Last month Penguin announced they were going to censor the master of children’s literature. The storyteller. The man who shaped generation after generation. They were going to edit the sacred. The one and only. Our beloved Roald Dahl. Why? So, he would fit better in modern society.
Outcry! And quite right too. Do you know how long a writer agonises over every word? Dahl is funny. The stories and vicious descriptions are funny. They have made generation after generation laugh and squeal with glee.
Taking out words changes the visual and changes the rhythm of the text. Saying “enormous” isn’t better than saying “enormously fat”. Changing “ugly and beastly” to just “beastly” or “girls and boys” to “children” is in no way an improvement. That is Dahl’s voice. You hear it roll off your tongue as you read his descriptions and narration of these deliciously ghastly characters.
Dahl himself warned publishers if they ever change a single comma in one of his books, they would never see another word. Adding, “When I’m gone, if that happens, then I’ll wish mighty Thor knocks very hard on their heads with his Mjolnir. Or I will send along the enormous crocodile to gobble them up.”
“There must be no changes to an artist’s original work when he is dead for any reason whatsoever. I just hope to God that will never happen to any of my writings as I am lying comfortably in my biking grave.”
Writing is a craft. Roald Dahl was a master craftsman. By changing, you would have disrespected the memory of one of the greatest creative minds that have ever lived. Leave well alone! Thank goodness Penguin has seen sense and chosen to keep the original text in print. Honour the Dahl!
Some might say that we are living in a time where we are at our most liberal. We have more definitions for gender identity than ever before, and any public slur against human rights, race, or religion is quickly dealt with. But there is one aspect of today’s society where a certain type of prejudice is felt and tolerated. The bias toward fashion.
What a person wears is a projection of identity, an expression of who they are. It is highly personal, and unique to every person. Yet, it seems acceptable to judge someone on the clothes they wear.
At this year’s Brit Awards, Sam Smith wore a design by Harri. Numerous hours were spent handmaking this silhouette, by a team behind the scenes. Yet in twenty-four hours, Sam Smith had become a viral meme of ridicule. Not only was this a slur against Sam Smith but also against every person who worked on that outfit.
Lady Gaga, who embraces the enormous scope of fashion and designers upcoming and established, faced her own backlash with the iconic meat dress. Many believed she was just trying to grab attention or portray that she was seen as nothing more than a piece of meat, when in fact, it was worn and made to highlight a speech. The speech she gave, titled The Prime Rib of America, was to urge the US Military not to discriminate toward gay men and lesbians in the army. Not only can fashion be powerful, but it can also be misunderstood.
But not all celebrities face backlash when they push boundaries. Elizabeth Hurley wore “That dress” as it is now known; the black Versace gown held together with safety pins. Jennifer Lopez wore the green chiffon dress, also by Versace, and more recently Rihanna donned a Swarovski Naked dress that was absolutely see-through. Yet none of these women received negative press, all were praised and their photo was everywhere the next day. So, why?
One explanation could be that these women, along with a male example, Harry Styles (and virtually every outfit he wears), all have one thing in common. When they wore these looks, they were at the top of the leagues of most desired people on the planet. So is it to do with sex? Being conventionally or commercially beautiful?
To emphasise this point where sex is an exception, we could take the example of Madonna’s cone bra by Jean Paul Gaultier. This one look has followed her everywhere, and it is arguably her most iconic. After 40 years in the music business, she is just as known for donning that outfit as for her music alone.
Fashion is art, and as with all art, it is completely subjective to every person. Models on catwalks are often jeered at and made fun of because of what they are wearing. Yet so many fail to realise that the runways and fashion shows are creative outputs. It shows the designer’s vision for that season.
Take, for example, one of the most celebrated shows, Voss by Alexander McQueen. The show was named after a Norweigan town known for its nature, so the theme was wildlife and the natural world. Every show has a theme, a vision that fuels the ideas behind every look. McQueen, arguably the most artistic designer of all time, closed the show with a scene that would go down in history. The lights went off, and the sound of a heart monitor echoed throughout the room. Light returns, and the monitor flatlines to show writer Michelle Olley wearing a breathing mask, covered in live moths on a chaise lounge.
With so much artistry and creativity present, shouldn’t we embrace it rather than make it the butt of an easy cheap joke? In an age of equality, why must clothes be exempt? Instead of judging others on their attire, admire them and accept them as who they choose to be. If someone spends their days in jeans, let them. If someone wears clothes otherwise saved for special occasions, let them. Without judgement. Isn’t it better to live in a world where we are all interesting and unique than uniform? Those who wish to be conventional in the matter they dress do so as a personal choice, just as those who choose to go against convention. Celebrate and accept the person within. Your life will be better for it. And kinder.
I always call myself an independent author. When I hear the term self-published, I feel discouraged. Being a writer, I believe in the power of words. They can make you feel anger, joy, sadness, take you to another place, and evoke a memory, so why does that term affect me?
There is a stigma and reputation associated with those words. Like I am not a ‘real’ author. Like I have done what anyone could do. When I think of all the hours spent, the research, and the effort that I put into every book, it offends me to think I don’t deserve the label ‘author’. It took me years to say those words, “I am an author.” Years. I didn’t feel qualified when I thought of the authors I love. What I did seemed nowhere near.
But many of the most famous authors started out that way. Whether it was due to freedom, or like so many, just couldn’t get a deal as the competition was too fierce. Even JK Rowling makes the list of famous people who started out this way. Some of the greatest novels were self-published; Peter Rabbit, Eragon, Pride and Prejudice, Huckleberry Finn… the list goes on.
These novels are taught in schools centuries after publication. Like Van Gogh not appreciated till way after their time. They get celebration days and artwork prints. How would Beatrix Potter react knowing those beautiful illustrations she took so much criticism for, hung on millions of nursery walls today, or made into ceramic figures in glass cabinets? What would Jane Austen say if she knew how treasured Pride and Prejudice is today? Made into films, series, and her characters often listed in the greatest of all time?
Even the guiding force and idol of many writers, Stephen King, was self-published. When he was 16, he brought out his novel under his own publishing company.
Last year, my debut novel Isolation Tales was placed in the Cornish archive, Kresen Kernow. It’s probably the highlight of my career so far. Books can not be removed from there. For hundreds of years, my book will be in the world’s biggest collection of documents, maps, books, and photographs of Cornwall. I did not apply, Cornwall libraries obtained a copy and admitted it. How can this come to an independent author on her first self-published publication? How did I become part of my beloved Cornwall’s history?
By doing that, I achieved a massive goal by leaving my mark on the world. My children, future grandchildren, great-children, and generations after will know it’s there. They can see it. Read it. And know who I am and my words.
You never know where this journey will take you. The surprises and achievements will come. I want to have a deal, I started a degree, and I know agents and publishers favour writers with degrees. I have to keep going, believe in myself, and that I can get there. But even if it never happens, I need to be proud of what I achieved, and if you are a writer, so should you. So, let’s change the stigma connected to that term. Let’s not diminish our worth. Our job. If it’s good enough for Jane Austen, Stephen King, and Mark Twain, it’s good enough for me. And if you are a writer yourself, it should be for you too.
On this day in 1832, Charles Dodgson was born. Known to us as Lewis Carroll, this creative genius is one of my big inspirations and one of the main reasons I went to Oxford last year. I wished to stand where he stood, retrace his footsteps if you will.
I was lucky enough to visit Christchurch meadow where the idea for Alice in Wonderland began, and perhaps that is what put Dudley the Dodo at the back of my head. As I stood in front of the spread of grass, I could envisage the young Charles Dodgson lying, watching, listening, until inspiration struck, and one of the greatest worlds in literature was created.
Lewis Carroll chose the Dodo to take part in chapters of Alice in Wonderland as he felt affinity toward the animal. Lewis Carroll had a stammer and would introduce himself as “Do-do-dodgson.”
He made no secret of his affection and became associated with the Dodo for years to come.
The Dodo fitted in so well in fantastical, bizarre, and wacky Wonderland that won the hearts of every reader who joined Alice on her little adventure.
So I think of this great influence today and thank him for being the first writer to make me see that in the world of imagination, anything is possible. Lewis Carroll played a big part in giving me passion for writing. When a world is limitless, you have so much freedom in your art form. That’s what he instilled in me. When you write, however you write, you are free.
“Imagination is the only weapon in the war with reality.” CHESHIRE CAT, ALICE IN WONDERLAND By Lewis Carroll
On the eve of my attempt at a picture book, I thought I’d look over old and new ones I adored. I love picture books; they have this incredible scope of subjects and creativity and are so visual. When you read a picture book, you have instant reactions. Grown-ups laugh to themselves at parts where children properly belly laugh, ask questions, and show fear and excitement. It’s a joy sharing a story with kids at this age. They get so attached to specific characters and love the theatre of it all. The passion for this method of storytelling is infectious. You end up loving bits because they hold memories of the time you first shared it. Picture books are sublime. So here are a few if you are at that stage (lucky you!) I can thoroughly recommend.
Peely Wally by Kali Stileman
This book is delightfully simple yet so effective. Peely Wally (a scribble of paint made into a bird-brilliant) has laid an egg but it falls. You follow the egg’s journey with your finger, which is wonderful for fine motor skills. In the end, the egg cracks, you open the flaps to reveal a tiny Peely Wally baby. Perfect in its own little way.
Elmer by David McKee
I love this book! Elmer is a patchwork elephant, bright and colourful, amongst grey elephants. Although Elmer is different, and the odd one out, he is the joker, and all the elephants love him just the way he is.
Not Now Bernard by David McKee
Yes, I know it’s another McKee book, but the man is brilliant! This was my favourite picture book as a child. At the beginning Bernard is eaten by a monster (the horror as you get to this bit in kids is so funny- yep the kid is gone!), then the monster goes into the house where Bernards parents are oblivious! They give the monster some tea, he bites the dad’s leg, and in the end, the mum and dad send the bewildered monster to bed. It is incredibly funny and unique. Absolute joy.
The Gruffalo by Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler
The classic. This is the masterpiece of picture books. The language, the characters, the concept…I won’t say the plot as you all know it. All we need to say is this book is perfection, and is worth all the hype ten times over!
Here we are by Oliver Jeffers
I only came across this book from loaning it out at the library. It is stunning, beautiful illustrations throughout and explains our world that is easy to understand and answers questions little ones might have about our planet.
There’s a monster in my book by Tom Fletcher
Is there anything this man can’t do? This range of books (there’s loads- not a bad one between them!) is funny, and the most interactive picture book I have ever come across. Pure joy.
The Tiger who came to Tea by Judith Kerr
This is the story that seems to be obsessed over every time a new child comes in our family. The idea of a tiger in your house is wonderful. It doesn’t matter that he eats all the food, drinks every drop of liquid in the house so you can’t even have a bath, the tiger plays a trumpet and you get to go out for sausage and chips. Only gripe is how small is that can of tiger food at the end? This dinner guest ate everything, get two at least!
Penguin by Polly Dunbar
If you have a child who struggles with communication you will fall in love with this book. Ben is given a penguin for his birthday, the penguin doesn’t speak, Ben does everything to get the penguin to speak or react, then the penguin saves him and shows his love for Ben in a beautiful way in a two page spread that warms your heart. Wonderfully different and brilliantly done.
We’re Going on a Bear Hunt by Michael Rosen and Helen Oxenbury
This is the perfect example of how to use rhythm, repetition, and melody to captivate your readers. Expect to act out the story when out on woodland walks.
Owl Babies by Martin Waddell
This story is all about three owls whose mum flies away and the adorable babies worry and comfort each other until she comes back. Even babies will enjoy the soothing text and classic style of illustration. Very young children will relate and find comfort in this simple but effective story.
Monkey Puzzle by Julia Donaldson and Axel Sheffler
There are so many of these guys’ work I could choose, but in the end, I went for Monkey Puzzle. A young monkey has lost its mum, and a butterfly tries to help him find her. The butterfly finds all sorts of animals, but none are his mum. Brilliant twist and punchline, many children laughed so much at the monkeys reaction at each butterfly suggestion. Wonderfully written, and of course, the illustrations are sublime.
And finally…
Here are a couple of titles that you could also consider when building your picture book library.
Bradley and the Dinosaur by Julian Hilton and Jacqueline East
When Bradley is sent into the garden by his Mum to get flowers, he encounters the biggest creature he’s ever seen. Bradley’s bravery and kindness makes them instant friends and the Dinosaur takes him to Dinoland where he encounters all sorts of dinosaurs. He even flies on a Pterasaur. But will they get back in time for dinner, and what is Bradley’s favourite meal?
Map of You by Sophie Williams
This delightful activity book asks young readers to explore the landscape of their own psyche. They are invited to visit their mountains of strength and wetlands of weaknesses. to confront their ‘forests of fears’, and to take comfort in their ‘islands of interests’. Personality quizzes, colouring in, drawing, and designing all features. Self-examination has never been more enjoyable!
So, there we have it – my favourite picture books. Maybe in time, my own will make a list such as this. Hey, if you want to be ahead of time, you can pop along to Amazon (available in other places soon) and grab yourself a copy…
There are certain rules you are meant to follow as a writer. Edit, edit, edit, then edit some more; keep going; and stick to one genre as it helps established readers know your identity as a writer.
As my fourth book is coming to publication, I have gone rogue. In fact, I have completely ignored the last bit. And when I look back over everything I have done, I have been a hellblazer since day one.
Every book of mine is different. The first was a collection of fictional short stories, the second autobiographical, the third was a young adult, and the fourth is a picture book. Not only am I all over the place with genre, but I am playing havoc with ages too. It is like I’m working round the sections of my beloved local library! I even tackled crime at Christmas. 🕵♀️
In fact, the only thing that binds the books is me. Each project has been a labour of love. They have passion, time, and filled random chunks of notebooks throughout my house!
As a writer, I am finding my way. I use inspiration as my fuel. I spend so much time on a project that I need to be excited about it, I need to know I’m doing good or that the project has lasting value. Each book had an aim, a drive. A purpose. I never cared about the sections it would come under in a bookstore, I merely wanted to create a body of work I can be proud of.
Isolation Tales was written to help the NHS, The Collection was to showcase my profile as a writer, The attempted demise of Augusta Walsh age 15 years, 4 months and 6 days was created to spotlight young mental health, Murder at Black House was a homage to Dickens and Agatha Christie, and Dudley the Dodo was a request from my 8 year old son. When your child asks you to create him a book as his only present for his birthday, you can’t refuse.
I have enjoyed everything I have done. Each has provided unique new challenges and ways of working. I get asked all the time, “Where do you write? What’s your routine?”
The truth is I write everywhere, on everything – little snippets on receipts, back of shopping lists, parking tickets, and junk mail. I have no routine, I’m a loose cannon!
I may not know my forte yet, but I feel good about everything so far. So, I will continue to break the rules – eat before swimming, put the christmas tree up before December, eat doughnuts between meals, scoff all my kids Haribo when they aren’t looking, sleep past my alarm, and not be identified by anything other than I am a writer.
I will describe myself as a writer of universal fiction, open to all. It’s good to be a rebel. After all, it worked for Bowie. And who doesn’t love a bit of David Bowie?
I have never felt safer than here. You make people want to achieve, have passion and a curious mind, and investigate and discover the unknown. I sit in this college university garden, writing, attempting the impossible. To try and contain how I feel about you.
I arrived as a sightseer, intending to experience the book sites. Tolkien’s bench, the covered market from Lyra’s Oxford, and to step upon the pathways and within the prestigious halls of universities, my heroes walked. Visit the Bodleian Library, one of the oldest libraries in Europe. I have seen them all, but I did not expect to discover a new way of life. The vibe here is LEARN. Knowledge is our most powerful attribute; we all can learn regardless of age or circumstance. Learn from the past, let it sculpt your future, root out the trailblazers and the achievers, and recognise what came before. The hardships along the way are just as significant as the milestones; one simply cannot exist without the other. Oxford, you are infused with history, culture, and respect. Lush green spaces and cycles outnumber the cars so many times over, and alleyways are filled with little treasures. The sights I have seen have been breathtaking. Beautiful sculptures, love letters to science and achievement, pure devotion to the past and intellectual achievement. Within your great City, your people love you. They speak passionately for the City and encourage you to uncover hidden jewels you would otherwise miss. I have walked around in a daze, trying to memorise all the beauty, sculpted stone embellishments adorning striking buildings that line every street. The riches you have bestowed upon me have been plentiful. I have seen a blackboard written by Einstein’s hand, notes and a diary by Howard Carter, opened the day he made one of the most iconic finds in history. Walls from ancient Egypt covered in hierographic, an entire wall of saints and saviours in New College chapel, original paintings, and sketches by Dante Rosetti (although whenever I see his name, I can’t help but picture Aidan Turner from the BBC show a while ago). He came up with the term ‘Stunner,’ which is cool. Seeing his original work was incredible. I was in awe of life-sized skeletons of dinosaurs in a museum that could overtake London. I guess that’s why this place feels so magical. It has shown me so many things I am passionate about; Tutankhamun, Dante, Dinosaurs, Alice, The Tudors, ancient Egypt, and ancient Greece. The list is endless. So many connections to my studies in my degree helped give significance to different sights. It added details I otherwise would have missed, for instance, the Roman Augustus and his role in the life story of Cleopatra. I appreciated the power of the Virgin Mary altar and what it gave to believers and the significance of Elizabeth I’s portrait next to Henry VIII in Christchurch College. I walked through the streets with my jaw open. It is so beautiful here. I wish I could stay. Oxford, the thing I love you for is that you see us all the same. People may believe you would start off with a class system and be elitist due to the sheer number of university colleges. But it is not like that at all. In your eyes, we are forever learning and finding our way. It feels that it is not expressed as a justification or excuse but as an opportunity. One we should celebrate and relish. When we are on holiday, we romanticise a place, and I am sure to the people of Oxford, living there is a lot different to visiting. But I can only draw on my own experience. So, people of Oxford, thank you for showing me where I need to be. The way I need to see the world. The greatest gift you could show me is aspiration. Oxford, you have taught me we are not meant to know the answers, but there might be a place where we can find them. When people go away, they leave the real world behind. Their stresses, relationships, and anything they don’t want to deal with. Going back to reality can be daunting, but when I return home, I hope everything I learnt comes into play. We are all students. Every day is new. We don’t know what will happen or who we will see if we read a new book or discover new ideas or concepts. But if we make a mistake, it’s okay. They will be celebrated as part of what gets you to your goal. Hardship and creating opportunities to overcome make the journey. The pressure is off. Creatively for me, I took away moments that I could not get anywhere else other than with you. I loved the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe story, and even now, a row of coats makes me wonder whether to part the sleeves and seek adventure. I never try and see beyond. I want to believe in it, if just for a moment. So, as well as experiencing the many sights that inspired the Dark Materials trilogy, I wanted to see the lamppost. I found it on my first day in just over 10 minutes. It was about 8:20am, just me. I stood in St Mary’s Passage, on the cobbles where C.S. Lewis walked, and I looked at the doorway opposite. Centred on a big wooden door was an engraving of a lion’s head. On either side were two fauns. The inspiration for the gateway into Narnia. For a moment, just a moment, I saw the idea. The gateway, wooden entrance, greeted by an endearing faun, the iconic gas-light lamppost where you meet him. An hour later, I was at a quaint, picturesque Christchurch meadow. Charles Dodgson, a student at Christchurch and later a lecturer in Mathematics, previously sat and envisaged a little girl following a white rabbit down a hole and having wondrous and crazy adventures. These stories made me passionate about books, gratefully eager to sacrifice my time for a career that pays so little. I write because I was inspired by adventures in Wonderland. I seek ways to enter Narnia. I will always treasure getting inside the head of such influential, renowned storytellers and world-builders. Standing where they walked and sat, seeing clearly how the idea may have formed and the creation came together.
So, thank you for letting me visit, I will never forget the time we spent together and the gifts you gave.
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR A brand new one-shot story for Halloween 2022. ⚠️ Warning! ⚠️ It gets quite dark!
Taylor Spears has consistently had the fastest-growing number of followers on Instagram and TikTok for the past 18 months. She was young, skinny and had made the best of her looks. As a result, Taylor had offers pouring in every day with offers of free clothes, jewellery, shoes, and clothing deals, and everyone wanted her ‘brand’. Life couldn’t be better. One hot afternoon, Taylor and her staff walked through a market in Chinatown in London. They came across a stall with a little old man behind it. He had bushy grey eyebrows and a long silver fuzzy beard that only grew in the centre of his chin. There were lots of ornate bangles on the table. ‘Ellie! Come here, check these out!’ Taylor called over. Ellie, Taylor’s PA and organiser of every aspect of Taylor’s life, came toward her. Dressed in a black power suit, a high ponytail, and heels, Ellie ended her call and smiled widely at her boss. ‘Oh, Taylor! They are fabulous! How many do you want?’ The old Chinaman had maintained the same polite smile since Taylor had approached his stall. A man with a baseball cap with the Batman logo came close to them, ‘Yo, T! What’s the… hold up? Woah!’ ‘I’m feeling these bangles; I might get some.’ The Chinaman stood smiling. ‘Yeah, but look at that!’ The man pointed at a blood-red decapitated hand on the stall. Ellie looked and screamed. Taylor, a big horror fan, picked it up. ‘Good call Jeff! Woah! This is so cool. It’s a proper weird colour.’ Taylor said as she pushed toward Ellie’s face, making her scream again and back away. The Chinaman leaned forward. ‘Make a wish.’ ‘What? Is it like magic or something? I get a wish?’ ‘Three.’ The Chinaman answered. ‘AWESOME!’ Taylor laughed. ‘What should I wish for?’ ‘What about World Peace?’ ‘Jeff, I’m not political!’ ‘Global Warming?’ ‘Nah, I already made the hashtag SAVE YOUR EARTH YOU LEGENDS viral two months ago. So I did my bit for that.’ ‘No diseases?’ ‘There are charities already for that,’ Taylor spat impatiently. ‘This is about me!’ Jeff started flapping his hands, ‘OOOHHH! I know! I know! Superpowers! You could get superpowers and do loads of cool stuff!’ ‘Hmmm…I like that. What would you choose?’ Taylor asked. ‘Easy. Superstrength. Or reading minds, although everyone would be thinking about you.’ Jeff smiled. ‘Course they would,’ Taylor said and smiled back. Her eyes widened. ‘I got it! I will live forever! Okay, weird red hand thing. I wish to be…invisible.’ Taylor looked at Jeff, who seemed slightly worried. She didn’t notice a finger on the decapitated hand had moved down. Then, slowly the bottom of Taylor’s body began to disappear. She screamed and looked around for Ellie, who had wandered off. ‘Jeff! Please help me! What’s happening!?!’ ‘You were meant to say immortal, not invisible. Quick! Make another wish!’ Taylor panicked and closed her eyes, ‘I wish to be immortal!’ The Chinaman kept his fixed smile and watched as another finger moved into the palm of the blood-red hand. A white washing machine fell from a window and landed on Taylor’s head. Taylor felt a whack and then blackness. She fuzzily opened her eyes and thought this hand is fantastic! Excited, Taylor made her final wish. ‘I wish I could read minds.’ Without warning, she was flooded with voices. ‘Did he call?’ ‘Oh my God, his hair is such a wig!’ ‘What should I make for dinner?’ ‘Fuck! I need to sort my shit out.’ ‘Is it going to rain?’ ‘How can I tell her?’ ‘Why is he such an idiot!?!’ ‘I need to find a bar’ ‘This thong is right up my ass.’ ‘I wonder what he’s doing now.’ ‘Damn! That girl got a nice ass.’ ‘Why does Superman wear pants over his blue suit? Why not just go bare like spiderman?’ To Taylor’s surprise, no thoughts were about her. Instead, she walked around; voices came from everywhere. After an hour, she was so furious she punched her head to make them stop. Taylor didn’t even feel pain through the excessive amount of noise entering her brain. Finally, after two days, she tried hitting her head on the metal railing. The intensity of so many voices became so extreme Taylor decided to find a knife and stab her mind. She found a hotel and snuck into the kitchen. A row of long sharp blades was magnetised to the wall. Taylor picked one up and took a deep breath. The kitchen staff’s thoughts flooded her mind. ‘Table 18…two swordfish’, ‘three prawn starters, two camemberts, one pate.’ ‘bloody hell, I’m hot!’ ‘I need two, then five, then three, then eight.’ Taylor screamed and hacked at her head with the blade. The worst happened. Nothing. ‘WHY CAN’T I DIE!!!!????!!!!’ Taylor ran in anguish and desperation. She kept going. It was midnight; Taylor found a bench and lay quietly. Since the voices came, she couldn’t remember her address or how to get there. She wondered why no one came looking for her. Where was Ellie? Where was Jeff? Five hours later, Taylor started to cry as an old man came and sat down at the opposite end of the bench. ‘Please, no more,’ Taylor pleaded. She bent over and held her head in her hands, waiting for the onslaught of voices. Silence. The man sat. Hours passed, and no thoughts came. Then in a small voice, he whispered, ‘I miss you.’ Then he stood up slowly and walked away. A tear rolled down Taylor’s cheek. She did not know the man’s story or need to. Four hours she had watched him. He had surrendered to the torture that consumed him. Accepted he would be in unspoken pain. The emptiness was all that remained. Yet, the sincerity and heartache in those three words made her feel human again. She searched for him in the days following but never found him. On the bench opposite her, an old front page was flapping in the breeze. The headline read INFLUENCER KILLED BY FREAK ACCIDENT WITH WASHING MACHINE IN CHINATOWN. The paper blew away.
Today is World Mental Health Day, which affects everyone on the planet. When I learnt statistics about mental health, I felt inclined to act. It was shocking to me how many people struggle. Like so many, I didn’t realise how many of us were affected. It’s not a nice thing to think about, is it? People being sad, upset, crying, people we love. Yet unconsciously every day so many of us think about our mental health, we just don’t realise it. Every day we each take hold of it, some more successfully than others. Every time you have a friend over for coffee, exercise, take a walk, meditate, listen to music or simply cry you are taking care of yourself mentally.
The biggest irony of humankind is no one is alone in feeling alone. We all do no matter our circumstances, financial situation, social or relationship status or age. It affects everyone from the moment you are born. It is a skill within us to take care of our emotional well-being. It is as important as breathing. Babies cry when they need comfort, children cry when they are sad, and teenagers vent on everyone and go through a rollercoaster of emotions straight into adulthood. Adults gradually find their own releases and ways to cope.
So, you may ask if we all already have the skill set to deal with our mental health why raise awareness? Sometimes the balance can consume even the people who seem the most together, and we struggle to cope. We cannot think or see things to try and find a solution. We lose ourselves.
The most important thing we can keep doing is talking. Even the people who have no one around can talk; the Samaritans are open 24/7. You can call for free on 116 123. Keep checking on your friends and loved ones, and keep talking. Your voice is powerful. Use it; you never know how much of a difference it makes.
Geek Girl Eats Cake 