Geek Girl Eats Cake

A typical day in the life of a Writer

Have you ever wondered what a writer’s day is really like? Well, wonder no more! Obviously, everyone has their own process, but this a typical day for me.

– Wake up early and sleepily make scrawny written notes if I have just had an interesting dream. I have no idea why I do this. I have not used one yet. But at the time, a squirrel who somehow walks on clouds but falls through into ancient Egypt and helps to build the pyramids seems like a stellar plot.

– Make myself the biggest cup of coffee humanly possible.

– Work out. This is essential as a writer’s diet mostly consists of 80% coffee and 20% easy convenient food. Usually Haribo, doughnuts, and rice cakes.

-Shower (even though you work from home, you don’t need the distraction of body odour), then dress as if going into the office. Most writers miss this step, which is how we have a reputation of all looking like hippies or that bird woman from Mary Poppins.

-Armed with more coffee, check emails and social media. Then remind self that we aren’t in this for the money (thank God!).

– Read the last chapter of the book from yesterday. Then wonder how any books are sold at all, but sod it – it can all be sorted with editing (worry about that later!)

– Stare at the blank page while it looks at me with expectation.

– Type, delete, and stare some more. Decide to be productive and make more coffee.

– Look at the character book and contingency board for ideas and various notes you made to prove there is a plot.

– Write.

– Google questions to add detail and pretend you know what you’re going on about. A writer’s search history can vary from how to kill someone with a stick of bamboo to why is wombat poo cube shaped? How more of us aren’t arrested or committed into the insane asylum I don’t know!

– Lunch. This can be at any time from 11am to 10pm.

-Go back to your work. Realise you wrote the word ‘said’ 15 times in 200 words and look up other ways to write it on WordHippo.com.

– Look up dirty words on WordHippo.com like ‘fanny fart’.

– Write but soon get stuck.

– Stare at the page.

– Move around the room trying to figure out how to get your character from point A to point B.

-After 30 minutes, accept you have writers block and go for a walk.

-During walk, find the solution, but as no pen and handy notebook, you repeat your epiphany during said walk in your head and outloud over and over, praying you don’t see anyone. Or scare it away with thoughts like “What if every time you burped, you fainted?”

-Disaster! You see your neighbour who says hi, but you just smile through gritted teeth and march on through your front door.

– You type like a mad person as soon as you get home, then realise you also have to show your characters aren’t robots and need feelings (you forget what these are completely) so consult the emotion Thesaurus (obviously this inanimate object is better equipped to be human).

– Get stuck again.

– Despair.

-After 43 minutes you lose the will to live and call it a day. You are an imposter. Be a writer tomorrow. Vow to write more. Then look at your word Count and despair again.

– Working day done ✔️

Spray it, don’t Streak it!

I am a big believer in trying everything once, so when I had the chance to experience a spray tan for the first time, I went for it. Spray tans do make me think of tangerines and Essex, but the summer had been rubbish, and I had a few celebrations coming up, so I thought, why not? Take the gamble, and if I turn into an orange, so be it. It’s a funny story to tell at Christmas.

I also support independent businesses, so I made my appointment with Emma at Be You Tiful in St Stephen.

Wasn’t the best start, couldn’t find the place, but after asking at the shop it was easy to find. I came in, and she knew I was a spray virgin, and the first thing I was told to do was remove my makeup 😬. Anyone who knows me understands I don’t do au natural. I wear make up everyday, hate being exposed like they will scream and run away in fright. Nethertheless I did it.

Then I saw the disposable pants. A black mesh face mask. I knew I couldn’t pull that off, and apparently, I would get white bits. No white bits is a big draw with a spray tan, so instead, I thought bugger it, go full hog. If I can survive without makeup for an hour in presence of another, go for it. Nude, it is. 🍑

I was given a hair covering (sexy) and sticky bits of cardboard that stuck to your feet. Basically, after getting undressed, I was wearing nothing but a hairnet and a pair of cardboard flippers.

Emma put balm on my hands so ya know I wouldn’t look weird 🥸 (too late – i was already waddling around like an amateur porn star for pingu lovers). And I stepped butt naked into the overgrown playtent.

I had to pull a muscle pose first with my back to the patient and very lovely Emma, and I stuck my bum out (no idea why), as we began. The sensation was quite pleasant, just like someone gently blowing on you. It was pretty nice. Next, I had to stand on my side, pose with one leg forward, as if I was about to throw a discus, and then the same on the other side.

Front. Naturally stood straight and breathed in. Fully exposed to the spray gun. She repeated the whole process again. Then I was told to waddle in my cardboard flippers to the fan to let it dry. I moved around and glanced in the mirror next to the fan – I suddenly looked like I had been on holiday with a fierce sun for a week.

But then…

I lifted my breasts and alerted Emma, having a hefty bossom is not spray tan friendly. So I held them up and she sprayed it but where I lifted up my jubblies there were now whitey bits where my hands had been on the front 😵‍💫. So we had to apply balm again, and respray. We wanted a second coat, so I lifted my breasts with paper this time, and we sprayed again. Then there were white bits where I held the paper 🤦‍♀️ spray again.

I went back to the fan, and after a couple of minutes, I touched it to see if it was dry. Of course, I got my hands brown, didn’t I 🙄. Emma cleaned me, and then I touched the wall on the way back 🙈. The white wall! Poor patient, Emma! It must have been like having a child in the salon.

She then mentioned the creases where your buttcheeks rest. Now, this is a natural thing, comes with everyone no matter how good your ass is.

I walked back into the booth and had to bend over (natural position 😉) as she did them. I then went back and let the fan have a very big close-up of my bottom as I bent over in front of it.

Finally I was dry, and able to get dressed (although strangely already very comfortable in my hairnet and cardboard flippers), I wasn’t allowed to wear my bra so had to use another black mesh face mask shaped cover. Emma said I could go without wearing anything, but no one wants to see two breasts jiggling like ferrets. And I had to pop into Boots after. Goodness knows what prescription I would have ended up with! So I wore the mesh face looking thing, which actually when worn was more like a backless croptop and gave the girls a little support.

I received aftercare instructions, keep it on for a good four hours, or until you go to bed, rinse it off, then shower, followed by baby oil all over my body in the morning.

I did as I was told and I was very pleased. I am not a tangerine, and yes, I have to oil up like a stripper but needs be. I did enjoy the experience and would do it again. Although I would definitely have to use Emma – no point adding to the list of strangers I don the porn penguin look for. The fierce holiday look lasts for two weeks, a fortnight of beautiful tanned skin. Golden!

The Greatest Man who ever lived.

When I ask you to name the Greatest man who ever lived, I expect you to say someone like Shakespeare, Diego Maradona, Pele, Salvadore Dali, or even Alexander (a bit obvious though, clues in the name.).
I don’t want to sound all philosophical or Plato on you by asking, ‘What is Greatness? Let’s discuss.’ But I do believe when we describe greatness, our answer should be a lot more subjective.

There is no doubt these men had talent and were recognised quite rightly for their achievements both in their time and beyond, but quite often greatness is confused with eminence, which is fame or acknowledgement in a particular field.

The greatest man for me wasn’t a sporting hero, a musical legend, a celebrated playwright, or an exceptional artist, nor did he make a big scientific discovery. He wasn’t even famous, but no one has ever influenced me more.
My Grampie was a simple man, born into humble beginnings and kept that simplicity. He grew his own vegetables, had faith but explored religion, had one great love he treasured, and he was hilarious. He drove these old bangers like a lunatic, speeding through the streets and even once crashed into the back of a police car!

Unsuprisingly, he never had a driving lesson or took a test. They just gave him a licence because he could drive a tractor, as strange as that sounds.

Gramps wasn’t overly tall, terrible with technology (unfortunately, that got passed down), and never drank (that definitely didn’t!), but he had a fantastic smile that radiated, and these incredible blue eyes. The ladies liked him. Whenever Gramps stopped by the fountain to eat a pasty, different women would come up to chat and offer to take him home with them. Something that continued well into his eighties.

Grampie was my biggest fan – even at birth, he shone a light on me. When that happens, and someone thinks so much of you, it’s a gift. He never lied or spoke badly about anyone. He taught me the way I should live my life. For Gramps, the essential things we needed, such as food or clothes, were kept uncomplicated. More important was who we were and how we were with others. Above anything else, he always told me that if someone needed help, you should help them.

Grampie had a great way of putting things into perspective. Whenever I was worried about something, he would say, “Well, you’re okay, aren’t you? And everyone you love is okay?”It would remind you of the things that matter. There are always people worse off than you. He would then say, ‘have a cup of tea’, bit obsessed with the stuff, to be honest.

But regardless of the cup of tea addiction, it was Grampie that shaped what I looked for in a man. Honesty (okay, admittedly a given for most), simplicity (no worriers or drama), someone who was good with their hands at building, or making things, laid back and relaxed, but above all, he would have to have that smile. The one that affects others around him. Waves of comfort and positivity, smiles like that are hard to come by, but every man who has lasted the longest in my life has had that quality. And of course, I still get a bit giddy when I see a good pair of blue eyes. All of these things that I search for in a partner stem from him.

The bravest thing I have ever done is jump out of a plane. I am petrified of heights, but I did it to raise money for the hospice who helped Gramps. Just before I was due to jump, mere minutes (at the point of no return – great timing as always, Mel), I freaked. It dawned on me what was actually happening, and I might die. It was then Gramps came into my head. “You should always help. Not everyone these people love is okay.” And that’s what made me take that terrifying leap into the clouds.

When the public in the UK were asked who the Greatest Briton whoever lived was, Winston Churchill came out on top. There is no doubt in my mind that he was an incredible speaker, tactically brilliant, and he saw the country through the war. Churchill stopped the fighting, sent the boys home, and relieved families of the dreaded telegrams appearing at their door. Of course, he helped a lot of lives.

Grampie is one man who will affect people in my family for decades, along with whoever made Grampie who he was. The influence of how to see the world, taking gratitude for your fortune in life despite worrying times, the perspective of simplicity, and above all helping others, are lessons that will be passed down through generations. I will teach my children, they will teach theirs, and the ripple effect will continue.

There is a definition of greatness that says,’True greatness is shown in the way you impact the lives of others.’ My Grampie did not change the whole world, but he was the centre of mine.

So when someone asks you who you believe was the greatest who ever lived, redefine greatness. Make it about you, and honour those who impacted you. It is time to revise the concept of greatness and longetivity. Not only will your answer say a lot about the person you choose, but it shows who you are and what you wish to become.

CON LIFE

This weekend I went to London Film and Comic Con. This was my first big convention in four years – the gap was due to a few things, money (you need a lot), Co-vid (guests likely to cancel), and basically, life. The thing that sold me for this one was that two of the stars of one of my all-time favourite films, The Crow were going to be there; Ernie Hudson and Tony Todd, and the chance to meet someone from that film was too good to pass up. This would also be the first time I was going completely on my own, so it became also a rite of passage.

It didn’t get off to the best start. About a month before, Ernie and Tony cancel. News came through of train strikes pending, but I decided to see it through, as it was still a good guest list, and truth be told, I missed cons terribly. Closer to the event, a big announcement; Temeura Morrison would be attending. Once Were Warriors is pure class, his character Jake is so layered and complex, and it is a performance that should have brought Oscar buzz. Also, he had got big due to his role as Boba Fett and his own series on Disney+. Mahoosive Star Wars fan as I am, as you’d expect I was a tad excited.

The night before I receive an email- my train is cancelled due to strikes. I take it on the chin, and thankfully, the train service resumed, and it was back on by the morning. I got to London and off to line up, the bag check went quickly, nothing confiscated (some people had deodrants taken – the weather was hot, so on behalf of every attendee, thank you for that 🙄🥵🤢)

I take my place in the queue behind a guy dressed as Fat Thor and see a group of Ghostbusters using a remote control car reinvented to replicate the ghost trapper, to entertain the crowd and keep the event ghoul free.

Finally, I get in and run upstairs to the autograph area. When you want autographs, you have to get a VQ (virtual queue) ticket for each guest you want. The earlier the number, the better chance you have of meeting the star, so it’s a race to find who you need. The system is good. It saves long queues and frees attendees to get other people and explore the event. It’s a buzz and chaos. Luckily, I’m pretty fast and ended up with low numbers for all.

Before I found the last guest I wanted, I saw Evie Allen. She played the princess in House of Dragon and was on my list. She was free, so I grabbed the opportunity (later on, her queue was pretty hefty!). As it was early on, we had a nice chat for a bit about her being recast. She was brilliant. There was no need, really, but the writers wanted the timeline. And we even managed to take a photo together (a somewhat rarity in cons, pure luck). First auto in the bag buzzing, I head down to find Robert Emms of Atlantis, of course, Star Wars.

He wasn’t there. And no queue ticket which means regular check backs. My first photo shoot was looming so I had a quick look around and headed up. I forgot how mad photoshoots are.

It’s mayhem. Volunteers call batches amongst this massive crowd and try to maintain order without the use of a megaphone. You chat to other people in the queue and share con anitdotes and stories you hear about the stars. It’s this that keeps you sane. The people. Everyone is buzzing and eager to meet the guests. When you get in line and get close, adrenalin hits, and a slight bit of panic over what you can say or do to make the moment as memorable as possible. Luckily, most guests are awesome and take it in hand, so you are looked after.

When I get a block of time, I head toward the stalls. Memoribilia of everything you can think of is there. Homemade jewellery, posters on wood, crochet characters, swords, mountains of tshirt stalls and funko pops, there’s even working lighsabers (for lots of money) that lighten your pocket and ate as seductive as Jason Momoa coming out of the water. The big thing this year was these glass domes that were about £100. Pretty but I’m way too accidental for that to survive the trip home.

For me, it’s art. There are independent artists and comic book creators there, which is my soft spot. My house is full of it. What makes it so good is that the artists are there to chat and sign and personalise to make it all the more special. I went to a con on my birthday, and this Batman artist (he was brilliant) gave me a free print as a present. The artists are genuinely nice people and are passionate about what they do. This year I chose two I liked the most, one spent over 60 hours on a Spiderman piece (detail is extra-ordinary- he sold it no suprise!) and a comical artist who remembered me from previous conventions which was kind (I didn’t remember him, bit awkward 😬). Soon, they will be framed, and I will have to find wallspace.

Another big draw in Cons is the cosplay. The dedication to cosplay is insane. They plan it for months, sometimes years, import bits, make bits, and some costumes are just extraordinary. There’s always one you have to chase down. For me, this year, it was Ghost Rider. This guy had his whole head lit up like fire! LIKE FIRE!!!!!! Insane.

I could only go one day, and it was Epic. Exhausting but epic, and I am left with memories that I will treasure. Temeura Morrison was an absolute delight, so charming, and when I left him (the photo is quite comical-I’m tall, he’s short), he was motioning like a train for a fan’s request. What a guy!

If you ever get a chance to go, go. Nowhere else will you see a 7ft Chewy next to the couple from Jurrassic Park mingling with the Joker. It’s a buzz like no other and worth every penny. After all, how many other times do you get to meet your heroes?

The Power of the Queen

Last week, the world received news that icon Madonna was in ICU and found unresponsive. Legions of fans waited for any updates and were relieved when she could return home and expected to recover. Shockwaves were felt across the globe and absolute panic, and you may ask yourselves why? How could one person be so important to see many? This is because Madonna’s fans see her as she has trained them to for four decades. Invincible. And nothing or no one can touch her.

When I first discovered music, Madonna was at the forefront and remained so till this day. She is different from anyone else. She always has been, which is why Madonna is so incredibly successful. She holds 16 world records for music, touring, and film and is ranked as the biggest female recording artist of all time.

But it is not so much the music that keeps fans loyal and devoted to her. It’s her. She has the biggest balls in the music business. Or even in the entertainment industry as a whole. Madonna dresses how she likes (yet encourages designers), she changes genre and her role as an entertainer wherever her creative force takes her, Madonna does what she chooses and doesn’t give a damn what anyone says, or whether they try to stop her, judge, or encourage her to be conventional and “behave”. Or that horrid saying “Act her age.”

You might say Madonna is rich, has scope, and with money, it’s easy to do. But she was like this from the start. In 1978, after taking her first plane ride and only $35 in her pocket. Madonna took a taxi (again her first ever) and told the driver, “Take me to the centre of everything.” She was a dancer, yet not trained in any way in dance or singing. Madonna performed with bands until she was discovered and signed. Even with her debut album, Madonna was dissatisfied with the technical production and asked a resident DJ from a club she knew to remix tracks. From the beginning, she did things her way, and thanks to her drive to succeed and defiance to be herself, Madonna made her way to the top and became a sensation.

Every tour was explosive. And the upcoming tour is no different. In her 60s, Madonna has kept up with dancers in their 20s, sometimes even surpassing them. Her dedication to fitness is unmountable. Madonna works out reportedly five hours a day to keep her body in peak condition. The schedule for the tour is gruelling, but her staggering work ethic has seen her through. Until now.

Even if you do not enjoy her music, or you don’t agree with her personal choices, you must admit that there is no one like her in the industry today. She’s unapologetic, impactful, and an LGBTQ+ and feminist icon. She inspires people to be themselves, to take chances no matter the cost, and to be free. Live your life how you wish, celebrate sexuality and who you are, and balls to anyone who dares to interfere.

Madonna is more than just an artist or an entrepreneur. She is a dynamic force of energy. And sometimes, with all the words that describe her, we forget one that maybe even she defies. She’s also human.

The Benefits of Swipe

A Swipe file is one of the most precious items in a writer’s toolkit. This is a collection of images that inspire you for short stories, settings, and characters, everything you need to enhance or stimulate your imagination. All you require is a search engine.

Google ‘photography’ and a host of images will come up. Save anything that you find interesting or intriguing, and gradually, your file will build up into an essential tool for warming up your creative juices. It’s worth noting that anything you save is just for you. Copyright is a tricky net, so to be safe, don’t share any images publicly. Instead, store them in a file on your phone, laptop or tablet, or all three.

When you are ready, look at the image and ask yourself the six Ws; Who, Where, Why, When, What, and HoW.

It is your job to ask the questions and then expand. Be curious. Forget being PC. As a writer, you hold all the answers. Slowly, the character/setting will come to life, and the words will flow.

To show you more of what I mean, here are four examples of pictures, with questions, so you can practice as we go. Remember, there are no wrong answers. Everything stems from your perception, how you see the person or place, and what you think the picture is telling you.

PIC 1

What kind of person do you think she is? Famous? Misunderstood? A bitch? Someone who led a damaged life? Is she lonely? When was this picture taken? Before a show? Her wedding? A normal day? Where is she going? Why is she putting on makeup? For what purpose? Is she trying to seduce a jilted lover? Is she wealthy? Who took the picture? Why did they? What does she do with her days? How happy is she?

PIC 2

Straightaway with this picture, we notice her eyes. So focus on that as your core of this character. Why are they purple? When did her eyes turn purple? Has it been since birth? Is she human? Is she wearing contacts? If so, why and what does this say about her? Where does she live? In what dimension or time? Who is she? Someone defined by their eyes, or does everyone around her have them? Or maybe just her family. How does she feel about it? Indifferent? Self-concious? Does she get teased?

PIC 3

The first question that pops into my head when I look at this picture is what emotion is happening here? Anticipation? Despair? Shame? Anger? Defeat? Submission? Dread? Loneliness? Humiliation? Just focusing on the emotion portrayed can stem into the 6 Ws. Who was involved? Where did this happen? Why? How? What will happen next? What made her feel this way?

Emotional images are wonderful because however you see something, the empathy you have by putting yourself in their place, a whole scenario, and a plot can happen just from there like magic ✨️.

PIC 4

The main thing to keep in mind is that the image does not have to be an actual photo. Paintings or digital art can be just as strong. You can have artwork, anime, and even a close of a type of material or fabric sparks ideas. I could go through the questions again, but I believe you get the idea from the previous examples. Keep going through the same questions. Every time, your answers will be different. Sometimes, it’s good to do a negative and positive outlook and see where your stories collide. How differently you see the image in another way. A picture is capturing just a second of time. It’s down to you how you perceive that second.

There are so many questions to ask, but there are so many possibilities and outcomes. I build my swipe file on average 1-2 times a week. It really helps to keep your work fresh and interesting. But you don’t have to be a writer to do this. It’s kinda of fun for everyone. A bit like sitting on a bench and people watching – making up between you and your friends, scenerios of where people they are going and their darkest secrets. The truth is you can find inspiration anywhere. Even a Google image search. Happy scrolling!

ONE SHOT FICTION: The Forgotten

I had a dream last night. I was running in a field of fresh grass, silky blades rustling beneath my feet, butterflies gayly fluttering overhead in a gathering of colour in a cloudless blue sky. Tiny ants and insects wandering over fertile soil, dandelions waiting to be blown and wished upon donned the hedgerow, along with bursts of yellow and pink.

I close my eyes, urging the memory to stay. Trying to block reality.

The violet from the deep purple sun relentlessly tints my eyelids and forces me to open and see. I relent. Gone are the insects, the ecosystem, and the vitality of life. I spread my toes and feel the prickly colourless strands of what once was vibrant green. The monotonous landscape stays unanimated and endless. Compacted dirt dense with tiny stones and pebbles remains hard and prominent.

The forceful glaze from the burning star above my head refuses to be ignored. My feet are hardened now, used to the fiery ground. If I bleed, I only discover it when I rest. The blood is welcome. A moment’s relief for my dry mouth. All I can taste is dirt. I try and swallow some saliva, but there is not much left. Sometimes, a gentle breeze will tease you a little. Those days are good. Time is deceptive and cruel. A day could be an hour, a week could be a month, and the concept has forsaken me. I must keep going, find water, and find life.

I try not to breathe too heavily and disturb the silence. My flowing dress brushes against my thighs and ankles with every step. Now, a faded blue, it is unrecognisable from what it must have been, but it is my only possession, my greatest treasure. I lift the hem and let it drop. A welcome waft of air greets my legs as I walk.

I look up and see a white gleam contrasting the brown ground. Perhaps it is stone? Or a tactless mirage? I steer toward it. Please be real. As I get closer, it is still there. This white magical gleam. I start to walk faster, then run toward it in an adrenalin-fuelled burst of energy. Then I see it.

Searching for life for so long, any sign. I found it. I move closer, bend down, and touch it lightly with my finger. It is real. It is life but in the wrong tense. I was looking for a life living, not a life lived. The skull looks strangely beautiful as it lies motionless and serene. I sit on the ground and pick it up tenderly, disturbing its tranquillity. Who were you? Someone I knew before this life? A husband? A lover? My first unrequited love? I study the imperfections, small lines, and discolourations. I look at the scar on my arm from a branch of a fallen tree, the healed cuts on my legs and fingers, and trace the cracks on the skull. Its flaws. My flaws.

My thumb caresses its cheek tenderly, I’m careful not to go too low. I close my eyes and see him. Only his cheek. The intimate seductive nirvana that flows through my fingertips calms me. My finger slips into nothingness, and I am wakened. I try again. I place him between my legs and stroke the top of his head, running my fingers through my hair. Both feel hard, I pull my hair gently to get some feeling. Nothing. My knees relax, and the head drops to the dirt. As I pick it up, cruel cavities savagely destroy my illusion. A flash of red. I glance down and realise my thumb is cut. Jagged edges of bone punish me for my foolishness.

I suck the blood and lay down. I cradle the skull, curling in a ball around the curve of the bone. It feels nice to hold something. Someone. My body sinks to the ground as my eyes close, and I dream of the field. I am free. The sun is warming, and not an intoxicating spectre to be endured. This time, the dream is different. There are two pairs of feet running. Someone’s hand is encased in mine as we feel the silky grass beneath our toes. I don’t want to wake up.

I do not know how long I slept, but when my eyes open, it is still light, so the hour of darkness has not yet come. I stand. Although I am rested, my body feels heavy. and I caress the skull. I can not let go. I continue to walk, holding him close. He is mine, we are connected, despite our flaws. I will protect him. He needs me. And I need the dream.

Selective Modern History

One of the positives about doing a degree is that you study a wide range of topics. Recently, I have learnt about Antigone, The Island, and protest music in South Africa. And it is the subject of South Africa, I would like to talk about it.

From 1948 onwards, the South African government released a series of laws against non-whites. You had to carry a pass if you were not white (1950), landlords and authorities could demolish peoples homes to remove them from their land (1951), seperate amenities such as toilets, parks, beaches, buses, schools were introduced (1953), marriage between mixed race was illegal (1968), no groups of people in a public place (1979), and in 1965 they introduced a law called the Criminal Procedure Amendment Act. This gave state officials the chance to detain people for 180 days. This means they could be kept in solitary confinement and not receive a trial. This led to many activists being tortured, such as Steve Biko (made famous by the song by Peter Gabriel), who was beaten to death by police in his cell.

As the rest of the world was coming out of segregation (in 1965, the Colour bar in the UK became illegal thanks to the Race Relations Act), South Africa was at its height.

As I learnt about the horror that Apartheid (the name given for this period of history), bought to the people of South Africa, I became more and more astonished at how little of this I knew. Yes, it was before my time, but so were the wars, so was prohibition, so was the suffragettes, yet I learnt about this, I became passionate about learning about them. The discrimination faced by the South African people, seeing them as lesser people, echoed moments in history we all know about. Films have been made, millions of books written, lessons taught in secondary classrooms…I am sure there is media and literature out there concerning Apartheid, but I am guessing the numbers are no where near the amount on the war or segregation.

In 1976, the South African government enforced laws that enforced Afrikaans (not English) as the medium in schools for black children. The pupils protested on 16 June 1979, and police opened fire. At least 176 students died, some think as much as 700, with thousands more being injured. This became known as the Soweto uprising.

Hector Peterson being carried after being shot by police in Soweto uprising.

If I knew about this in school, children just like me, standing up for what they believed in-to keep English in their schools- I would have been captivated by their bravery, inspired by their courage, and want to know more. So why isn’t it being taught in the classroom?

You might say that because Britain wasn’t involved, but the Queen and Margaret Thatcher argued publicly on how to handle the issue. The photo of Hector Peterson became world famous. Not to mention, the Anti-Apartheid Movement AAM) was a British organisation that directed the international effort against the South African regime.

This is modern history, but it is human history. Much protesting involved music. In fact, music was almost a weapon at this time. Activists sang until the noose was tightened around their neck, calling for others to not give up and carry on the fight. Wouldn’t it be beneficial to teach students about the importance of music? Play the protest songs, embrace world music, not just classical? Show how music can play such a vital role throughout history?

What makes some current events go into textbooks but not others? Shouldn’t school show children how big the world is? How they can learn from history? Show pupils how many people, even children, have had to fight for human rights? Inspire them, teach them, let them learn the modern history of the world? In secondary, the same syllabus is being taught from twenty years ago. There’s so much out there. Maybe we should be a bit more selective. Just a thought.

ONE SHOT: The Aged Tree

A little blue bird flits from a branch slipping behind an indent in the tree. In a deserted place, the bird and I are its only companions; no other trees stand beside it. Baby violet primroses don the roots on a blanket of grass; my eyes follow the mossy base, trailing the veins of ivy as it entwines with the bark.

The branches are spindly, sad and tired. One sole brown leaf hangs precariously from a scrawny stem, a small remnant of a forgotten season as everyone looks ahead to summer. So many boughs are rotten, their breadth unnaturally wide as if to try and connect with something, anything, but only touching air. Each holding out its frailties as if to boldly say, ‘This is me. I am broken; I am imperfect. Accept this.’

Many parts of the tree are older and snapped. Its open flaws, its twisted wooden offshoots blatantly hanging down nakedly for all to see. The yellow-breasted bird peeks out and flies away as another enters.

The tree bore only bumps as a promise buds will grow. As I looked closer, more time was spent discovering something new. A different way where the past is presented. In the tree’s younger days, it was climbed on, celebrated, and admired. Now, it is simply unkempt. Life shows through the wood, and years are manifesting. Yet, even though the tree is ageing and tattered, it still has worth. Value as a bird’s home, and charm to passers-by who stop to admire its strength.

When I step closer, a gift lies by my feet. A single leaf, spotted and brown, incomplete, yet intact. I look up. Every branch is now bare.
No matter how fractured we become, through time, from the hands of another, or simply because we have remained strong for so long, we still have worth and the power to be effective. This tree provides a home and shelter. I looked at the leaf in fascination. The lines made the leaf interesting, and the age spots gave the leaf distinction. It was beautiful.

This tree will become even more pragmatic and majestic as it breathes new life. The buds will soon turn green, leaves will grow, and new days and seasons are always waiting. I placed the leaf carefully inside my book as a reminder to always look closer. You never know what you will see.

Library love

There is something magical about libraries. Like Cathedrals, they draw me in like a beacon, calling me toward them wherever I am. For me, the biggest achievement as a writer is having my books on their shelves, a dream I have had since I first walked through their doors.

A free education, a safe space available to all, and nothing on earth promotes books and literature like a library. Anyone can enjoy history and modern text and be introduced to the love of reading.

Camborne library was my first. My mum held my hand and led me through the door. Even at that young age, I was overtaken by the grandeur of the building. Seeing the statue of Richard Trevithick still warms my heart every time I visit my home town. It makes me so happy knowing Augusta Walsh is there. My creation, my girl, in the young adult section waiting to be read and enjoyed, just like the library, enchanted me all those years ago. Without the Camborne library, my love of literature would not have been cemented so early. That one trip my mum made that day set me on my writing journey and laid the roots of who I am today.

One of the biggest draws of a library is its history. You know thousands of people have walked in your footsteps before for as long as the building has stood. You can learn about any event in our timeline and discover authors that have inspired the books you read and the series you follow today. The most historical library I have visited is the Bodleian Library in Oxford.

Kings and Queens have sat and read here. No book can be removed; every title is treasured and preserved in a controlled environment. The librarian refused when the King asked if he could take it home. There is no class system. Everyone is equal. That’s another thing I adore.

But out of every library I have visited, one holds me closer than any other. The library in Lanhydrock House.

The Robartes family were the owners of Lanhydrock and donated the house to the National Trust in 1969. The library is arguably the most spectacular room in the house. Long wooden floorboards lead toward a huge arch window that looks out toward the garden. At the end is a piano; often, when you visit, a volunteer plays to set the mood. The ceiling is an array of plastered sculptures of scenes from the bible. A decadent fireplace between portraits adds to the grandeur.

I remember the first time I saw it, my jaw dropped, and I felt I had never seen anything more beautiful. Every time I visit, I have the same reaction, and now, for personal reasons, it holds even more love and emotion.

If you love libraries, Lanhydrock is, without a doubt, the most breathtaking you can visit in Cornwall. There are many in the world I would love to visit; a few in Austria are so stunning that the word sublime does not do them justice.

So, if you, like me, are a library lover, then celebrate it. Keep your membership up to date; there are no charges now, and you’ll be amazed at how much they offer. And if you have children, make sure you visit. It’s free, and you help preserve their lifeline for future generations. If you show passion for the library, so will they, and you never know what seeds you will plant with one little visit.