Fatherhood

  

The Women's Hour on Radio 4 was running a series about absent fathers. After I’d caught a bit of it on air, I thought it was an interesting coincidence. In recent weeks, I’ve been thinking about Dad a bit. And I am watching my husband father, too.

As a mum, I am always there. Nobody questions it. Fathers are different in a way, even though the expectations should be the same.

This year, I have visited my birthplace after a few years. Part of the tradition is a visit to the cemetery and a stop by the little window that houses the urn with my dad’s ashes. It is the place of his final rest and a reminder that he is no longer alive.

My family wasn’t special; we were average in many ways. Mum, Dad, two daughters - parents with jobs average for their area, a quiet family, well-behaved children. It didn’t occur to me how rare that actually was and still is, to have two functioning adults who looked after us, took care of us, and wanted us to have a good start in life. Our family was around, some near, some further away, but we were part of them. I grew up surrounded by people and their history. Life might have been boring at times, but it was steady, stable, and safe.

A friend across the road grew up in a house where various boyfriends came and went; some wanted to be part of the existing family unit, some didn’t really care about the boys in the flat. My friend’s mum wanted to have a relationship, but she also wanted to give her sons everything, including a father-figure. She was trying very hard to make it work. I didn’t see it as wrong or bad; it was just a different kind of family. Only later did I think that there were actually many blended or one-parent families around me and I believer they are now increasing.

Another boy in my class once remarked how lucky my sister and I were. Our dad was always around; he did things with us, took us places. We participated in everything that was going on in our little town – all special events, or the regular ones, or sporting events because they interested Dad. He took us on little trips. Dad wanted to spend time with us; he wanted to do things together. I thought it was normal. Only after that remark, looking around, I realised it was actually special.

Dad also spent a lot of time lying on the sofa ignoring us, not keen on checking our homework, preferring to read newspapers. Of course, he was only human. But, again, he was there. He didn’t take off and sit in a pub with his mates. He was there for us. Made us dinner. Answered questions.

Dad was decent, polite, and quiet. He didn’t hammer things into me, didn’t give me big speeches, didn’t make demands, but I somehow knew I should try my best, work hard, strive. I wasn’t good enough; he hardly ever complimented or praised me, but he did instil a certain ethic in me, perhaps without knowing.

Only as an adult did I realise that he was happy to spend time with his kids because it was a good excuse to be out of the house that was sometimes heavy for all of us. It wasn’t as harmonious as one might have thought, but again, nothing out of the ordinary. Nineteen years of living with my partner/now husband had taught me that relationships aren’t easy. So, yes, many things were on his terms; we may have spent a lot of time standing around finishing lines at the running events he was taking part in after we’d finished the kids’ run (me doing alright, my sister hating every minute, none of us being praiseworthy by Dad), holding his jacket, waiting. Still, it was better than being stuck at home. He dismissed many things that interested me because they didn’t make sense to him. He found faults in me easily. Mother saw only faults. I could have been a very unhappy child. And yet, I was alright. A little quiet and weird, perhaps, but even though they weren’t happy with me or with themselves, they still managed to make me into a functioning adult, motivated and keen to live the best life. They did a good job.

I wasn’t close to my parents. I couldn’t wait to leave the small town, live independently, and travel the world. I was adamant about doing and trying all of the things they said were a waste of time – playing a guitar just for the sake of doing it, modelling even though it wasn’t a real job (but you got paid, so it was real and a job), dancing, skydiving, and many other things. It wasn’t even rebellion. I was simply living my life. Because they had made me a person who made it possible. Perhaps not because of them, but in spite of them, I have become the person I am today. Yes, I wasn’t the ideal daughter they wanted, but, again, they didn’t really tell me or show me what they had expected, wished, or wanted.

A long distance relationship worked for me and my parents. I knew they weren’t happy together, but they were somehow dependent on each other. I thought I would do much better in that sense. Well, now I see how hard it is. Perhaps there is a happily ever after for some. But perhaps that comes after actually seeing a happily ever after in real life first. I wasn’t so lucky. I don’t have cherished memories of my childhood, I wanted to be a grown-up. I was at my happiest when I was single and independent. I don’t think that the way society functions is fair to women. Us being single and happy to be so is seen as weird and wrong. Because we are meant to look after men – that is literally our role (according to society). If I had stayed single, I wouldn’t be a mum, and that would be a loss. And there are good times in family life, too. I would have missed out on that. I am lucky because I have experienced it all; I wasn’t stuck in one relationship after another. In many ways, I am blessed.

I knew that I wouldn’t have a child with just anybody. I didn’t even think about being a single mum. The urge to have children had not been that strong in me. It was all or nothing; my child would have to have a father in life. Not a weekend dad or someone only written on the birth certificate. I always knew that I wouldn’t deny my child a father. My dad managed to stamp that belief in me. Children need both parents. Mums are awesome. They can do it all. But they shouldn’t have to. Even though my husband wasn’t there properly for me because he never understood how much help I really needed before and after the birth of our child, when the time was right (the child was bigger and responsive, basically), he was there for his child and is still there for us. I have my dad to thank for that. However imperfect, fractured, and weird our family might have been, they instilled many good things in me, and I have managed to find the right dad for my child in the end.

So, yes. Family is the thing that holds society together, and it comes in many forms. Even though they mostly don’t know what they are doing or how they are making it work, parents keep on going because it is what they do. And as long as they keep trying their best, they are doing a good job. And we will never stop learning.

Summer is over...

  

I have survived the family holiday. Good on me. It is more challenging than one might expect. For a big part of the year, we are massaged by advertisements for holidays, showing us happy families enjoying their time together, relaxing, frolicking, and having the best time they can get. How comes that the pools, beaches, and restaurants are always empty, pristine, and perfectly lit? How come extended families or groups of friends all get along aimlessly, and nobody is annoyed by having to wait for everyone else to get going or doing what the majority decided?

I used to enjoy travel much more, I have to admit. Airports used to be special places where one was suspended in a no one’s land, and could imagine being somebody else while busy people-watching or looking at the list of destinations and dreaming up the possibilities. Then more security, shops, and budget flights moved in, and the atmosphere shifted somehow, with airports being like shopping malls and trains seeming more luxurious than crammed planes where the shopping pressure continued and the enjoyment of flying was gone.

While I was younger and single, I travelled for work. and holidays were different, often mixed in with work destinations, spontaneous, and carefree. The world seemed to be a big, open adventure. Even for a few years after 9/11, it felt welcoming and safe. I could safely navigate the globe, playing it by ear, because I had no responsibilities other than myself, and I knew how to keep myself safe. I didn’t realise how free I had been back then, but I will never forget it. The slightly hectic and unpredictable lifestyle had taught me that solo travel is the best way to go. I could rely on myself, set my own schedule, and get to know many interesting people. I was on my own, but I was never lonely. Sure, I missed out on some nice photo opportunities, but that’s okay. Snaps from my camera were about places, not about me in them. (Because I happened to travel a lot in the time before smartphones and selfies.) When I happened to fall into a group, it often brought very nice moments and interesting interactions, but in the long-term, I always enjoyed some time on my own. I think these years made me who I am and gave me the confidence that would be hard to build up otherwise.

When I became half of a serious couple, it brought some changes. In the beginning, of course, I wanted to travel with my then boyfriend. I thought it would be the best thing. Well, not really. I realised that I would have to compromise, plan to sync our schedules, and that my favourite places might not be his favourite places. That showing him where I’d grown up would mean enduring similar tours, having to meet many new people, and while having some good time and seeing new places, the freedom I’d been used to would be gone and moments alone would be fewer to come by, and mostly stolen. On the one hand, I had different experiences; on the other, I had to let go or postpone some of the things I wanted to do. Life changed; it is normal, so I accepted less travel and adventure as one of the facts of adulting.

And then came family. Travelling with a child is, of course, a very different game. And playing it by ear doesn’t work very well. Unless you are lucky. Travelling with a baby is a challenge different to travelling with a toddler, young child, or a teenager. At least you need less stuff, and they can carry some of it themselves as they grow up. You can go the whole way and move to all inclusive and theme parks way of travel, or you can pack your child and travel as you used to, while incorporating some child-friendly activities as you go along. I tend to be in the latter group.

After my first summer with a teenager, I am noticing how much life had changed and how different everything is. The little child who would follow along and could be placated with a supply of ice cream and one day at a water park is no more. Instead, the young person next to me has opinions, demands, and, most of all, moods. But at least I can spend time with the teenager and get to know them on the move, in unfamiliar surroundings, out of routine. It is special.

Relationship with a partner, however, gets a beating. The cracks deepen, differences are confirmed, and it is hard to stay polite. Thinking back to the history of our travels, the signs were there from the start. Only in the beginning, one doesn’t believe in them; then, one is willing to overlook them, and, eventually, is willing to accept them as the price of peace. Year by year, that limit of family travel is getting shorter. Soon, the teenager will not be willing to participate in family trips. And I am looking forward to the return to freedom. As life settled and Child grew up, stealing a few days or half-days for a little trip, even locally, had been the one thing that recharged my travel batteries more than anything else.

So, yes, I will do the planning, preparations, packing, and organising for the family trips, but I will also continue being me – the solo-traveller who won’t be tamed.

Under the Spell

  

A magical thing had happened last night: I was dreaming about my characters. The people I have been wrestling on the page have become quite important, and now they were in my dreams, playing very random roles, being as real as anything and anybody else that appear in the sleep state and are hardly remembered. The dream itself wasn’t significant and didn’t mean much, but I was very happy when I remembered it.

It just shows how much stories mean to us, and how writing is a part of us. Writers are readers, and we care about our characters. As writers, we see them becoming truly a part of us. I have written a few books and have spent my time thinking and plotting, being connected to my characters, building a relationship with them. Some are more important than others, I suppose. We can’t help but have favourites. They are real to us. When the book is done, we see our characters off, and we wish them well. The story ends there for some, but we keep thinking about others, wondering what they have done next. Perhaps it is a little seed for a future book.

As a reader, I have always had a connection with the story. I see it in my mind, I imagine the places, homes, surroundings, and, of course, the characters. Sometimes it is annoying seeing them in their film form, because they are too different. Sometimes, the choice and interpretation work, but still, I will keep seeing them my way when I revisit their stories.

So far this year, I have had two very opposite encounters with book characters. The first is Lyra and the long-awaited final book about her – The Rose Field. We have waited a long time for that. I haven’t looked at any reviews or articles, because I don’t want to find spoilers or cloud my judgement, but I am conflicted.

I love Lyra and her world. His Dark Materials holds a special place in my heart; it is one of the books that I will happily come back to and read it again. I listened to it in audiobook, too. I loved the BBC series; I think it was very well made. When the next stories were announced, I was intrigued. And then disappointed. I wasn’t sure why we needed La Belle Sauvage, but I gave it the benefit of the doubt. The second book was at least happening after His Dark Materials, but, again, I can’t say that I liked it. I cared about the story, I wanted to know it, but I didn’t like it. Why would Pantalaimon leave? Why now (besides, of course, to serve the narrative – he had to leave in order for the story to happen)? I struggled through, but I wasn’t happy. Especially after what had happened to Lyra on the train towards the end of book two.

If La Belle Sauvage or The Secret Commonwealth were stand-alone novels, I would probably still read them, but wouldn’t think much about them and wouldn’t be considering any further stories for my list. But I am invested in the world and the characters, I want to know what happens, even if I don’t like it. So, I am disappointed, but I will keep coming for more.

Right now, I am slowly working my way through the third book, and it is more of an obligation than a pleasure. I will see it through, but I cannot imagine taking so long with any other beloved character. And it is a little bit sad. For me, the second trilogy doesn’t hold the same magic. I don’t always understand what is happening and why and whether it even matters. I find the story a bit complicated, scattered, and confusing, although it might be because there was a long time between the publication of the second and third book and I have forgotten quite a few details and characters. I am, however, not willing to re-read the second book at the moment. I won’t say never, because Lyra and Pantalaimon are very dear to me. However, I am not sure that they needed this trilogy.

It is therefore refreshing to find something very different in times of such reading despair. I speak now about Butter by Asako Yuzuki, which I sandwiched in between reading The Rose Field, when I simply didn’t want to read it, but wanted to read something. I don’t usually read more than one fiction book at a time, but I think I have explained why it would have happened now.

If I were losing my will to read and streaming services were calling to steal my time, Butter brought back all the reasons why to read books a thousandfold. If The Rose Field feels like a chore, Butter was like going on a special date every evening when I settled with the book, hoping that time wouldn’t fly too fast, and I would manage more than one chapter before bedtime. Butter is a genius of a book, and Asako Yuzuki is my favourite Japanese writer right now. That book is so difficult to describe or put into a simple category; it is uniquely special. When I read something like that and think about someone thinking it out of nowhere, I feel awe and happiness that we can do that as a species, that we have imagination, fantasy, and a way to make stories. Even if Butter won’t have a sequel, I wouldn’t struggle to remember its characters or story a few years later, because they are unforgettable. Butter cemented my love of reading and storytelling when The Rose Field somehow diminished it. It made me as happy as only a book can make a book lover happy.

The Idea of Austen

 

Books and stories find us at the right time – whether to be written or read. This year, I am enjoying a backwards relationship with Jane Austen, and I am having a marvellous time discovering her. Of course, I knew about her for years. I’ve learnt about her in school. I took her existence for granted – she is one of the classics. I didn’t question how remarkable it was for a woman of her time to become a writer, or why there weren’t more women writers. For a long time, I was shaped by the view of the world that it was men who did, created, and invented things, and that was that; only sometimes, there would be a woman who would somehow manage to be almost as good as the men. How little did I know.

Therefore, when I was going through the phase in my life when I was reading classics, I did try to read one of Jane Austen’s books. It was Emma. And I didn’t like it. It didn’t grab my attention. I thought it was just a love story, that all of her books were love stories, and that it wasn’t for me. Did the women have nothing better to worry about than men? I liked to read about more than just relationships. In my twenties, I didn’t have the patience and understanding that I have now. I didn’t understand how much women needed to have the right relationship – I was a young woman travelling the world, doing as I pleased, not thinking about how recent and unusual such a privilege was. So, Emma was lying at the back of the bookshelf ever since, and I never returned to her.

Then, I watched the film Emma, the one with Gwyneth Paltrow, and it only confirmed that it wasn’t for me. I simply didn’t get it. I didn’t get many films with Gwyneth Paltrow (Shakespeare in Love was definitely not worth an Oscar for her, especially not in the year that Elizabeth with Cate Blanchett was nominated), but I still put the blame at Jane Austen’s door – it was a story about people going around and talking too much about relationships.

I was resolute that I wouldn’t be reading Jane Austen’s books and wouldn’t have to bother watching any adaptations. Yes, she is great, but not for me.

So, this year, when there has been so much talk about Jane Austen and her big anniversaries, I thought I would just let it go by. But then, I had nothing to watch. And the Pride and Prejudice TV series was on the BBC iPlayer, and I heard it mentioned so many times that I wanted to know what the references (and fuss) were about. I watched it and it was good. Not my favourite story, but good and interesting. I thought that I may as well watch the other adaptations and then not have to read any of them, but know the storylines and understand what people are talking about when mentioning plots and characters. With my child starting secondary school, it was good to brush up on things that would eventually be encountered in the curriculum.

I’d seen the TV adaptations of Pride and Prejudice as well as the movie because Alan Rickman is simply great in anything. I’d also watched everything else on the BBC that was on offer. Some older adaptations like Persuasion and a very weirdly made Northanger Abbey, which I had to finish out of sheer dedication, but am very thankful that it wasn’t the first one to start, because I would never have gotten into Austen if it had been. Also, I finally know what Emma is about; the TV adaptation had done a much better job at keeping me watching and staying curious, although the character of Emma is indeed hard to like.

While at it, I also watched the lovely new series of Miss Austen and got a little more knowledge of the background and perhaps sources of inspiration. Then, I thought that I was done with Austen. But I got the bug already.

I was happy to find a documentary Jane Austen: Rise of a Genius and it was fascinating to learn all the details. Thanks to my age and experience, I have already been more sensitive to the plight of women through the ages (and now, of course) and have a better understanding of their obsession with marriage and social standing. Women in Jane Austen’s time had so few options and freedoms, and many of the things that would annoy me years ago were now making perfect sense because I get it, I understand it better.

But learning about Jane and her willpower, combined with the luck that the man in her life – her father – was supportive and encouraging of her being a writer, was what made me fall in love with her. Learning about her trying to make it on the market and facing refusals simply because she wasn’t known, didn’t have any connections, and was an outsider, was a reminder of the publishing world today, where connections and marketability are so very similarly important as back then. A struggling writer must like another struggling writer.

During that time, I’d also noticed that our local theatre was showing Pride and Prejudice this spring. Of course, I had to go and see it. And it was marvellous. Funny and enjoyable. The whole day, for me, which I’d spent in town by myself, was like being out on a date with Jane Austen.

So, I finished the documentary, wondered what would have happened if Jane Austen weren’t so ill, and then I went and ordered her complete works and am happy to read them, helped by them being so well incorporated into the story of her life in the documentary. The books she had written were shaped by her experiences, just like most of the books we read and write. That is why I think that I have a backwards relationship with Jane Austen. Most things I really like, I find the book first and then see the adaptation on TV or film.

I can report that Northanger Abbey, as a book, is good. Now I’m enjoying Pride and Prejudice, and again, I’m looking forward to the evenings when I can have a bit of reading time. I have gone full circle. I now consider Jane Austen as an author very much for me, I am proud to know her and happy to read her.

About Reading

 

Children aren’t reading for pleasure, says research. An unwelcome finding for a writer and a parent. The tween in our house is generally frustrated by parents who aren’t giving in to trends and refuse to provide her with a smartphone. Everybody has one. That’s the thing.

In a few years, we have been conditioned into thinking that we must be constantly connected. We don’t question it. Or, we do, but a little too late.

Perhaps I am one of the lucky ones. I have always been suspicious of fads and fashions. Not an easy consumer. I have been frustrated for years by people dumbed down by their ‘smart’ phones. Suddenly, the devices are glued to their hands. They are the first to be answered and acknowledged, deeming face-to-face conversation less important. They are the first and last thing users want to see each day (and most hours in between). They ought to confirm what is true. People experience things through them. They no longer look at what is happening in front of them, instead, they film it, watch it through the screen, and unless it is uploaded to their social sites immediately, it doesn’t really matter. So, they must chase more, better, crazier, and shinier content to keep up with their feed.

It was obvious that reading would suffer. Instead of getting lost in a book, you can scroll till the battery dies.

For years, I have been having a deteriorating relationship with Husband. He is no longer pretending to be interested in reading. He makes it clear that communication in his online groups takes precedence over conversation with me. When out and about, he will show me what his mates are up to instead of simply being in the moment, watching the little things that happen around us. Of course, he also has to update people on his endeavours. He no longer takes pictures of me because he wants to capture a moment. Throughout our child’s life, he has never been with her without a phone in hand or in a pocket, ready to use. When I don’t like it, I am reprimanded – am I denying potential updates for Grandpa?

I still don’t believe that communication must be constant and updates instant. I also don’t appreciate having hundreds of snaps dumped on me; expected to react to them immediately. I still look up things in books, they are my favourite point of reference. Of course, I google things, we all do. But for in-depth research, I like to read up on things. I use cookbooks and reference books, I like to buy guidebooks for new places I am visiting even though I do research and bookings online. When I want to truly learn and understand something, a book is the thing to use. The information gained through the internet is helpful but somehow superficial. When I travel or go somewhere interesting, I don’t want to be glued to a screen while standing in a place I’ve come to see. I also bring a digital camera. Sure, smartphone cameras are now often superior. Doesn’t mean I have to see the world through it. People I know don’t need to know where I am at this very moment. I’ll let them know when I talk to them. Or not – most of the time, it won’t matter to them.

I have been reading to my child since the very beginning. I have been giving her books every Christmas and birthday. I have been visiting libraries. I still help her to source and reserve books. I miss reading time. We still occasionally do read together, but, after twelve years, the bedtime ritual is changing.

However, books have a big role in our lives. So, perhaps, my child is privileged. She sees people reading around her. She has not only story books but also reference books and enjoys reading them, some are picked up very often. When I want to support an interest, I look up books about it. We have books on dogs and cat breeds and how to care for them, books on common birds, trees, and insect, we have books on history and geography, and, of course, the wizarding world. We have books I used to enjoy as a child and new books we’ve found together.

A few weeks ago, I was out with my child and we spotted an unusual, interesting bird. We watched it closely while we could (we were lucky, this one was quite a show-off). Later, we went through our book and found out what it was (a nuthatch). A few weeks later, on a walk with friends, Husband downloaded an app that identifies birds by sound. Immediately, the kids got hold of their or their parent’s phones and tried to find more birds, wandering around, phone in hands, interested but looking at a screen, ignoring the nature around them. I was a little sad. Yes, I didn’t identify all the birds around me while I was observing the noisy and interesting nuthatch. But I could also tell that I was surrounded by the usual mix of blackbirds, tits, pigeons, and robins. And I was fully present during my interaction with that little bird. The app is good when you hear but don’t see the bird in question, but, isn’t just listening and looking around more than enough?

A few evenings ago, my daughter took Anne of Green Gables from the library shelf and got into reading. We have been reading this book on and off together. I’d bought it years back when I was compiling books that I wanted to introduce to my daughter. I got a big book that has all of Anne’s stories together, it is big and bulky. The story got its spell on me again. Daughter also admitted that it was good. With end-of-year exams and sports clubs, we have been slower in reading and not always reading together. But, eventually, my daughter found her way to the book again and is reading it without my prompts or assistance on most evenings. Perhaps not all is lost. Perhaps when a child knows that a good story is there, the child will eventually tire of YouTube and will reach for the book. Just as with interesting birds, I just have to be patient and ready for a surprise.

Antisocial Socials

 Dear Readers and Writers,

I have been quite busy and didn't go on my Threads for a long time. I didn't even look through the feed, simply dedicating the little spare time I have to other things (I have read some awesome books, though). In the last few weeks, I have been trying to return to Threads and give it another try, hoping that this time my enthusiasm would last a little longer.

However, I am unable to access the account. I keep getting locked out, sent back via Instagram, notified about unusual activity, prompted to change a password, over and over again. Threads won’t let me go in at all and Instagram only sends me through changes of passwords, retrieval of security code, then a new sign-in and a prompt to change password. Annoying. There has been no unusual activity, dear overlords of internet wisdom, because there has been no activity! Nothing. I am not dead, but I didn't need you - hard to believe, I know. Of course, one can’t contact anyone to ask and the so-called help pages are very unhelpful. Not even an annoying chatbot to vent to. Oh well.

Is it a sign? A message that I should give up on my futile attempts? I am very obviously unable to make friends in real or online life. I very clearly don't care – it doesn’t change my life at all. The only reason that I am trying to be active in the writing community is because I like it. This year, NaNoWriMo is closing down. Amazon is being boycotted, and, also, using our hard-worked-for manuscripts for AI learning (allegedly). I don't know any writers in real life. While I am now braver and might consider a writing group, I am also working and therefore don't have much time to dedicate to such an activity. What to do?

I won't stop writing. No way. But how do I show up my books and make them read by people unrelated to me? How do I sell books without a massive (I think I reached 35 followers after almost two years on Threads!) online following? Most readers of independent authors are other independent authors. I can’t find out about books from people I followed because I didn’t plan to leave, so I didn’t make a list. We all hope that what we have written will be talked about and that reviews and word of mouth will help us make it. Hard work. How can I participate when I’m not able to take part?

Some people are good at talking themselves up, connecting with others, having general chit-chat, and sending updates. I will probably never reach the state of online native. When I see something interesting, I don't have the impulse to snap and update. Phones annoy me. I don't have it on me all the time. Yes, I am weird, I know.

So, I may simply give up on trying and see what else I can do. Perhaps there are more of 'analogue' authors like me out there? Perhaps I will find my niche? Or, in one last push, I may try the last option: Bluesky. Threads worked out better and nicer than Twitter. Maybe the uphill trend will continue. Who knows, the participants there might tolerate quiet people better.

Wish me luck. I shall update my profiles for a new contact. Or print 1000 paperbacks and open a stall at the next church fair near you. No AI will find me there.

The Joy of Being Alone

I am haunted by the scene from the movie Maria, where Maria Callas – played by Angelina Jolie – walks near the Eiffel Tower and the crowd around her comes together and breaks into an aria from Verdi’s Il Trovatore. The whole movie was beautiful and sad, but this scene keeps coming back. A few days ago, I’d heard the aria again, in a different setting, and ever since then, I have an earworm. It could be worse, this one is at least very sophisticated.

Given that I’d more or less stopped listening to music and listen to spoken word radio all day every day, it is a little bit unusual to look up music on YouTube, search for CDs and print out lyrics. Instead of keeping with current music trends, I am going well back. At least I know that I don’t have a mid-life crisis, I guess. But I have an urge to learn the lyrics.

Going to the cinema the weekend before last had been a special occasion. It was my first solo trip in many years. I used to go regularly in my twenties. I wouldn’t think twice about it. Every week, I would look up the schedule, consult my shifts, and write down dates and times. I kept up with new movies and caught up on some good classics. It didn’t even occur to me that I was quite unusual in going alone. Instead, I always had a very good time. When I travelled a lot, catching up on movies was my favourite part of time between trips. I even wrote letters to magazines about movies, got a few ‘star letters’ prizes, and dreamt about being a film critic. I suppose that if it was happening now, I would have a movie-related blog, active login for IMDb, and my socials would be full of movie links.

When I’d moved in with my now husband, we went to the cinema together, but it wasn’t the same. I was working shifts and we lived far from the city, so, it was a major trip. Besides, our tastes were very different. I still remember our heated fights in Blockbusters on Friday evenings. When he made the choices, I had to watch some drivel. When I made the choice, I ended up watching alone – no problem for me. Eventually, I was again going to the cinema by myself, safe in the knowledge that it was better for the both of us, remembering the time, earlier on in our relationship, when he made a massive scene because I forced him to sit through a foreign language movie with subtitles that were not in English. I had asked him in advance, had given him the option to go and do his own thing, he had insisted on being an enlightened best boyfriend in the world, had sat through the movie (that I enjoyed) and then, on the way home, he had thrown a massive tantrum about my selfishness. How dare I not put him first? Considering the amount of time that I had stood around waiting for him, sat around waiting for him, and sat through dinners, parties, and occasions, I thought it was quite rich, but, of course, waiting for him was always okay... It is always about the man, isn’t it?

After the conundrum of low income, motherhood, pandemics, housewifing, and back-to-working, my only visits to the cinema were for family movies. And they were great. It was nice showing my child what an adventure a visit to the cinema is.

But now, with some freedom, transport, and income, I can once again go and see what I want when I can (when I want is probably no longer an option, but that’s fine). Seeing the trailer for Maria, I knew that it was meant to be seen on a big screen. And the showing times in the local cinema were good, I had a Saturday off, the family was sorted, so, I went out by myself. What a treat. We are always meant to be in a group or with a family, it is assumed that it means that we are having a good time. No advert promoting a leisure activity shows people on their own having the best time ever. But ask any mother and she will hopefully admit that having only yourself to look after and please is the real treat. Yes, sometimes it is having a bath and lying down with a good book, but, sometimes, taking yourself on a date with yourself is the best thing you can do.

I took the bus and looked at the familiar streets from a different angle. I brought a book to read. I bought a glass of wine in the bar. And I went to see the movie. The small room filled with women. No man was interested. There was definitely a vibe. Look at us, I thought, we do manage to treat ourselves sometimes.

The movie was beautiful. And sad. And, once again, it showed that men come into our lives and don’t make them better. Instead, we change, accommodate, and care. The movie reminded me that I used to like music. I will listen to it again. Perhaps I will dance again—when was the last time I danced? But, most definitely, I will take myself out on a movie date sometime soon. I think I have already picked up the next movie to see!

Magical Five

 

Five might not be an obvious choice for a special number and might not be considered lucky, but I am slowly growing excited about it. Next year will end in five. And I rather like the years that end in five. In 1995, I graduated and began my independent, adult life. Everything was ahead of me. In 2005, I thought a lot about what I had been through so far and accepted some hard-learnt truths about relationships. It was time to assess, make changes, leave some things behind, and consider a change of career. Nothing was as definitive as ten years ago, because my life was in motion, very unsettled. Even so, I was building something, learning a lot, and discovering new paths to follow. There was still a lot ahead. In 2015, I was a mother, married, settled, and buying our first home together in the UK. Even though I had already put down my roots, this was the final step to finally being at home, without questions. Besides that, I had many other ideas about my future and most of them didn’t work out in the way I’d imagined. What I’d learnt on the way was good, even if not particularly wished for.

And now we are awaiting 2025. A quarter of a century will be behind us. What will the year with five on its end bring to me this time?

I had published my fifth book this year. I am now officially an author of five books. That feels very special. And it makes me very happy.

Looking at the pile of five books with my name on the spine brought memories of another achievement. I had been five times pregnant in my life. I have five memories of wonder, anticipation, happiness, and love. I am a mother of one child, so, yes, it doesn’t look like such a journey. But still, I always remember that I had been carrying a new life in me five times. Four short times and one with an extra two and a half weeks overdue…

I get up after five in the morning and have dinner at five in the evening. I could go on. But I don’t need to, you probably get the general idea. I am trying to see the good things ahead of me, because the world doesn’t seem like a very happy place right now and, if anything, we are bracing ourselves for the next year, waiting with gritted teeth, wishing more than hoping that things will work out. We don’t even expect improvement. The optimism of the late nineties is gone, and so is the naivety of the early two-thousands. The world is not a safe and stable place and we are not making it any better. Very often, we feel that cynical resignment is the only option to function.

So, I look at the numbers and hope against hope that it will be a good year. Because when I look at the little picture, life is still good. I wake up every day and see that I live in a nice place, surrounded by my family, I have a home and a job I enjoy, I am creative, and we don’t struggle for food or resources. We work hard for it, but we are so much more lucky than many. The incident of where you are born and when decides your faith. So, yes, I live from day to day and I write books and then I talk about them, and maybe it is nothing important on the big scale, but, together with many other things that I do every day, they are part of the puzzle that keeps me going. And now I will see how the 2025 puzzle of my life will work out and how it will be remembered.

All the best to you all in 2025.

Waiting - My New Book

 

Sometimes, it is hard to understand how a book idea comes around. When it is a nice, easy-flowing story, it is simply inspiration. But sometimes our darker side takes over and we have to write things that are not so nice. Am I weird, we may ask? We are fiction writers. We create stories. They come from us but they are not us. When bad things happen to our characters, it doesn’t mean that they have happened to us or that we wish them to happen. Stories come to us and we write them.

In 2017, I was compelled to write the book Waiting. It wasn’t a book back then, it was just a story meant to be made into a book. A character moved into my head and demanded to be written. At the time, I thought the character had nothing to do with me. But she worked in the hospitality sector. So did I, albeit a longer time ago and not anymore. She lived on the outskirts of Manchester. So did I. She moved in the same streets. She was a young woman, married, and wanted a child. So far, so similar, although not quite the same.

I wrote Waiting when I already had a child. I was dealing with multiple miscarriages and was facing the fact that I would most likely not have more children. I was going through a lot of pain and I didn’t even realise how down I had been back then. I was lonely, not well supported and quite isolated. Motherhood was my saviour on one hand, demanding role that couldn’t be paused on the other. These were no easy years.

And in the middle of this turmoil, I suddenly had the urge to create a character that was raped, got pregnant and had to deal with the fact that this may be her only chance for motherhood. She had to come to terms with her trauma, with the baby, with her family and her husband and their opinions and reactions. Why would a person who was hurting sit down and write an ugly story? I don’t know. I felt slightly ashamed at the time, describing things that were hard to imagine, researching procedures I wouldn’t wish to be needed even by my enemies, and creating situations that only added to my own struggles and dissatisfaction.

Besides the struggles of motherhood, my journey was also a journey of a partner and wife. I was living through my own struggles, arguments, and disillusion with my partner. I was often feeling trapped; unable to leave and move on as I would have done in my previous, single life.

I had written Waiting during NaNoWriMo, got it out of my system and let it sit back in the finished drawer. I didn’t think about it for a long time. I got the story out of my system. A few years later, I started working on my finished stories, slowly bringing them into the real world. They were edited, rewritten, reshaped, re-read, and then, finally, made real – into e-books and paperbacks. Waiting was always the last one in the line. But its time had come. It wouldn’t be fair to leave the story behind. So, this year, I dusted off the manuscript and got to work. And suddenly, I understood. My long frustration, pain, loss, sadness, disillusion and disappointment pushed me to create this story. Some writers go to horror, fantasy, or crime. Others write novels filled with cupcakes, fashion, and good old ‘will they/won’t they’. They need happy endings to heal. Well, I go to the hard-to-define fiction. I write stories. And sometimes they are more difficult than the average stories for women. That’s how I dealt with challenging times in my life.

Vivien is a young woman who has to overcome a bad thing to reach something good. She doesn’t have an easy life and her relationship is seemingly good, but has its own challenges. So far, so similar to me and many others. I can’t wait to put the finishing touches on the book and send it out into the world.

Black and White

 

Recently, I spent some time going through old documents and photos, putting together a rough family tree. I was prompted by many questions from my child which collided with my mother’s desire to clear away old boxes of photos and documents and with my sister’s findings of our dad’s old family tree project.

In his last years, he was going through old records and managed to find some old birth, graduation and wedding certificates.

There is something very solid about old black-and-white photos from days when you had your picture taken in an atelier on special occasions, wore your best clothes, and cherished these mementoes forever. The same can be said about those carefully hand-written documents, where people’s lives were marked by hand with no digital backup and no available copies.

I grew up in the end of the black-and-white era when not many people had cameras at home and photos were developed from films, often at home, in a makeshift dark room. Then we got better cameras, colour films, easier development, and moved on to digital and mobiles. I still like to carry my digital camera around to take pictures instead of my phone and I do get some strange looks for it.

Years ago, I lived in Japan. Once, on a quiet street, I passed a very old woman. She was small and frail-looking but with lively eyes and a smile on her face. She was bent forward and walked with a stick. As I approached her, she was hardly reaching my waist, but she looked me in the face and seemed delighted to see a tall stranger wandering in her neighbourhood. I was thinking about how many changes she had seen in her long life, how different her country had become, and how happy she seemed, curious to see and witness everything. Meeting this woman, however fleetingly, was one of the moments in life that I can recall, even though it wasn’t significant, didn’t last long, and didn’t perhaps mean much. In a way, it did. Two different generations of women and two different cultures had passed by on the day, offering smiles to one another. Maybe she remembered me, too. Maybe she had talked about meeting me with someone. Who knows?

I have not forgotten about this woman and sifting through the old documents, to which were added all of my school reports, I was thinking that although I am about half of that old woman’s age now, I am also a relic of the past, a witness to many changes. The other day, I had to explain what a telegram was to my daughter and remind her once again that people couldn’t have sent a text in the past. Not even a phone had been in every home back then. Telegrams were the best way to send important news to people.

The old certificates and photos are witnesses to the old times that matter only to a few of us. I was surprised how little photos we have of our older relatives. I remember my grandfather but don’t have any photos to show to my daughter. I was happy to see documents that told me where my grandparents and my great-grandmother had come from but I realized that I hadn’t heard much about it. My great-grandmother had a few stories about the past that she had told us repeatedly. There were also many stories that she didn’t want to bring up. She was an illegitimate child, born to a young girl who was a helping hand at a farm. Most likely, the owner – her boss – had taken an advantage. My great-grandmother had grown up with the shame of ‘father unknown’ written on her birth certificate. Her son had committed suicide. She had had a stillbirth. She wouldn’t go into details about it, apart from telling us that she didn’t want to see the baby or know much about it. It was to be taken away and it was normal back then. I recall a little, old, black-and-white photo of her first son displayed in her room. That photo is now gone and I was thinking that it would have been nice to have it and add it to my mosaic, reunite it with other images. From my other side, I have a little bit more images – one of my grandfathers was a keen photographer - but fewer documents. My mother wasn’t as keen to explore the past as my father had been. Even so, thanks to some family stories I have discovered, there might not have been a blank on the father’s side of my maternal grandmother’s birth certificate, but it doesn’t have the biological father’s name either.

Mine is just an average family. Even so, there had been affairs, scandals, and – for both sides of my grandfathers and grandmothers – divorces. My family tree had been a little bit simplified to keep it simple. For now. Perhaps I will go deeper and work on the more present generations. I have no idea what happened to most of my cousins. We are spread far and wide, and there has been very little effort to keep in touch. But I had been reminded how easy it is to be forgotten forever. It only takes two generations and you are unknown, gone, a mystery on an old, hand-written document.

So perhaps I should try and connect. Make my daughter’s tree a little bit more colourful and green.

The Gift of Solitude

 

The ideal family holiday? Away from the family. Knowing that they are well and supposedly having a much better time than me – left here to look after pets, home, and work; I dropped them off at the airport with a light heart.

This spring, I had two weeks of not having to worry about other people. I could run my house just to accommodate myself and said pets. One of them is a quiet budgie, the other one is a dog. Easy.

I was looking forward to this for a long time. I don’t understand people who fear time alone. I would sometimes remember that I had been at my happiest when I had been single and lived alone. Most of my happy moments were when I was quite alone. High up in the mountains, or somewhere else but outside, and most of the time alone. Or surrounded by strangers. Also, living on my own has been important for happiness. Having a little nest that was only mine. Stretching on the first bed I’d ever bought, long and wide enough to fit my height, chosen by me, for me.

One of the things that has been hard to accept after I became a mother was being constantly needed and never alone. The first time I could have a bit of time on my own was strange, I felt weightless. I’ve also noticed that kids don’t see us as independent beings, they often don’t realize that we would like to do something on our own. And there is nothing wrong with being needed. Living with a family has more good moments than bad. Not living alone makes sense in many ways.

But I crave solitude. I am one of the women who wake up early so that I can carve some time that is mine. And when I realized that it would be cheaper and easier if my husband went to take care of family issues and life admin in his country of origin and have a holiday at the same time just with our child (that, at the age of almost eleven, should be able to survive his care), I was more excited than if I were to plan the journey for the whole family. I used to travel a lot. I don’t mind missing a repeat trip, especially when it involves a lot of dealing with not my favourite relatives. The funny thing is how many people were surprised about it as if it was strange. I used to do things on my own and I don’t find it strange to not do everything as a family. I sometimes think that as mothers and wives we are meant to melt into the background, be there for everybody else, but god forbid we were to breathe too loudly….

My time of solitude was good. I was still working and sorting things around the house, I didn’t have a complete shut-off, but it was still my retreat. Just the fact that I didn’t have to worry about anybody else, as long as the animals were fed, was liberating. Then I realized how much lighter was the housework, how little laundry was needed, how much less cooking (and all to my taste and no negotiating around vegetables) there was and after a good clean – the house was fine, I just needed to sweep around the entrances and by the bird cage. Liberating.

Writing, reading, watching what I wanted. Sleeping on my own. Stretching in my bed. Silence. Yoga Nidra played every evening before sleep, with no headphones necessary. The yoga course I had singed up for could have been done as I wanted, not when I could fit it in.

What had been most revealing was the fact that I didn’t need to change anything to be happy. I was doing what I would have done anyway, I didn’t want to be anywhere else or with other people. I had been where I was meant to be. Time to focus on me was the only thing that was different and special. Which, I guess, is a good sign. Being happy as I am is a good way to live.

Understanding

   I am sometimes amazed by how circular learning is. As with everything in life, it is a life-long, ever-evolving and changing process. You forget things, you change opinions, you realize connections, you deepen your knowledge, and you are never done. That is actually the good part. How interesting would life be if you were suddenly done? Now I know everything there is to know – what now? No, thank you. I would rather make a few mistakes, confirm what I know and add something new.

   When I opened my first book about yoga, aged about fourteen, I knew I was into something important. The book was from the library, full of nice photos, but did not say much about philosophy in particular, it was more about offering a different exercise regime. I knew straight away that this was more than exercise and that it would be in my life forever. And it is.

   I went through a lot of learning and will never stop. The practice is evolving. I am also happy to know that things that seem too far-fetched and strange will come to me when I am ready. Fourteen-year-old me was thinking that meditation was something weird and decided to push it aside. It took more learning, researching, thinking and trying to figure out that I needed to sit down to concentrate. Because meditation is a state. I may say that I meditate every day but I know that I am trying to concentrate enough to be ready to meditate. It might happen in this lifetime, or one of the next ones. Showing up every day and doing the practice is what matters. Doing it without expectations that are too high, without waiting for rewards, recognition, or praise, is at the core of the learning process. I do it because it matters.

   And there are some little surprises on the way. How many mornings do I look at my wandering mind and question whether I will ever make it still? And then, later, I experience clarity, find solutions to problems, and inspiration that springs out of nowhere. My mind works differently. On the physical side, some poses offer new insight after years of doing them. Suddenly, a little tweak makes me see and feel them differently. Now I get them. Some poses work all the time. Some go up and down. Some need a lot of work. When balances work, I know that my mind is clear and focused and that it will show during my day. And it does.

   Yoga isn’t about how you look when you do it, or how long, deep, high, or extreme you can go. There isn’t one right way. There is your way of doing things and your way of living your yoga. Showing up day after day is what counts. Understanding is knowing that I know nothing. Understanding is accepting that learning never ends and can come from unexpected sources. Understanding is standing still feeling like you are flying high up in the sky, seeing your life and your worries from a bird’s perspective.

Forgiveness

Forgiveness is often seen as a virtue, something that we should have and demonstrate so that we can show the world that we are indeed decent human beings. It isn’t easy. We can learn to say the right thing, and we can act as if we are over and above something, but in reality, we hold grudges, ponder, and analyse. Deep inside, we know that we didn’t really forgive.

Maybe it is because as with everything, outer limits and expectations are hard to meet. We need time to be ready. As with grief, when we are expected to move on, we can forgive in our own time, we are capable of doing it, but we need to be ready. And nobody knows when it might be. We may shake off our trauma and move on, or we may need (or want – why not?) to sit with it, take our time, and work with it. Dealing with our grudge, pain, and grief, or any other thing that society might consider unhelpful and undesirable, might be what sets us free in our own time.

Of course, having our pain and trauma as the thing that defines us isn’t good for anybody, but the preconception that life is supposed to be happy and good and only positive vibes are allowed is naive and, frankly, impossible.

Forgive and forget, they say. Again, why? What if we don’t want to? What if remembering the bad as well as the good is beneficial? The best lessons in my life were learnt from mistakes. Bad things are part of life, they are here to stay, and they are how we learn. To learn, we must remember. Fairy tales are nice, but life isn’t about overcoming one obstacle, defying one enemy, and living happily ever after. Life is up and down, circles of time, and people with baggage. In the baggage is a mixture of positives, negatives, neutrals, riches, losses, and things unforgotten and unforgiven. The baggage makes us what we are.

Life isn’t about forgiving and being virtuous and good. It is about understanding what happened and moving on when we can. Not a long time ago I read an interesting thing that prompted this post. I can’t recall the exact words but the message was: perhaps instead of forgiving what you can’t forgive, forgive yourself. And it was so liberating, even though, at the same time, I thought that I had already understood it somewhere deep inside but didn’t really say it like that, so clearly and nicely. Somebody hurt you, somebody did bad things to you, somebody took away a lot? And you are meant to forgive and forget? And you feel bad because you can’t? Don’t. It is okay. Let them live with what they had done, let them pay the price for it. Don’t go looking for a proof. Don’t reach out. Don’t let others force you into reliving it, talking about it over and over again. Instead, extend your kindness and virtue to yourself. Forgive yourself for not knowing better. Forgive yourself for allowing it to happen, for not reacting differently, not knowing what to say and how to say it, not knowing the right way to act, react, and move away. Look at yourself then, look at yourself now. You have learnt. Even if you thought it impossible, you had moved on. You know more now than you had known then. And you are forgiven. Extend your kindness and virtue to yourself. Know that at any time in your life, you have done the best you could have done, knowing what you had known, with the resources you had. Forgiveness is possible. And you can offer it to the most important person in your life: yourself.

Winter Musings

 

 The third week of January was cold. Seeing a frosty landscape on the conservatory window early in the morning brought back memories of dark winter mornings of my childhood in Europe, when winters were like that, and cold and snow were normal.

I like all seasons, see the magic in them, and easily accept the disadvantages of each. But when proper winter hits – something that is more rare with each passing year – the reaction is stronger. Maybe I am a winter person, I was born in the winter, who knows? Nothing stirs me quite as much as snow crunching under my feet, snow-covered trees and houses, paw and bird feet marks, and an endless stream of snowflakes gracefully falling from the grey sky. The sounds and light are different in proper winter, you can sense it upon waking even though the curtains are closed and you have no idea what you will see.

Of course, I remember long, lazy summer days, swimming in lakes and ice cream, or the freshness of spring, and I always admired the autumn colours of nature around me. But still, winter is special, it stirs more feelings and memories. When I think about spring and autumn, they are special, but somehow transnational, and can be swallowed up by the other seasons. Summer and winter dominate the year, they define it. Years are remembered by them and their extremes. But while summer is different everywhere – you can’t expect the same summer by the seaside as it is under the Alps or in a busy metropolitan capital – winter is winter. It means cold and snow.

The weather of winter brings me back to my childhood more than anything else. We used to ice skate on the local ice rink. Some braved the local ponds, but I never felt quite certain on these. We sledged and skied. Later on, our dad took us for cross-country skiing, there were paths made all over the local hills and it was way more fun (in my opinion) than going up and down a hill, especially if my pocket money couldn’t stretch to a day pass for the ski lift and my parents saw it as an unnecessary expense. Also, the skis were much lighter to carry. Because everything was local, we walked. It feels very last century when I say that we lived in a small town where you could walk everywhere and nobody had seen it as a strange thing. It had changed by now, of course. But ‘fifteen-minute cities’ were a thing back then.

Of course, we lived in a place where people expected winter. The roads were managed, pavements were cleared, people changed their tyres every winter and spring, and we had winter clothes and shoes. We were ready. Blocks of flats had a rota so each flat owner knew when was their turn to clear the entrance and footpath. House owners cleared the fronts of their houses. The council took care of the main roads and the side roads. Sounds like paradise. It wasn’t perfect, but we functioned and got around.

Every year when we are lucky enough to glimpse a proper winter in England I rejoice and flutter. If nothing else, it gives us a break from the usual rain, wind, and mud. But then I have to go outside and sigh. Our road is a mess and I have to pray that they salted the main road. Usually, they do, which is great. Then I see people in normal shoes, flapping around. The phobia of wet shoes and socks creeps in and brings memories of my mother and grandmothers, warning us of catching certain death. Everything halts and pipes freeze. But still, I am happy.

If we were a little better prepared, people would understand. So far, they look at me like I am a very strange person (which I maybe am). But it makes sense. You can manage cold. You wrap up, put on layers and your body tells you when it needs you to go home. When we have summer heatwaves, there is nothing that helps. If you stay in the sun too long, you get sunburn, but unlike the cold that builds up and makes you move away, you notice it too late. It is easier to cope with winter. And way more romantic. It makes me happy, and sledging with my daughter brings my childhood back even more. We can all be silly when it snows!

Clearance

 

I spent most of my weekend by the table, going through magazine and paper cuttings, old magazines, warranty booklets, and random bits of paper with information that some time ago seemed relevant. They were happily nestled away in a far-reach part of the library but, as happens regularly, I am running out of space. I need somewhere to put all the games and puzzles that the family accumulated.

I used to read much more magazines and loved Sunday newspapers. I stopped buying them as time became more precious and reading time was even worse to carve out in my day. With papers, I also didn’t want to fund a certain rich bloke, no matter how good journalists he employed. Magazines totally lost their magic. Fashion magazines for women were outgrown just like their teenage predecessors had been lost before. Suddenly, I wouldn’t care about the latest celebrity musings, didn’t know who they were, and it was boring me. Newest beauty trend? Who cares?

Sorting out the incredible chunk of history was like evolution happening in front of my eyes. I kept some of the very first cuttings because they reminded me of the young girl who had started living independently and had had lot of dreams and ideas. I must say, I was into art and independent movies, and I silently approved of the young self.

Then I went through the image stage. Being involved in modelling and fashion, fashion photos were study, inspiration and admiration. How are the best photos made? How to be in them?

Then, there was the travelling phase, with endless materials about places I had been to and wanted to return to and many new places I had hoped to visit sometimes. They still hold their magic, but with disasters, changes, pandemics and uncertainty, even if I get the time and money, I will have to research again. Besides, being older means I know much better where I want to go.

Speaking of being old, I found a surprisingly high number of articles about the real point of most magazines for women – how to make myself better. In early adulthood, it was mostly self-improvement and (sort of) psychology. Later on, especially with the years of on-and-off pregnancies, losses, early motherhood and uncertainty, I was finding all the supposedly right ways to eat, exercise regimes, treatments and products that were supposed to make me better. I didn’t realize how much stuff I had put aside for a better time when I would be ready. They were very easy to get rid of.

Who knew that all that is needed is to work with your body as it is, eat right and move in a way that feels good. Good sleep, proper home-cooked food, and peace of mind make most of these articles truly irrelevant. Luckily, I have found my own ways to live and nourish myself and others. It took a bit of time but I got there.

I found my flirtation with yoga and alternative lifestyle magazines, but they never got a strong hold. I was into yoga before it became mainstream and realized quickly that I have the tools I need and ways to find the right teachers. I don’t need trends.

I have found some clippings of writing that were good and inspirational. It is funny how the interests follow the journey of life – from images to words, from travel to home comforts. I don’t need most of them. I do appreciate how much work goes into the media. However, most of it is meant to sell us stuff or ideas. Keeping my distance helps me focus on what interests me. I cleared the space, filled the recycling bin, and kept what I really liked or wanted to keep for now. I cleared some space without having it written down as a resolution. There was simply a need that was fulfilled at the right time when I was ready. Boxes of games are moved to the freed-up space. The empty lower shelf could be given to my daughter's expanding LOL collection. Looks like we all have to pass the consumer stage in life.

I will have to go in detail through articles of book reviews and film listings, they are part of ‘to be read’ and ‘to be watched’ lists that are only virtual, unlike the real lines of books and TV series, including some good documentaries. I am once again realizing that books and movies stay, they are not disposable and they mean as much as ever.

End of The Year

 

As the year is coming to its close, I can’t help but feel a bit annoyed. 2023 was a year of splendidly miserable weather. A few hot days, a few bright days, a few frosty days. Rain, mud and wind everywhere in between throughout the seasons. The last week is no different.

I worked a bit between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, which was good because I had to go out and I was actually quite lucky in being out in between the bursts of really bad winds and storms. But still, it is a bit sad. We didn’t do our traditional Christmas family walk and I am not sure that we will have a stroll on the beach to start the new year. We’ve done so for the last two years and it was always lovely.

Our planet is struggling, we can all see it, and yet so little is done about it. Excuses about the economy are made, people don’t want to change their ways, and the top one percent seeks a way to exploit the crisis. Let’s shop our way out of climate change!

On a more personal note, this year was a busy year and brought with it a new dynamic and discipline. I figured that once I get going, I can get a lot done. Discipline comes naturally, I don’t like unfinished work. Seeing my little business growing was great, and being appreciated was very rewarding. I like the fact that I can do what I like while I am also being useful and helpful. I met some very nice people and their pets and realized that coming out of my shell a little is fine.

Of course, I still didn’t manage to translate my newly found skills into my writing career. But I did finish my fourth book, honed up my proofreading and editing routine, learnt a bit more about the process of bringing a story to life and set up the stage for a bit more shine. I will write more but I think that I need to take a break and focus on marketing and networking. Writing is my craft, my thing, but I also tend to hide behind it. This year showed me once again that there is only so much time I have and I can only accomplish so many things in a day. I can’t dedicate all day to writing. I have to manage the time that I can give it and sometimes, other aspects of my craft will have to take priority. It is nice to see other writers online, floating from a writing group to book signing, then doing a bit of reading and reviewing before spending half of the night working on a new story. Good.

I won’t forgo rest. I won’t keep myself awake for the sake of a daily word count goal. Making a note in my diary or sending a message is writing too, at the end of the day. I will stay realistic.

Besides, what I don’t do around the house won’t be done. I can’t abandon my family duty. Husband can help sometimes, but often explaining what to do, how and why takes more time and effort than doing stuff myself.

This year was again slightly frustrating because my right shoulder was frozen and I had to slowly work on rehabilitation. It wasn’t easy to accept that after sorting the left shoulder, the condition simply moved, for no apparent reason, onto the other side. I didn’t bother with seeking help, dusted off the old set of exercises and got on with it. Being limited is difficult. Sometimes, I think about ageing, about feeling different, about the body becoming heavy and bothersome. Scary thought. Good practice and active living help me to keep on top of my health, I don’t want to depend on our crumbling health service or other people, it truly terifies me. So I do what I can.

The best part of the year? Travelling again, being in Prague, seeing my family, spending time with my daughter, seeing how she is slowly coming into a new, more independent, stage of life. Sometimes I look at her and wish she could stay my little buddy forever, always safe with me. But I know that I will have to let her go, be herself and find and learn things on her own. I will always be there for her, of course, I will, but these years of childhood are so special, it is sad that they will become a memory. I hope that I can still plan some little trips and things to do together and that she will still be excited about them.

Ten years ago, we were celebrating the first Christmas with her. We were trying to figure out how she manages to get from lying down to sitting and kept missing the moment. She was lying down, we turned our heads, looked again, and there she was, sitting. What a year that was, bringing her into the world. And now she is all grown up.

We live in peace, we are safe, and we have a home. We have a lot. It can be tough and difficult and frustrating and sad, but overall, life is one great adventure. One circle of it is closing, moving on the next one, with a new number, but the same people, challenges and little pleasures. All the best to us all.

The Anniversary

 

Our fourteenth wedding anniversary passed without any notice. It started with celebratory feelings in the first years, moved on to a bit of less enthusiastic, then ironic occasion, and now it is more or less a normal day. Looking back at the photos of the day, we look like two people in love. That day was unassuming – just us and two witnesses in the town hall. We had a high tea afterwards.

Knowing what I know now, that was perfect for me. When my now husband proposed to me we almost immediately agreed that we wanted to be outside to get married and that the best place would be where we had met – South Africa, and on the beach (husband loves sea sand sun and is often convinced that so do I even though I am a mountain spirit and take a hill over a beach any time) where we first kissed. It was one of the kisses when the earth moves under your feet, the one that convinces you that something special is happening.

It was soon clear that a beach wedding was a great but impractical idea. Formalities of a wedding between citizens of two different nations and non-residents had made it clear that obtaining the legal document would be much simpler where we lived. No problem, we will have a beach ceremony, it will make no difference.

Then it became clear that my friends and relatives wouldn’t be able or willing to travel so far. Considering that I was already living far from them all, it was fine. Husband had enough family and friends to provide enough good company. Now I see that I had already set myself as a stranger in the group, coming alone, staying alone. For us as a couple it was practical – we could be in Africa all of December (using craftily the fact that the end of year grants most employees a longer time off plus annual leave plus the benevolence that the word wedding stirs even in hardened and life-beaten managers and human resources staff) and combine it with holiday and honeymoon. Husband was living in the UK for three years and was happy to have time with his friends and family and the sort of December he was used to – a summer one.

That beach day’s anniversary is in December, but through the years I have come to see the November quiet wedding as the one to celebrate. It was truly a day for us. We were together, made a legally binding commitment to one another, and had a beautiful day in the company of good friends in the city where we were living together. It seemed like the love would only get stronger, the world belonged to us and we would be together forever. It was special and in its low-key unpretentious way it didn’t show it but it let us feel it.

I wore what I wanted. I took out a long, beautiful, full skirt of black and grey fabric, combined an outfit, and wore blue (for something blue) net stockings underneath, I dressed and made up for myself. Picking up the traditional white outfit for the beach was much more complicated, I was thinking about where we would be, what would people say and how the photos would work out… But on that November day, we were simply having a good time. And that is why it was special.

I felt a real connection to my partner and to the people who witnessed the ceremony. On the beach, after I had spent the night alone as tradition required and husband had had a heavy night of getting back together and celebrating with old friends he didn’t belong to me, I could sense the difference. He was uncooperative during the time with the photographer, I could see that he would much rather sit with his mates and chat away. I loved the photo shoot, it reminded me of the blurry days of modelling and how often are you in a beautiful place, wearing a lovely dress, having your hair done and being perfectly put together? Oh well.

The rest of the day was a blur. It was long and exhausting and after came the deflation. The honeymoon was fine but we were now past peak romance, past the newness and the teamwork of last weeks. That culminated on the afternoon before the wedding, when we picked up the cake, had a last word with the decorator, and had our paper license for our beach ceremony picked up from the office, everybody was there or arriving and we were about to part – me back to our friends’ house, him to the hotel. We had a drink and talked and were at peace because our organizing was done and we were ready.

Looking back, it was a day for husband, I was just playing the role I was supposed to play. I enjoyed what I could but didn’t love it.

A couple of years ago, when our daughter was looking through the old photos of the beach ceremony, husband said that it was the best day of my life and I got really angry with him. How can he be so ignorant? I had never said that. If he were to truly look at the photos, I didn’t look as happy as on other occasions – the November city hall wedding perhaps, or our first holiday together (now THAT had honeymoon vibes) or when our daughter was born. He could see happiness on a special level there. He just lazily used a stupid cliché we all know and hear, a cliché that is used to make girls believe that wedding paves the way to everlasting happiness, fulfils them and makes their life meaningful. I will never ever bestow such nonsense on my daughter. Quite the opposite. If you were to ask me about happiness then what comes to mind are times when I was single, often alone, and doing what I wanted the way I wanted. And in connection to other people, time with my child trumps any romance that passed and is long gone…

As with every relationship, our evolved. When we were taking the vows in the city hall, we didn’t think that it would become so distant and deflated. Like any other fool in love, we thought we would show the world how it ought to be done. Instead, we found and faced our differences, faced challenges and changed. Things happened, good and bad. It is okay not to be dizzy with happiness. As long as you know that the other one is there for you, I think it is enough.

Sometimes I think about the very beginning of living together, the intensity of it and I am glad it is over because it was exhausting. Once we were more settled, I could find myself in the new role and be myself again. I put a bit of distance between us, but so did he.

I would rather have a quiet relationship knowing that I have my base and can focus on everybody being well so that I can do what I want or need to do than live like one of the utopian couples who always agree with one another, never argue and love to do everything together. Yeah, right.

As a loner, I carved out an existence where I can cultivate my existence and my husband can keep having his bonds with mates. He might have thought that I would be by his side at all times, unquestioningly joining in everything, but he had learnt that he has his space and I have mine and that is how it worked out. Good, bad, I don’t know. But pretending that endless romance is there would be much worse.

The one thing that I now know and that I had no clue about back then, before all the anniversaries, is that as a woman, I am expected to become the second half, the supporting part, the keeper of home peace. I am to like what he likes, be happy when he is happy, and want what he wants. When a man says We, he means I and the rest… It is sad. Only after marriage did it dawn on me that we are silently being pushed to be accepting, accommodating, loyal, polite, quiet, and, most of all (and my personal knicker-twister-upper) grateful. Husband automatically assumes that he is right. If something goes wrong it goes wrong. If it involves me, well, I must have made a mistake. The way misogyny powers the world can be very subtle. Even blokes who consider themselves open-minded and good have certain assumptions about life that they would never consider wrong. After years of marriage, I know I won’t change everything, but I am very careful about the little messages I put into my daughter’s mind as a part of her upbringing.

Open The Door

 

My fourth book is called Open The Door and it is a little different. It was a book that came as a new idea, not something that was already drafted or put in notes before. It was a fully freestyle creation from NaNoWriMo 2019. I did exactly what I was supposed to do according to NaNoWriMo rules: I showed up every day and wrote a certain amount of words.

In one way, it was a bit uncertain – will I have enough ideas, will the story fit into the word count and time frame, will I not run out of steam halfway? In the other way, it was liberating. No notes to go through, no limits. I allowed the characters to develop and do their own thing. I am still amazed by how well it worked.

I believe that the template was already in me, it wasn’t sweated over late in the evenings, staring at an empty page.

I knew I wanted to write a different story than before. But I still used references from my own life, mainly to modelling, ageing and (my old-time favourite) Japan. My first three books were about young people, about their uncertain lives, choices, and love lives. I wanted to move on to someone grown-up. I was experiencing motherhood and noticed that I was becoming invisible and that I was changing. I was thinking about the next stages of my life – what will happen after the big chunk of intensive mothering is done? When the little people become bigger and more independent? I will still be needed but in another way.

Another thing on my mind was the relationship between women. I was tired of the age-old formula of love between a woman and a man. The reality of married life might have had something to do with it, I’m not gonna lie. What if my heroine started to question her sexuality? I believe that it happens to many older people. Being brought up in the traditional notion of a nuclear family, seeing how society functions, reading books and seeing movies and TV dramas that always occupy themselves with the relationship between men and women, many of us follow the clues and question things later or never. I wanted my heroine to fall in love. But I wanted a different love. So I gave it to her.

In some ways, Open The Door may seem too easy. Nice, comfortably living people deal with very mild problems. There is no struggle, no drama. On the other hand, there are the subtle questions of life that come when we have the luxury to think about them. What do I want? Where do I belong? What will I do with the rest of my life?

And there are troubles and losses, too. Rachel’s life is far from easy when we meet her. Is it too ideal? I don’t know. This is how the story came to me, I am just a narrator. I wanted a nice story about nice people, who have a good life, home, and security, who can do a bit of soul searching. I probably needed it, because all of my past stories were about finding one’s roots, purpose, home, relationships, and building a career. I wanted to look at the next steps. In 2017 NaNoWriMo (I participated every other year and focused on editing etc. in the year after) my story dealt with very serious issues. It is still waiting for its next stages and it wasn’t easy to write, although, just like Open The Door, it asked to happen the way it did. So yes, this book is about the next chapter in life, it brings us more mature characters who are a long way from knowing everything. Because we are never quite done, are we?

Open The Door has Rachel, a thirty-six-year-old model, as a main character. She is a single mother and we find her worrying about her career prospects. She is well past the average model’s age. She has done well until now, but the clues about her ‘not getting any younger’ are slowly coming. What can she do next?

One of the problems with success is that you may have only one skill and some jobs don’t offer much progress. You are either in or you are out.

Rachel is well aware that many girls from the industry ended up married, the best of them were trophy wives, admired as much as they were in their modelling years. Finding a well-to-do man might be the best option. As luck would have it, Rachel is currently dating a man who would fit the bill perfectly. Only that he doesn’t mean much to her. Nor did any of her past relationships.

Rachel is slowly spiralling into a period of worry and change. She still manages to keep a brave face in front of her sixteen-year-old son, but how long can she keep going? Watching her son’s first love and comparing it to her relationships, she sees a void and doesn’t know how to find the right direction.

Instead of transforming herself into a professional housewife, Rachel manages to revive her career. Just like finding out that she has exceptional hands shortly after becoming a mum and saving her modelling career years ago, she discovers the blossoming market of older models. And it isn’t all. Love comes to her, too. In a very different form than she had expected. Donna, the mother of her son’s girlfriend, becomes her favourite person and it takes a while to understand that what Rachel feels is what she is missing. There may be a reason for her low interest in dating men. There was a lot to discover for Rachel and it was such fun being on the journey with her.