It’s weird.

Facts:

I’m on my 12th OU module

I was 30 when I took my 1st course. I am now 42. (I stopped studying for 4 years when child No.3 was born.)

Although I have completed 11 modules successfully, I dropped out of 6 (4 of those were only short courses) before I knew in which direction I wanted to head.

I have stuck at and passed every single assignment and every single module in the last three years despite the grief of losing a parent and my son suffering from a head injury.

I now have a BA, and if I finish this current module, I will have a BA honours.

I’m already 3 assignments into a 6-assignment module.

The final 3 assignments are in Feb, March and April. Plus 1 end-of-course assignment (instead of an examination) in May.

But…

I have stopped opening my books.

I am worryingly behind with my reading.

I like what I have been reading but I don’t want to do the work bit.

I keep thinking, ‘Maybe tomorrow’ … ‘Maybe later…’ … ‘Maybe I don’t want to do this at all…’

I should have started work on the next assignment but I’m in no position to and I have no inclination to.

Why have I stopped?

What if I drop out? It’s no big deal is it?

If I drop out of this course I will not complete my honours degree. I will have spent A. Lot.
of money on a course I didn’t finish. I will have sniffed at but not touched the finish line.

The regrets may build over the years. The me in the future will be cross with the me of now.

What am I doing?

I know I can do it.
So why am I not?

I don’t know.

The student’s not talking to me.
I can only assume she has some sort of burnout.

It had been many months before they knew the extent of their age difference, background differences and physical differences. But by the time Carla found out that Joanna was in fact a tall, bony, soon-to-be great-grandmother of sixty-nine, and Joanna had found out that Carla was in fact a short, plump, childless, 27-year-old with a history of drug abuse it was irrelevant to the strong bond they had already built.
They’d got to the core of each other, you see – the bits you often never even find in those you see every day.

They agreed to meet, on neutral ground, on the Norfolk broads and for half an hour they simply took in each other’s appearances and recovered from each other’s accents, making self-conscious small-talk. It was all so polite, none of the usual teasing, and – if they were honest – it felt a bit wrong. As if they’d met up with strangers.

After awkward tea and sickly cakes, surrounded by quiet old couples in a small café, they set off for a walk. Side-by-side they battled, heads down, against the Easterly wind and slowly began to wonder at the sheer horribleness of the whole experience. Tears of wind-beaten pain glistened in their eyes as they turned to each other and roared with laughter. They preferred honesty. They were the same.

‘Fuck this, Jo,’ Carla screeched. ‘I could have shown you a better time in Bexhill, love!’
No one else ever called Joanna ‘Jo’ and she’d always liked reading it in Carla’s tweets. People weren’t pally with Joanna but Carla was pally.
‘All right. How long will it take to get there?’ Joanna offered.
Carla grinned up at Joanna and took her arm as they turned back inland towards the carpark. ‘Bloody hours but we’ve even got pies. You’ll feel right at home there, Chuck.’
‘And mash?’
‘We’ll mash up your chips for ya. You’ll probably need everything mashing up, won’t you, old girl?’
‘Fuck off.’ Joanna laughed but she wanted to cry with happiness. She’d never got to say that to anyone before. It was great. ‘Did you like those cakes?’
‘No. Too sweet.’
‘Far too sweet.’

…although I do secretly crumple with sadness and worry for humankind a little inside.

1. ‘I’m good’
When asked how they are if people respond with, ‘I’m good’? I think, ‘That’s great but didn’t ask how well behaved you are.’ What wrong with ‘I’m well thanks,’ or ‘I’m fine, how are you?’ or ‘Oh you know… getting by.’ Or how about surprising them with, ‘Still getting over that lottery win!’ Or ‘Just had to have my dog put down and I really need a hug.’

2. ‘My bad.’
Yucketty yuck balls. spit spit spit. Since when did people perform ‘a bad.’? How about the original and best: ‘My mistake,’ or ‘I’m sorry.’ It seems to be the new way of skating around accepting you’ve done something wrong. And it’s twee. I don’t like twee.

3. ‘I apologise.’
Go on then…
We don’t say to our children. ‘I cook your tea,’ and yet do nothing.
We don’t say to our betrothed, ‘I marry you.’ and then not turn up for the ceremony to say ‘I do.’
Worse still is if someone says, ‘If I offended anyone, I apologise.’
No you don’t. Because you haven’t accepted you’ve done wrong.

There are plenty more but I’m going for a walk now. I’m hoping the fresh air and exercise will make me less picky.

‘Catch you later!’
(When you fly through the air and almost land on me)

What are you? Who are you? What do you do?
What type of person are you?
Can you define yourself in a few words and guarantee that those few words will remain an accurate description of who you are for many years? Or, like me, will you need several words and the option to change your mind at any moment?
I’m sure there are plenty of life-changing moments within all of our existences where we redefine ourselves because of a change of direction or some sort of realisation. Or we discard a label because we find it too limiting and it groups us with other people that we feel we have nothing else in common with.

I recently read Virginia Woolf’s Orlando and came to the conclusion that we should go no further than ‘human’ or ‘person’ in terms of categorisation. Anything after that – and in the case of her story ‘male’ or ‘female’ – can be subject to argument.

This morning I listened to Hermione Lee talk about the writer, Edith Wharton. Edith wrote about feminist issues but strongly refuted any suggestion that she was in fact A Feminist. Hermione Lee said, ‘Many women write about feminism but don’t call themselves feminists.’
That’s because we don’t like labels and all the connections and assumptions that go with them, I thought. Once you admit to being an environmentalist, for instance you get placed into a box with a label ‘profit of doom’ or ‘hippie’ and the lid firmly closed on you. Isn’t it more sensible to avoid labels and leave everything open to conversation or we may end up inadvertently fitting someone else’s view of what our particular label means?

Are you clever or stupid? Do you see other people as clever or stupid? Do you judge people by whether they have a degree or not? Is it that simple?
I have strong socialist opinions but I am not a Labour Party supporter.
I am a writer but I don’t have a cat sitting on my lap. (I don’t particularly like cats. But that doesn’t make me an animal-hater either!)
I am a mother but that doesn’t mean I want to sit around with other mothers talking about my children.
I keep getting sent forms from the OU, asking me to fill in details about my current situation since finishing this, that and the other course. I can’t do it. I don’t fit the boxes.

Then within the same radio programme as the Hermione Lee interview, an American writer was interviewed talking about her book about optimism. (Look her up if you can be bothered. I’m not sure I can!) She stated that we all have optimism ‘hard-wired’ into us – that it is a human trait. Now any sort of blanket statement like that is like a red rag to a bull to me. How dare she make sweeping assertions like that?!
She then muddled her argument by saying that only 80% of people are in fact optimistic the other 20% are clinically depressed. Gosh. Which box do I fit in? Hmmm…
Oh no… but then she said that British people are pessimistic, because we are really optimistic but we are culturally pessimistic. We put on our pessimism.

Scratches head

Well I had a good long think about this. I am not naturally optimistic. I am not depressed either. I am British. But I am not putting it on. I am plagued by pessimistic thoughts and I fight them regularly. But I love life and never want it to end. So I think I must have fallen out of my box and got lots of different labels stuck to me on the way down. So maybe my parents lied and I am not British then. Or maybe I’m not human.

I did a light-hearted survey on Twitter this morning, by the way, and many – UK-based – people came forward to say they were in fact optimistic.

It must be time to make up a few more box labels because not everyone is fitting neatly into the ones we have so far.

Or shall we just say we are who we are and that’s that. (And even that is subject to the day of the week, hormones, the moon, what job we are doing, who we are hanging out with, what we are eating, and life experiences. Let’s face it – sometimes we just don’t feel ourselves)

Some descriptions are useful for helping us cope or stay away from those who might make us unhappy. I believe being diagnosed with Asperger’s is very useful, for instance, but it’s only one part of who a person is.
I’d probably stay away from someone who defined themselves as a child-hating, capitalist, diamond-obsessive because I’m a family-loving, socialist, sandal-wearer.
But that’s just me.

Or is it?

These ‘not necessarily what it says on the box’ thoughts that prompted me to take the above photo made me think about my Dad.
I have a box in the shed that he wrote on:

What’s in there is definitely not what’s on the label, as he wrote that for a joke. Mum won’t throw anything away (well, not much) because almost everything should be re-used or recycled. Her intentions are good but she never actually deals with all the boxes and piles. She would call herself green and an environmentalist, a recycler… but is she if she doesn’t actually get around to recycling…
I guess that makes her a hoarder.

Or does it?

I’m not wearing sandals today, by the way.
Today I am A Fluffy Boot Wearer.

Grabs labels and indelible pen…

‘It’s what I know. It’s all I know. It’s my whole life,’ she had said.

It had seemed like a fine answer. She’d known she was going to say it. It was true and convincing. All at once it would epitomise commitment, experience, loyalty. She would put in the hours. She would dedicate herself to the role. She knew that was what they would be looking for.

But when she heard herself say it she sounded pitiful:
‘It’s all I know…’

It’s all I have ever done…

Charlie had thought her presumptuous to write an email of resignation so soon after the interview. But of course she wouldn’t click Send just yet, would she? She was getting ready, that was all – preparing for the future. Optimistic. He liked that in a person.
You keep at it, you go up and up, you get more money, you have more choices in life, you have fewer and fewer people telling you what to do, you finally get to the top and you gain control. That’s how the system worked. Why on earth would anyone want to be one of the minions, thought Charlie, doing everything for less money and less respect? Other people clearly didn’t have the drive, ambition or talent that he and Ellen had. Their loss.

Charlie poured them a glass of Pinot Noir while Ellen stared at the screen and chewed the skin around her thumbnail.
‘D’you think you’ve got it then?’ he asked. ‘You seem pretty certain you’re leaving.’
‘Hmmm?’ Ellen was lost in thought. Her eyes scanned left to right to left, quickly, as she read.
‘How long before you hear? Did they say?’
‘Oh yes. I’m sure I’m leaving.’
‘But when?’
‘Now.’ She pressed Enter with a pronounced gesture and closed her laptop.
She was shaking. Her eyes were still flitting and she looked half-crazed as if she would explode into hysterical laughter at any second.
‘Jeez, El’, what if you don’t…?’ Charlie paused and necked his wine.

He’d always admired her gutsiness. ‘My missus has got balls,’ he often joked proudly. But he suddenly felt the exhilarating terror he’d experienced when he’d tried the fast slopes at Aspen for the first time. It was great when it all turned out all right in the end but the loss of control had scared the crap out of him. He began to shake too and poured himself another drink.

‘What are we doing with our lives, Charlie?’ she asked, standing up and pouring her wine down the sink.

‘Hopefully we’re getting to the top – that’s if you haven’t just become unemployed.’ He rubbed his forehead as panic made it sweat.

‘But why? What do we want?’ She was holding her car key and turning it over in her hands – as if it made them dirty.

‘A nice house. A bigger house. No mortgage. Nice cars. No one telling us what to do. To be in control of our lives. You know… and stuff. Holidays. Things. Comfort.’

Ellen released a huge breath and pressed the key onto the kitchen surface. She lined it up neatly next to her phone and her laptop and stepped back pushing her hands into her jeans pockets.

‘I’m going on a self-sufficiency course in Powys. I’ll get the train. I’ll phone you from the landline when I get there.’

‘You what?!’ Charlie spat wine and jumped towards her, reaching out for her shoulders. ‘You’re tired and stressed after the worry of the interview. Just sit down and we’ll talk. I think you’re having a nervous breakdown, love.’

‘Well, if I am, I thoroughly recommend it,’ Ellen laughed lightly and released herself.

Charlie squinted at her. ‘Are you leaving me? Are you having an affair?’

‘No. No. You can come too. I just didn’t think you’d want to.’

‘How long have you been planning this?’

Ellen looked at her watch. ‘About 47 minutes.’ She walked to the front door and opened it, picking up a rucksack from the floor.

‘And what about the job?’

‘What job?’ She raised her eyebrows and kissed Charlie’s cheek.

‘You can’t not work.’

‘Oh, I’ll be working.’ Her phone rang from the kitchen as she stepped outside and slung the rucksack on her back.

‘No. Earning a living. Just imagine for a minute not having the security of knowing you can afford a mortgage, go out for dinner, drive a car, be part of the financial world…’

‘I know. It’s exhilarating.’ Ellen grinned, wide-eyed. ‘I can feel the wind in my hair already.’

Her phone rang again and she strode away down the drive, swinging her arms. Charlie had started to follow her but he ran back up into the house and looked at her phone. A text appeared on the screen.

Charlie stared at the screen and downed another glass of wine.

He didn’t understand it.
There they were – sat under the electric light, leaning across the table to hold each other’s hands.
So that was that, he thought, as he lowered his binoculars…
She really was with who she said she would be with, and doing what she said she would.
Why?
Why wasn’t she lying, cheating, finding comfort elsewhere?
Women stole from him, went off with his sister’s husband, changed their phone number, laughed in his face.
He got satisfaction from being right when it all went wrong.

If she really was “working late” tomorrow, she’d have to go.

There’s a competition run by National Flash Fiction Day (UK) to write a micro-fiction of 100 words or less, here: National Flash Fiction Day Micro-Fiction Competition
UK writers only. Entry closes 31st January 2012.

Oh – and there’s this music-inspired, 100-word one too, for the One in Four charity which looks interesting: Caroline Smailes: A Challenge and the chance to see your story in print

Me

I had no idea how to sum up my year. So I went through my blog month by month and this is what I’ve come up with:

2011 has been all about me taking myself more seriously. Getting learnéd, finding my own way and trying to accept myself for who I am.

In January, I had some short stories published on the Ether Books app, and I took part in a River of Stones. I felt like a fraud. Me? A writer?!

In February I began a Health & Social care module with the OU – overlapping it with the Advanced Creative Writing module I’d already started in October. It was also, very sadly, the month my father-in-law died and I wrote a poem for his funeral.

In March I started to really assess myself as a writer. I began to worry less about what I had to do to define myself as a writer and instead I found myself thinking and writing about what kind of writer I was and realising that success for me simply meant writing what I wanted to write. I felt I had advanced from budding/wannabe/potential/whatever and was giving myself permission to say, ‘I am a writer,’ instead of waiting for some sort of golden ticket to Writer Land.

In April I struggled with unwelcome feedback on my blog and began to see how when people read your writing they can sometimes try to own a bit of it. They see things you didn’t intend, they offer alternate ways of writing, and they can criticise where it’s not wanted. They can even dare to tell you that you are wrong! I also noticed how people can wave experience or credentials in your face and try to beat you down. When people say something you really totally disagree with you absolutely have to stand your ground and I find that difficult.

In May, after a whirlwind of juggling two OU modules, I finally submitted my final assignment for my Diploma in Literature and Creative Writing. I wrote freely and experimentally away from the course and really enjoyed the release. I decided to stop entering competitions – which made me write total cardboard crap. I think I’ve entered three and also submitted to one magazine and when I look at that work it is the worst stuff I have written!

In June I wrote a blog post about my own late father for his seventieth birthday. I wanted to commemorate everything he was to me and how much of him has been passed down to me. He would have liked the me in my early forties that I am now, and it was a comfort to write positive things after two years of bad memories. I also found myself writing a lot of other non-fiction in reaction to things I saw going on in the world.

In July I wrote blog post after blog post after blog post, loaded with opinions and observations. Some fiction, some non-fiction and some a combination of the two. I was enjoying the freedom of owning my own words and knowing they were just to be read and not graded by an academic marker. I began to feel confident that I could say what I wanted on my own blog without fear of being judged. People that didn’t like what I wrote could bog off.

In August I found out I had passed my diploma and the realisation that I was only one module away from a degree began to sink in. I had taken courses to look at things more closely, discover things of interest, and on the way I was getting a degree. It is, to me, a wonderfully fulfilling way of learning – without a specific end goal. I sent in my final assignment for my final module a month early and celebrated the achievement. I wrote a blog post about the experience and had dozens of comments. I adore that feeling, like no other, of sharing and connecting that comes from writing.

I received my course materials for my Twentieth Century Literature module in September and have really enjoyed reading about other writers’ struggles, the way their writing was received in its time and how there is so very much disagreement between critics and writers about what is good and bad, right or wrong in writing. It’s quite reassuring really. I also turned forty-two and began to notice how much I was ageing. I couldn’t help noting how late I’d come to writing compared with famous and successful writers and it upset me. It still upsets me that I didn’t start sooner.

October was a time of more realisation. I started, and then pulled out of, National Novel Writing Month. I took part last year and managed to reach my target but think perhaps once was enough for me. For now I am a short story writer. The way my life is arranged and the way my head explodes with thoughts seems to suit the short story and flash fiction format. I was also very flattered to be invited to take part in the first National Flash Fiction Day which takes place next May!

In November I finally learned how to deal with negative feedback. I realised that if someone doesn’t “get” your writing you can’t make them. I realised that if you like something and don’t want to change it, even after taking onboard someone’s feedback, then you should get a second opinion. I realised that I mustn’t overreact or take feedback personally ( I’m still working on that one. I find comments about my writing very personal!) All writing needs a cooling off period. As do writers.

In December I haven’t really liked my writing. I’ve been bogged down with Christmas and a very demanding literature course (well, I think it’s demanding). There’s something about tension in my real life that screws up my creative flow. Having looked at December’s posts just now, I’m not very proud at all. It’s great to take nationally enforced time off with the family but I’ve had enough now and am starting to stress about everything I need to catch up with.
I had my degree confirmed this month, though, so I am now officially intelligent even if my writing has got worse!

So that’s brief snippets of my year. In summary: I am older, wiser and a kind of graduate-on-hold while I try to up my degree to honours.
I also noticed today – whilst trying to get a photo of myself, that I have started to sag around the jawline, I have a face that is too fat for my upper body and I have ludicrous nostrils.
Ludicrous, I tell you.

I have to write a writer’s profile for the National Flash Fiction Day site now and have no idea what to say… Should I mention the nostrils?

If you’re reading this, thank you. There are some fantastic people who I have met through Twitter that have given me much encouragement and support this year. I had absolutely no faith in myself or my own abilities and you have changed my life by reading and commenting on my blog/and/or my blipfoto journal. I can’t mention you all in case I forget someone but hopefully you know who you are.

If you’re a stranger – Hello!

The photo is a brave one for me. I usually like a facefull of makeup before I can even open the front door. It’s me, at home, at my usual end of the dining room table, in my favourite black jumper. (Check out the nostrils!)

She was. And then she wasn’t. And then she couldn’t.
But she knew she could. And she knew she shouldn’t.
But what else could she do?

So she did.
And she did it again.

And then she waited. And she listened.
And slowly…

…the words were aimed at her and not anyone or anything else.
The problems were due to her and her alone.

She became the focus of…

Well, of what?

And that’s where the problem lay. There was a problem and she’d been made to feel as if it was her problem but when it roared drunkenly across the room at her it looked like it wasn’t her problem at all. And the looks on people’s faces told her it wasn’t her fault either.

The problem was hate.
And cunning and concealment.

And spiking a drink with alcohol in order to prove all that to a roomful of people was the worst – and best – thing she’d ever done.

Despite the rumours.

I frequently notice how some people criticise those who apply instinct and imagination to their daily lives and instead quote statistics and ‘facts’ without really knowing what they mean or being able to apply them far and wide. I think there is a danger of being ‘stuck in facts’ without questioning them. It’s always seemed to me to be more progressive to look deeper, visualise further, and imagine how things could be different or better. I find imagining things to be a much much more thorough way of looking at the world.

Just a thought.

And here’s another one:

Many live in the ivory tower called reality; they never venture on the open sea of thought.
Francois Gautier

She said:
‘I prefer the brain and the personality I have now to the one I had when I was younger…
What a shame the body I had when I was younger was better than the one I have now…’
She shrugged.
‘But maybe the two were never compatible…’

He said:
‘What a shame we can’t go back in time.’

She said:
‘I wouldn’t go back even if I could,’ and opened the empty suitcase onto the bed, satisfied she was doing the right thing.