laundered a tissue with the bed linens. It avenged its fate by leaving sticky fragments all over everything.

I stepped outside to put some recycling in the bin, an opportunity also to chat with our neighbour in the adjoining half of the duplex. This brought up a fencing dispute which is provoking grief and peevishness on both sides.

While we attempted to reach a compromise in the sunshine, I saw my cat speed round the house and dart in the open back door with a pigeon in his mouth. I spent the next 20 minutes waiting for him to finish tearing into it behind the couch, and at least as much time after that shifting the furniture, picking up pieces, hoovering feathers, cleaning the carpet, and wiping bloodstains off the lamp cable.

In the afternoon, I needed to clean the fridge. I dropped an egg, it slipped underneath the appliance, I had to empty the fridge completely and move it and clean behind it. When wiping the worktops in preparation for hoovering, I tipped a bit of water on my laptop, which has thankfully survived unscathed.

With half my chores taking up more time and aggravation than planned, I reached the evening exhausted (but with a clean house!) and thought, am I actually going to write today? I barely felt human, let alone like a writer.

The Great Humaniser

Maybe I was a walking disaster because, after a week of flu, I was still battling extra fatigue and some headaches. My husband was now in the throes of the virus so the house was generally miserable, had been for a little while, and wouldn’t be imminently abating.

*Thank goodness it’s been sunny and springy or I’d have been seriously depressed.*

When I’m sick, or drained after being sick, I refer to myself as “running a reduced service.” I still have to do laundry and basic cleaning and cook and if not get groceries myself, arrange for them. Have to help my family in whatever way possible, and must get back to school to do my job as hastily as I can. The result is I’m doing nothing but work and chores; no extra exercise or writing sessions. No social gatherings or outings for entertainment, or long hikes. It’s a drag and can continue for weeks because a reduced service is still fairly demanding and I’m rarely getting a decent night’s sleep.

I don’t know if it’s the best physical remedy, but the best emotional one might be to write anyway. That’s what I did Sunday. I bashed out 500 more words of a character sketch, prepping a new novel. I went from feeling I was barely surviving, to remembering I am capable of adding beauty and empathy to the world through what I create.

Any creative endeavour brings out our humanity and even transcends it.

Why We Write

The past couple weeks reminded me why we write (or make music, or create art). Even while I was sick, if I could get a few minutes of fresh air, and perk myself up listening to quality tunes, I could then engage in some writerly activity most days. That creative feeling fought off some of the glumness.

Here are ways creativity elevates us:

Wearing pyjamas for the 4th day running doesn’t mean we can’t write a piquant description of the flowers sprouting outside or the cat’s sleeping position. Tip: Take 5 or 10 minutes, scribble about what you see. Write your favourite line from those scribbles on a post-it or take a picture on your phone as a reminder of your formidable talent.

The more we practise bits of writing, the more we notice without trying. When an articulate description comes to mind, we feel observant; we feel less like we’re missing out on life. Even if that’s a clever phrase about how cough syrup tastes, or the pound of a headache.

We can still be part of a community. Being on Twitter isn’t always a positive experience these days, but I was running the profile for the Women Writers Network while I was poorly. My Tweet about a recent visit to Mr B’s Emporium of Reading Delights, an independent bookshop in Bath, received over 350 likes, and dozens of responses with other writerly/ literary types adding their indie bookseller recommendations. It turned into a real bright spot. If you’re low on energy, taking a few minutes to encourage and lift up others on social media can boost our mood.

When we’re forced to take a break, it knocks our confidence. I found that, though I’d kept some semblance of writing in my life, I still felt disheartened about picking up bigger projects again. On Saturday while I was feeling a bit better, I sat in the sunny dining room and did a watercolour based on a favourite place, where I’m setting my next novel. I’m not an artist and don’t have much experience with watercolour, but I made myself complete it. This took less mental energy than writing, but plenty of courage. And I don’t hate how it turned out. It reminded me it’s ok to bash out writing too. We just have to go for it.

Do you use creativity as an antidote when things go wrong? What are your tips for maintaining a creative state of mind when low on strength?

A Creative Start

This Week’s Bit of String: “What shall we make?”

In our first year of married life, my husband started a Saturday morning pancake-making tradition with our little kiddo. While I hiked the hills, they’d make pancakes from a Jamie Oliver recipe, my husband fluffing up the eggs with a hand-cranked beater. Our preschooler helped measure and mix.

Despite them doing it almost every week, it stirred in our little Bear an almost unspeakable excitement. Early on a Saturday morning, they would plonk next to their dad in our bed and ask, wide-eyed, almost vibrating with elation:

“What shall WE make?”

The correct answer, of course, was pancakes. But it was as if it couldn’t mean nearly as much if Bear asked directly for them. They had to be Daddy’s suggestion, every time.

My husband would draw out the game. “Mandrakes? Bran flakes?” Until at last: “Pancakes!”

I often think of this when I’m starting a new project. That relish, that possibility. What shall WE make, I ask myself, summoning some semblance of youthful vigour.

Whose Idea is It, Anyway?

There’s a perennial hope, too, that the idea I work with may appear from an external source. I mean, to an extent, all ideas do. But as creatives we must at least invite them, if not invent them. We have to wake the muse from her blissful weekend sleep and badger her until she divulges something. When she’s sleeping extra tight, we must remind ourselves, perhaps, that we’ve known what we want all along.

Funnily, a lot of my story ideas materialise in the night. Sometimes between dreams and sleep, sometimes when I’m trying and failing to relax into slumber, a line pops into my head. What on earth does it mean? What sort of a person would think this? What happens next?

“My sister devoured the whole of history.”

“In the boys’ minds you left so fast, you didn’t bother wearing shoes. Just ran barefoot down the dirt road.”

“As a boy, Tom believed every grandpa came with a matching grandfather clock.”

It is possible, when interrogating a line or an idea, to over-beat it. I devise so much backstory, I lose sight of which bit I might zoom in on to convey the pivotal moment that is a short story. At the moment, I’m trying to find my way through that predicament with my third random short story of the year.

Traps and Tricks

Similar to making their dad suggest pancakes anew every single week, our Bear had other funny, roundabout ways. When we went on walks, they’d try to make my husband chase them. They’d stick goosegrass on his clothes or sneak up and tickle him.

Then our kiddo would say, “Do you want to catch me? Do you have any traps for me?”

They’d be hopping in place, not wanting to run away because they loved the game of being tackled and tickled, or dangled upside down.

That’s another great challenge when concocting something new. It must be exciting, but we can’t force the stakes. Sometimes an idea remains just a concept because I can’t work out how to nudge it toward a plausible, engaging crisis. Embarrassingly, I’ve developed and drafted whole novels only to feel the climax falls flat. Does that happen to other creatives? Or do they have more exciting imaginations?

Maybe I need to add more ingredients. More dark secrets, a love triangle, a dragon? But not necessarily. I might just need to be bolder, to more fearlessly mine the ideas I have, and to get messy with them. Currently planning a new novel, I’ve got my characters’ flaws in mind from the beginning. Sometimes I like them so much I’m determined to keep them blameless–not this time.

Creative habits are hard-won. I’m proud that I sit down at the end of a long day and push myself, wearily, to make up stuff. But it needs to be fresh, too, and that’s one reason why I like remembering our family tan-snakes…scran-bakes… PANCAKES tradition.

What makes you smile as you craft chaos into order?

Enduring Power

This Week’s Bit of String: A pleasant surprise

Sometimes it’s hard to remember in the chilly grey exhaustion of January, but my family had a great Christmas. My husband and I decorated the house all cosy, I cooked many yummy things, and we welcomed our kiddo and their partner for an extended visit from the US. We spent relaxed, happy days together, which became even lovelier when they got engaged.

I didn’t see it coming. They look after each other and live together, but somehow I did not expect an engagement, even when they’ve been a couple for years. I suppose this naivete was largely down to my own self-perception: Hang on, I’m old enough to have an engaged kid?

The surprise has faded a little, but I’m still tremendously excited that my little family is slated to officially grow. Whenever I see someone who knew my kiddo when they were at school, for example, I update them with relish. And I’m not the least bit tired of it yet.

I’ve written before about the worry that a memory’s power might get used up or worn out. And I am thinking about this again, wondering whether I should guard the engagement news to keep it feeling shiny. Right now, I still get sharp pangs missing the kids when I walk past their empty room. Maybe that will fade, but does that mean the happiness about the times we had will too?

Keeping News New

This relates not just to the stories we want to pass on, but to what we take in. As an alarming presidential term begins in my native country, I’m wrestling with how much to let this consume me. Twitter is a mess of partisans either hyperventilating over or ogling Trump, very little use, whereas mainstream media talking about him like he’s normal nauseates me.

This man lacking empathy, intelligence, and morals was elected president, partly due to a lack of information getting to people about him… or indifference of those people to the information that did reach them. When a leader seems constantly to be making things worse for somebody, often for one minority or another, it’s difficult to keep impressing that upon others who have the privilege of just getting on with their lives.

By definition, we can’t be shocked by the same thing in perpetuity. We all know a person or two who’s a last story freak; who always has a prevailing trauma or a story that tops all others. As a storyteller myself, I’m liable to fight fire with fire and hyperbole with hyperbole. Telling stories becomes a bit of an arms race.

My plan for not getting caught up in it when actual current events feel like they’re escalating is to stick with the facts. Let’s monitor and respond to the ruling party’s actions, not their pervasive rhetoric.

Capacity for Astonishment

Recognising that even a glimpse of the inauguration would be intolerable, I sorted myself some alternative programming for Monday after work. I watched one of my absolute favourite films: Spielberg’s Lincoln. It has a Tony Kushner script and a massive cast of incredible actors immersing you in 1865, when Lincoln decided it was time to amend the Constitution to ban slavery–even if it prolonged the horrific Civil War.

*Different from the 13th Amendment, but still very cool. From the British Library.*

“Is this a hopeful film to watch today?” my husband asked.

“Well, it shows that even when our history was cruel and selfish, some people managed to overcome it.”

Although I’ve watched this film at least annually for a decade, it still moves me to tears several times over. From the first scene when a defiant David Oyelowo repeats the Gettysburg Address, to Tommy Lee Jones taking the freshly-passed 13th Amendment home to share with his partner, to the final departure of Lincoln from the White House. Watching this again, I know that sometimes, a retelling actually grows in potency thanks to our anticipation of the best bits. A passion for something can spiral, heightening enjoyment still more.

It also gives me another tip for keeping a story fresh: broaden the cast. The more voices we allow to speak about something, the stronger a story is.

What stories do you love to repeat? How do you maintain their power?

Seven Wanders of 2024

Welcome to a new year, fellow adventurers and creatives. Here are my favourite, most inspiring walks from the last journey round the sun. Sometimes the timing of a walk matters almost as much as the place.

Hetty Pegler’s Tump and Bluebell Woods, Gloucestershire

We started a spring Saturday by traipsing through woods near Coaley viewpoint, where fiddleheads unfurled into ferns. Emerged opposite bright yellow rapeseed crops and traversed a clearing to a neolithic burial mound, Hetty Pegler’s Tump (below, centre). You can peek inside the narrow passage leading to chambers of ancient bones. On our way home after lunch in the Cotswold market town of Nailsworth, we lingered in more woodlands with carpets of bluebells in an electric shade of purple.

Oxford

We’ve never spent much time in Oxford—and this is despite me spending a uni term at Oxford Brookes. I remedied that with a sunny June day trip, motivated by an exhibit at the Ashmolean Museum. After viewing sketches by Flemish masters, and finding our way through the ancient statuary to the toilets, we left the enormous museum to explore outside a while.

We walked through the Christ Church College grounds to The Meadow, wandered streets and glimpsed a pub where Tolkien and C.S. Lewis liked to drink before coming back to the main avenues to view the Bodleian Library and then the Sheldonian Theatre, with rainbow Pride flags in its tower windows and the iconic Emperor Head statues guarding it. A few months later, when I read R.F. Kuang’s Babel, Oxford’s imagery remained fresh in my mind.

Warren, New Hampshire

The population of this small town near the White Mountains peaked in 1860, but we enjoyed our family visit. The Baker River runs behind the houses on one side of the main street, and the Ore Hill Brook behind the houses on the other. A recreational trail shoots through the town as well, directing snowmobilers and bikers and pedestrians straight to the Congregational Church and the massive ballistic missile rocket standing beside it. There’s also an excellent ice cream eatery, complete with friendly porch cat. I enjoyed my early morning walks and met a retired French teacher who comes out every dawn to pick up litter.

Cerne Abbas then Durdle Door, Dorset

We celebrated our 20th wedding anniversary near the Jurassic coast in the South of England, and on one of our day trips trekked around Trendle Hill to view the Rude Giant. The path led us below the chalked soles of the180-foot long figure, dug into the slope since the late 17th century at least. We walked up and over the hill, down into the lovely town of Cerne Abbas. Its streets are lined with little streams and footbridges take townsfolk from the roads to their pretty old homes and gardens.

After our stroll there, we drove further to the coast and joined hundreds of tourists, from all nations and races it seemed, to walk down the cliffs to see the magnificent stone arch of Durdle Door. The sight was also enjoyed by a big, blissed-out seal sunning himself on the beach.

Uley, Gloucestershire
This is one of my local walks, a long circuit that comes to about 7 miles. Hilly views, horse pastures, manor estates like gingerbread houses, and old Cotswold buildings in the village of Uley. The walk has been momentous in my writing life in the past, and I reclaimed it for that purpose somewhat this year.

At the end of the summer holidays I hiked to the Prema Gallery and Cafe to start a new short story there, now complete and submitted to competitions. In November I walked through beautiful autumn sunshine to the craft fair to buy a few cards and gifts, and just before Christmas I hiked to the village and sat scribbling new novel ideas in St. Giles church while a few local ladies set up an assembly line of oranges, dolly mixtures, and candles to prepare for the Christingle service.

London: National Theatre to Holborn and Lincoln’s Inn

I love London and its juxtapositions of old and new, native and diverse. Visiting in October half-term to see the excellent West End theatrical production of Dr. Strangelove, we spent the next afternoon on a HiddenCity James Bond-themed quest leading us around west central London.

We crossed Waterloo Bridge from the National Theatre, discovered an art park on a rooftop, and the little green houses, now dwarfed by skyscrapers, that used to be refuges for cabbies. Our clues guided us behind the Courts of Justice and around the London School of Economics campus and Lincoln’s Inn. It included stops at different pubs, welcoming even while stunningly ornate, such as The Princess Louise with its mosaic floors and intricately carved wooden booths, and the majestic Last Judgment, which makes an excellent amaretto sour and has bathroom stalls like confessionals.

The Pinnacle and Post Pond, Lyme, New Hampshire

A New England lake and/ or mountain inevitably makes my annual top wanders. But this one’s special because it’s the lake I grew up on, the summit I grew up under. For years I believed the sun couldn’t truly set unless it was between two hills and reflected over a pond, because that’s how I saw it every day of my childhood.

Post Pond is smallish, but deep enough to be considered a lake; deep enough to house snapping turtles with shells over a foot in diameter. We stayed in a cabin at Loch Lyme Lodge, the rustic resort where I used to work for the summers, and I watched the sunset from a picnic table up the hill while scribbling in my notebook. My husband and I climbed around on the Pinnacle, the hill behind our cabin, and found fairy castle tree stumps, and milkweed cradles, and fantastic views. I completed the day by swimming the whole length of the lake and back.

This year, I hope to work on a new novel set in a similar location, because really, there’s just no place like home.

Where did your wanders take you this year?

2024 Reading Round-Up

I had some ups and downs in my reading year. My first Didn’t-Finish in a few years (because there wasn’t enough STORY, dammit!) and a couple stretches of 2-4 weeks with no time whatsoever to read. But I always balance those out with a voracious spell after. It feels so good when reading time opens up again, like diving into a cool lake after overheating. Here are my favourites among all I read. I’d love to hear what you think!

The Heart is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers

Direct and unobfuscating, McCullers introduces us to various misfits about town, starting with the iconic opening line about the “two mutes, [who were] always together.” The story represents the voiceless in many ways, and emphasises the need to be heard.

“The words which are surely the root of all human grief… ‘I have done those things which I ought not to have done, and left undone those things which I ought to have done. So this cannot truly be the end.’”

Parable of the Sower by Octavia E. Butler

*Wintry Moomins at Octavia’s Bookshop, Cirencester*

Working at a school, I’m somewhat bombarded with young people’s moods and stories, so I don’t go for too many books written in teen voice. I’m so glad I read this one, though. Lauren, the young narrator of this novel, is incredibly driven, and practical even while being compassionate. I wrote about her more in an earlier blog post because she became a favourite character of mine, and Butler’s take on empathy is an exciting one.

“Show me a more pervasive power than change.”

The Marriage Portrait by Maggie O’Farrell

A glimpse into someone forgotten by history, this resonated with me partly because of my Eve novel. It delves deeply into the Duchess of Ferrara’s story, whom Browning alluded to in his poem ‘My Last Duchess.’ We see the plight of women in Renaissance Italy, and also explore a love of art that sets someone apart from the crowd.

“She is absorbed in her work; she is her work; it gives her more satisfaction than anything else she has ever known; it intuits the need, the vacancy within her, and fills it.”

Lessons in Chemistry by Bonnie Garmus

I feel as if I’m the last to read this, but in case anyone else has yet to discover this novel: It’s excellent. There was tragedy in it and unfairness that I didn’t expect. I should have though, as the book is about an exceptionally intelligent woman trying to pursue a scientific career in the mid-20th century. Ultimately, the opposition she faces makes her later alliances and triumphs that much more thrilling.

“Their odd, tell-all friendship was the kind that only arises when a wronged person meets someone who’s been similarly wronged and discovers that while it may be the only thing they share, it is more than enough.”

Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir

It’s got an exciting scifi premise: the world is in danger, so a delegation must be sent to space in search of a fix. Once there, the lone surviving voyager meets someone from another planet, as different as can be. They develop communication with each other, and the results are breathtaking. I’m eager to see the film once it’s out.

“Sometimes, the stuff we all hate ends up being the only way to do things.”

*An artsy trip to the real Oxford, this past summer*

The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt

Another book about art… This became a bit of a theme for me, and I really enjoyed it especially as I attended a couple of art exhibits at the time. Art unlocks emotion, and feeds creativity for our own art of writing. This book is a David Copperfield-style journey through a boy’s misfortunes, uncanny encounters, and striking characters, propelled all the while by a deep, tragedy-induced connection to a single painting.

“Immediately its glow enveloped me, something almost musical, an internal sweetness that was inexplicable beyond a deep, blood-rocking harmony of rightness, the way your heart beat slow and sure when you were with a person you felt safe with and loved.”

Midlife Without a Map by Liz Champion

This book made me laugh the most this year. In addition to being funny, Liz (who also has a brilliant Substack) is incredibly relatable. I love how she doesn’t hold back disclosing her highs and lows. She’ll get swept up in something but be completely honest if it doesn’t work out, and that’s rare and refreshing both online and in literature.

“But now I’m halfway up the mountain, facing hairpin bends and vertical drops with a driver who missed his Formula One calling, I’m wondering if I was ever fit and fearless. Maybe a book by the pool would have been adventurous enough.”

How to Build a Girl by Caitlin Moran

A hilarious and heartfelt coming of age story, but also a great look at art and how we respond to it. The main character, Johanna, wants to save her family from poverty, so she becomes a music critic as a teen–a scathing one. Could passionate fandom make her as much money as trashing every band she sees?

“‘I feel like I can see the operating system of the world–and it is unrequited love. That is why everyone’s doing everything. Every book, opera house, moon shot and manifesto is here because someone, somewhere, lit up silently when someone else came into the room, and then quietly burned when they weren’t noticed.’”

Babel by R.F. Kuang

Language and revolution entwine in this speculative novel. In an alternative Oxford, colonial powers rule through silver. Once silver bars are engraved with pairs of translated words, magic imbues them, resulting from the disparity in meaning. The plot follows young trainees in this art of translation, and as readers we join them in their enchantment, and their horror as they recognise the injustice at the heart of the system.

“That’s just what translation is, I think. That’s all speaking is. Listening to the other and trying to see past your own biases to glimpse what they’re trying to say. Showing yourself to the world, and hoping someone else understands.”

The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern

This novel is about books, about books of lots of stories, and the stories are alive but they must be protected…It’s a stunning work to read, as all the little pieces fit together, reminding us that no story really stands alone. I found it incredibly lovely to sink into the universe of this book.

“We are all stardust and stories.”

Use Your Words

This Week’s Bit of String: A particularly memorable Christmas gift

The Christmas when I was ten, my family were hosting a gathering for our local relatives. My dad’s brother was a fire captain so kept a busy schedule, especially since he split his time caring for his fiancee’s family. But he stopped by when he could. Everyone wanted some of Uncle Mike’s attention.

As one of 4 kids, I was somewhat resigned to not being a sole receiver of attention, though I occasionally did cringey things to attract it. (You’ll be shocked to hear that, I’m sure.) That Christmas, I was fetching something in the kitchen just as my uncle departed, so I was on my own when he passed.

He took that moment to tell me, “It was good to see you today. Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without you. You make it really special.”

Our Uncle Mike was later diagnosed with a brain tumour, having the biopsy on my kiddo’s first birthday. His illness and death at the age of 54 devastated us. I wish I could remember his face more vividly, without the vague unease of being heavily dependent on photos.

We all have people like that whom we think of particularly this time of year. I know I’m lucky to even have the pictures, and I’m spectacularly lucky that he bestowed kind words on us long before he knew that his chances to give them would be curtailed.

Christmas Treasure

The holidays can heighten sensations and emotion, packing extra power into our words and gestures. I always think of the line from the book of Luke in the Bible: “Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart.”

You would, wouldn’t you? Everyone from redneck shepherds to esteemed astronomers turning up to pay tribute to your child…

*Knitivity, Gloucester Cathedral*. *Note there IS an octopus present at the birth of Baby Jesus, bottom left…*

As you can see, I’ve preserved my Uncle Mike’s words in my internal Christmas treasury. I’ve also preserved that verse, Luke 2:19, because it was recited toward the end of the Christmas pageant every year in the little town where I grew up. The verse is tangled with memories of candlelit windows upstairs in a New England church, of the choir singing “O Holy Night” and elementary school students dancing in angel costumes. And then knitted blankets in the car, hot chocolate and my mother’s Christmas cookies at home, and Christmas lights reflected across a lake.

If You Can’t Say It Now, When Can You?

Christmas films have programmed us to expect great emotional fanfare at Christmas. Confessions of love, heartwarming reunions, the sudden cessation of being taken for granted. It doesn’t usually end up this way, as we’re still busy and stressed and full of ourselves at Christmas. But how much better are our holidays, how much more comforting and lasting are our memories, when we do take time to share moments and kind words with each other?

These are, after all, the true things to treasure. Because I’m somewhat cut off from my family most of the year, the interactions I have with my siblings and parents are generally focused on the present, or the near future. We don’t get much time to reminisce over lost loved ones, and I wonder what memories they treasure which could augment my own. Then there are my cousins who I barely manage to keep in touch with, and I’d love to better know even what’s going on for them currently.

So, in addition to my extremely important (and incredibly taxing!) hot chocolate challenge, I’m doing a little version of an advent calendar. I’ll write a relative or friend’s name in my planner for each day remaining in December, and send a message to see how they’re doing, and let them know that although I’m rubbish at showing it sometimes, I really do think of them. And that when I do, they help make my memories special.

I hope you have some treasured memories of kind words at Christmas, and that you’ll join me in creating more.

A New Challenge

This Week’s Bit of String: A great cup of hot chocolate

What’s the best hot chocolate you’ve had? I once had a wonderful hot chocolate in Paris after a 3-hour queue and a walk through the Catacombs. It was made with proper melted chocolate. (The drink, that is. Not the Catacombs.)

More recently, I’ve enjoyed a lovely, thick cup of cocoa at a craft market a hilly 4-mile hike away. And a Terry’s chocolate orange hot drink at Costa after a canalside wander. These were moments of well-earned bliss and I thought, more of these times, please.

*From the aforementioned canalside walk*

I still like the generic, grocery store equivalent of Swiss Miss packets mixed with hot water like I had as a kid in the US. I have that cocoa while there for the summer, countering the early morning chill in a rustic cabin or at a campsite. I love my Cadbury drinking chocolate here in the UK though, despite my dislike for Cadbury Dairy Milk–too cheap and sickly.

When I first studied in the UK, I bought some Cadbury drinking chocolate powder. I was indignant that it required mixing with milk, as that meant spending more money. But when I complied with the carton’s demands, it was well worth it. This remains a favourite of mine, or I can use our Hotel Chocolat Velvetiser to make creamy mugs of salted caramel clementine, or black forest hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate is all around us, even if it really doesn’t fit in the song Richard Curtis likes so much. These days, it feels a tad doubtful love is all around us, and while Christmas will soon be all around also, I’m resolved to maximise the cosy hot chocolate moments by having some variety of it every day until Christmas. Probably during the brief time off following it, too.

Changing Speed

So I’m taking on a hot chocolate challenge. One of my work buddies is completing a challenge where she does 100 squats every day this month. My husband has grown a Movember moustache with a 1980s, Ned Flanders curvature. Me, I’m going to drink hot chocolate on a daily basis. Life is fairly challenging anyway, for all of us.

A couple months ago, I started on the 100 Days of Writing Challenge. I wanted to see if, while between projects, I could write bits of fiction with the same degree of regularity I wrote my daily scribbles. I really enjoyed it, but grew exhausted with the end of the first term at school, and the disheartening election. I still haven’t figured out what you write when the world looks so wrong.

Fiction is surely the answer long-term, and I’m still making up figments, but other things occupy my head. Hot chocolate is the answer at the time being. It’s also a way of re-embracing where I am. I can’t move back to the US to be with my family now. I must maintain a safe place here in the UK in case they need to come here. Therefore, let the Cadbury and Hotel Chocolat flow.

Tips and Exceptions

I’m taking this challenge seriously, but allowing flexibility, should anyone else choose to partake. On Friday nights, one might substitute another nice drink, like a Snowball with fizzy lemonade and Avocaat. Middle of a busy week when your throat is tired from repeating yourself time and again to Year 10s, perhaps some Ben and Jerry’s.

If you’d like to join in, you may already be a hot chocolate expert yourself. But here are my tips for the newly initiated.

Toppings: Marshmallows are good, of course. I’m not a fan of delving through a mountain of whipped cream to reach my hot drink, but love marshmallow Fluff, the American spread you can get in jars (a British Amazon vendor sells 4-packs at a decent price). Fluff keeps your hot chocolate really warm and the extra sweetness melts at an ideal pace.

Non-Dairy: When you’re low on milk or if you have one of those awful seasonal colds rendered phlegmier by dairy products, hot cocoa is still a nice treat. Or some of the chai latte mixes you can now get, that mix up with water. I enjoy that sort of thing with a swirl of Hershey’s chocolate syrup over the top (when I can grab some from Lidl).

Non-Dairy part 2: If you only have drinking chocolate that’s supposed to be mixed with milk but don’t have milk, you CAN mix it with hot water, but I recommend adding a pinch of salt. It’s quite sickly just mixing with water.

Generics: I highly recommend Lidl’s special holiday chai mix, the Spiced Plum variety. Also, Tesco’s drinking chocolate mix is a bit cheaper than Cadbury, and has a nice hint of cinnamon.

Booze: Baileys is great, but you can add any other splash of liquor to hot chocolate. I like to put in some Malibu or Amaretto. Cointreau is also good, and Drambuie when you want to counterbalance some of the sweetness.

Do you have any recommendations for me? Bon appetit!