We are born with the belief that all living things share our minds. It takes approximately two years for us to learn a 'sense of self' and that, we are, in fact, alone. For all we surround ourselves with real and virtual companions, we are solitary creatures. For what proportion of our thoughts are visible in our words and actions? What proportion of our words and actions are free from restraint? Scared to offend, scared to be disliked, scared not to be the person we would have others believe us to be, scared to share the secrets that fill our minds in the dark... scared to tell the truth: no matter our personality, intelligence, values, beliefs, upbringing, wealth, education, or any measure you care to think of, our minds are icebergs, open only to ourselves, should we dare to look. My husband and I have known each other for nearly forty years. We know what the other will choose from a menu, we finish each other's sentences, we can predict with astonishing precision what the other will say and do when faced with a million scenarios, but we cannot, and never will, be anything other than fellow passengers through life. Yes, we are journeying together, but we cannot know what lies deep below the water. None of us can.
1 Comment
The words sounded in his head as if the Lord Almighty had put them there. Her smile was fleeting, but oh so beautiful: a world of promise in a rose-tinted bow. She sat demurely, sensibly-clad, dainty feet together, blonde head dipped, forget-me-not eyes fixed on a well-thumbed paperback, the fresh scent of orange floating in the air around her. Perfect in every way. The next morning... She peeped around the door, an exquisite bundle of sleepy eyes and mussed hair wrapped up in snuggly pyjamas. His stomach wheeled nervously until he saw her smile at the lilac-ribboned, all white, bridal bouquet at her feet. The cute wrinkle of her brow as she read his note and how she came out onto the front step to search for him told him she felt the same way. This time, he knew the courtship would end in exultation. Four months later... Her fatigue-dimmed eyes darted endlessly around the carriage, her teeth nibbling on the plump richness of her mouth, the well-worn novel lying long-forgotten in the bag she clutched to her chest. He longed to comfort her: to smooth the lines on her brow; to still her fidgeting fingers against his chest; to kiss her bruised lips and protect her from whatever ill worried her so terribly. He gave her a reassuring smile as her eyes found his. She ducked her head, blushing, her eyes welling in gratitude. As he slipped away, he knew the love letter waiting on her desk would help ease her troubled soul. All else would fade when she read again that he would always be there for her, that their love was ordained by God. In the end... Their love-making was everything he'd dreamed of. Her translucent skin shone in the moonlight as she arched her back and screamed in pleasure. Her wrists struggled against his hands in her desire to embrace him. Tears of joy ran like liquid silver down flushed cheeks framed by a golden halo. She tossed her head, playfully pretending to avoid his lips, her face cradled by their bed of autumn leaves. A dash of red ink made his hips slow, spoiling his climax. A tiny tattoo was nuzzled behind her ear: a desecration, an unforgiveable sin. His mind reeled in horror. Satan had sought to fool him with this creature, to lure him from righteousness. He struck hard to silence the siren. Once, twice, thrice. The blade ran true, evil essence pouring from the wounds in its chest and belly. He put out its eyes and slashed off its false blonde locks and pink lips then covered it with the goodness of earth so no other devout man would find it and be tempted. He knelt and prayed, begging God's forgiveness for falling into Satan's trap. He wept as he heard the angels of Heaven sing the Lord's Prayer. All was well. He could begin his search again. Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay
The sat nav took him straight there, but the blue lighting up the sky would have been guide enough. He waved his badge in any face that dared to prevent progress until he found himself in a quiet oasis of white marble and tension. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the stairs, ignoring the milling SOCOs and the shocked uniforms trying to console a weeping, middle-aged woman who still clutched her Mr Sheen. One could always tell the importance of the victim from the seniority of the main man at the scene. This was as good as it got. “Where have you been?” snarled the Chief, wiping the sweat from his brow with an already-sodden handkerchief. No doubt the Mayor, the PM and every ‘the’ in-between had already been on the phone. “Got here as fast as I could,” he answered, his voice calm despite his anger at the dog and pony show. The three other sudden deaths he’d been assigned since he’d come on duty had done without such esteemed courtesy calls, but then they hadn’t plastered their face all over social media. She’d had one billion subscribers, so it was rumoured. The number meant nothing to him. He could count his friends on his fingers. It was good enough. Better than most. They’d left the scene as they’d found it. The empty bottles of expensive vodka and prescription drugs made the cause pretty bloody obvious. The quantity of vomit, though, that was unusual. She’d tried, failed, then tried again? His eyes scanned the huge, white room, looking for the second trigger. A rose gold iPhone lay propped against the far wall's skirting, its clear protector smashed into a smattering of plastic confetti on the thick carpet. He held the phone over her staring eyes and the screen lit up. The call log was all he needed to see: sixty-six outgoing calls to forty-one numbers made between three and four in the morning, the longest lasting ninety-three seconds, the shortest just three. He popped the phone into an evidence bag and dropped it on the bed. The Chief blocked his path as he tried to leave. “Well?” the man snapped, reserving his charm for the forthcoming press conference. “Suicide.” "Shit... You sure? Not an accident?" He shook his head, saddened by the desperate emptiness hidden by a life so publicly full. He turned to look at the still-silent phone. “No one picked up," he explained. "And no one called back.” Image by Arek Socha from Pixabay
My heart soared, but then a cynical voice made itself heard. Sure enough, after all the flattering paragraphs came the words I hoped not to see, but suspected I would: 'contributory contract'. Reputable publishers do not ask their authors for money. That's worth repeating for the benefit of any budding authors reading this: reputable publishers do not ask their authors for money. Is it pathetic of me to be disappointed anyway?
I don't think there's a better sharing story than O. Henry's The Gift of the Magi so I'm not about to reinvent the wheel. Instead I'd like to remind everyone that a 'share' on facebook can sometimes be the kindest, most thoughtful and least expensive gift a person can give a struggling author at this time of year. Image by Terri Cnudde from Pixabay
I've just been wrapping Christmas presents to send to family in Scotland. I think it might have taken longer to pick a courier than it did to shop for the ruddy things! There was a day when I'd have efficiently considered the options, made a decision and stuck to it, putting it behind me without a second thought. Now, I'm a mess of second-thoughts, sure I'm going to get it wrong, sure that I'll save myself another 2p if I just look at another dozen websites. What's worse is the certainty that my parcel will now go missing because I didn't take out the insurance which would have taken the total cost from £6.53 to £18.53. I will be worrying endlessly over my parcel's journey until I get the (free) email that tells me it's arrived safely. At least I hope I'll get an email... Maybe they'll get back at me for not taking out the five different extra cost options by deliberately chucking my parcel in the warehouse corner with the huge, illuminated sign over it saying 'NO INSURANCE: HELP YOURSELF'? (I checked the print-it-yourself label: there doesn't seem to be a code on it for 'cheapskate sender', but...)
I'm not as bad as J, I tell myself, who spent four years picking a television because the manufacturers were sure to bring out a new model just as he bought one. Or R, who has always taken forever to select her choice from a menu, convinced that the other one she fancies is bound to be better. (Perhaps restaurants should start selling insurance: 'Make sure you get the meal of your dreams! For a small (i.e. exorbitant) fee, if you don't like your first option, we'll give you your (pre-selected) second option for nothing!'?) And I'm definitely not as bad as C, who would have paid for the most expensive courier, with insurance, with a text, with a signature, with tracking, with a framed photo of a smiling delivery driver personally handing said parcel to my mum. (C's seen all those youtube videos of crystal vases being chucked over fences. It happens all the time!) I'm considering starting a rumour that kindles will self-destruct if the owner doesn't leave a book review. Or that one in every million book reviews wins a lifetime's free shopping on amazon? Or that amazon gift vouchers are only valid if at least £3 is spent on a book by Karen MacRae or K L MacRae? Or maybe that heaven is getting full and only review writers will now be admitted? At least one of these must be true. After all, you read it on the internet. Woe is me! I've been battling with the latest chapter of the third Shaper book for days now. It's about Nystrieth, the main baddie, the Black Shaper who can kill with a glance, feels zero remorse and has evil plans for the world. We got a hint of his traumatic early years in A Shaper's Birthright, but it's the third book that will fill in the rest. It's all in my head, of course - I know him nearly as well as I know myself - but I'm finding it almost impossible to get it on paper (okay, screen). How does one condense the critical turning points of a life into a couple of chapters, especially when it's all retrospective and has to be easy-to-read, well-flowing prose? Now add in the challenge of making it sound appropriate for the age the character is at the time the event happened because we're reliving it through his eyes, but keeping it interesting to the adult reader. Way to make things difficult for yourself, Karen! Which brings me to the title of this post. I've just heard a friend of a friend's dog gave birth to thirteen puppies last night. My problems pale into insignificance. Time for a break and grateful thanks that I am not she (the dog or the owner).
How many times, I wonder, have I wanted to be able to say those words and actually mean them? I think I've always been too ready to believe the best in people, too trusting, too desperate to be liked. I was once told by a boss at the horribly sexist American company I worked for in the 1980's that the ideal female employee had a soft exterior, but a hard interior. Me? Apparently I had it round the wrong way. Soft as putty on the inside, all hard as nails on the outside: a direct result of trying not to let people know just how much I cared. It's a hard habit to break.
Sometimes I find myself wanting to scream at people about how their behaviour upsets me, how their thoughtlessness and inconsideration make my moods tailspin into my boots, about just how much their lack of support hurts me and that I would never treat them in that way so why do they think it's okay to treat me like that? What do I actually do? I smile and say, "It's fine, don't worry" or "It's okay, I understand" or "It's no big deal, I do it too." Do you know what? It's not and I don't. There's a reason the women in my books don't take any shit from anyone. Hell, if you can't do it in real life, how else to get it off your chest? Which reminds me... I have an idea for a new book. I wonder how many of you will recognise yourself? *Exit one soft-boiled egg with an evil cackle. As a first time mum, most pregnant woman can't think further than the joyful (i.e. terrifying, debasing and, OMG, painful) arrival of their bundle of delight and wonder. I suppose I should have recognised the feelings as I was writing Kat, but, let's face it, it's been a while. Ironically, it was knitting I was first reminded of when, in the weeks after I proudly declared the manuscript finished, I had to reformat everything, work out how the hell to get images to stay in place on the kindle conversion software, learn how to use photoshop, come up with a blurb, synopses and descriptions, set up an amazon author page and work out keywords, pricing and a whole load of other stuff. Anyone who has ever knitted will recognise the sinking sensation of looking at all the different bits of the gift you've just lovingly crafted and realising you've got to sew the bloody thing together before you can give it away and forget about it. If only babies, and books, were that simple. Granted, I could give Kat away and forget about it, but, instead, I find myself learning even more new software, trying to get to grips with the world of digital marketing, writing advertising copy and analysing sales data. You see, it's not okay not to be there for your baby. All mums know that.
Thanks to an ever-expanding waistline, an increasingly appalling level of fitness and blinkered neglect of anything other than my computer, I decided I'd better have a break when I finished A Shaper's Birthright. It didn't stop me thinking about the follow up or the next book about Kat, but I was managing to stay away from the keyboard and was getting back into the gym - hurrah! Reassured that I appear to have a modicum of self-control, I decided to test the waters... I wasn't brave enough to plough on with a book, but my daughter gave me 'The Writers Toolbox' by Jamie Cat Callan as a gift last Christmas so I had a wee rummage and out popped a card saying 'mouldy oranges.' The topic decided, I gave myself one shot at writing something each morning, three mornings in a row. The following is what I came up with. I'd be fascinated to know what you think, so feel free to tell me here or on my Facebook page @strugglingauthor.
Mouldy Oranges I Her eyes are locked on the horror in the fruit bowl. Orange: the colour of sunshine, the colour of hope, smothered in blue. The pressure intensifies in her chest. A scream fighting to break free is building. It’s been building for years, on and off, making her catch her breath with its anguish, making her run towards another distraction to feed her denial. They’re gone now: the things she used to do. There’s nothing left for a gray-haired woman with legs that don’t work and a body that betrays her every command. She closes her eyes to dream of what used to be: memories of travel and study, of laughing and loving, of movement and beauty, of ambition and hope. The scream recoils momentarily from the fire of life, but, without anyone to share them with, her thoughts remind her merely of all that is lost. The reality of pain and loneliness defeats her. All that remains is the blue. Mouldy Oranges II It had been a good vacation by anyone’s standards. They’d gone back to France, where they’d first met. He’d been relaxed, charming, generous. It had reminded her of why she’d said yes. She’d seen him run his fingers over the hall table after chucking his keys in the dish, deliberately leaving an almost undetectable signature in the thin layer of dust. She’d made his tea as he’d walked the house, checking it was all as it should be. Her eyes had been almost closed when he’d returned. It had been a long journey. It was late. Her head ached. He’d pulled her to his bed anyway, the tea forgotten, her body's needs inconsequential. She’d spent the day plumping cushions that didn’t need plumped, polishing every inch of wood and glass, cleaning, cooking, getting everything back to just how he liked it. The house smelled of beeswax, warm bread and a rich, wine sauce when he got home. She’d been rewarded with a kiss. She’d checked again that the table was perfect and the coq au vin just right. She’d just started slicing the baguette when he'd surprised her by walking into the kitchen. He’d put his crystal glass on a coaster oh so carefully then come towards her. She’d seen that face a thousand times. She’d backed up from the scent of whisky and the look in his eyes. Stupid really, but human reflex after all. She'd tried to think what she’d forgotten, tried to think of a way to calm his fury, but her mind had frozen... The police officer stared at the ocean of blood slowly congealing around the body on the kitchen floor as he sealed the bread knife in the evidence bag. “Why?” he asked again. He saw the answer suddenly click into place on the blood-smeared face. “The oranges… I forgot to throw out the oranges.” Mouldy Oranges III The old truck rattled over the uneven surface, sending up a cloud of dust seen only by the creatures of the forest. Music covered the creaks and groans. The driver sang along, pleased to be getting away from the city. He nearly missed the bright plastic; he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision just as he was going past and braked hard. Goddamn litter louts. If he could catch them, he’d string them up. It turned out to be a packet of crisps, a quarter full, as if someone had thrown it away in disappointment at the flavour or maybe kept some for later and lost the packet. Hikers, he supposed, shaking his head. He picked it up and chucked it in the back seat. He’d get rid of it responsibly when he got home. It must have been half a mile before he spotted the splash of silver foil reflecting the sunlight. He felt anger flush his cheeks. Disgusting, thoughtless tourists. No local would do such a thing, not that there were many. He picked up the ball. A sandwich wrapper? Curious, he opened the tiny parcel and sniffed. Marmite. The sort of sandwich a kid might like. It went in the back. The next mile brought him a small, squished up carton of juice. Fresh apple. He could do with some; his mouth had gotten dry. He reached into the cab for his water, the juice carton crushed in his fist. He sucked on the sports cap, his mind working hard, wondering what other crumbs he might find. He chose first gear and crawled along, looking for the rest of clever Hansel’s clues. There weren’t many: a shoelace, a school tie, a chocolate bar wrapper. He grew more anxious, thinking about what he might find at the end of the trail, but there was nothing. No one was hiding in the trees and the cabin was quiet, empty of all life. He opened the truck's rusty trunk, his nostrils flaring in anticipation at the lingering smell of sweet chloroform. He smiled as he lifted the pliant weight in his arms; he'd used more this time so it would be still for hours yet. It went on the sofa while he cleared its new home of the last toy, the clever one. He should have got rid of it last time, but he’d enjoyed himself so much, he’d decided to keep it for a while. It was a shame he'd not been able to get back until today: the smell was unpleasant. He threw open the windows then carried the broken toy to the cliff edge and chucked it over to join the others. Its backpack went second, careering off the side of the mountain, landing with a thud next to its owner. The Superman lunchbox was the last thing. Something moved inside as he picked it up... a mouldy orange, too big to fit through the hole in the trunk. Which reminded him: he best get that filled. |