Tuesday 1 February 2011

Tales from the Ghostwriter...Make hay while the sun shines.

I had waited all my life to start writing my book. I had forgotten for a lot of years who I was, and what I had planned to do. My three year old self knew precisely what the future held, but my forty year old self was absolutely clueless!

In the early months of that year something very sad happened. My Uncle Jim, who was eighty years old, and a wonderfully wise old chap (he had been very cantankerous in his younger days, but had mellowed out beautifully in his twilight years) was taken ill.

A cold night in January saw myself and my husband Mark darting about the streets of Bradford, trying to find a way through to the hospital. I had just finished work, Mark had picked me up, it was teatime, pouring with rain, and everywhere was gridlocked. Nonetheless, we were determined to get there before visiting hour was over, no-one else was available that night, and we didn't want Uncle Jim to go without visitors. Somehow we got there with half an hour left to spend with him.

Poor Uncle Jim, he was really pleased to see us, but obviously in a lot of discomfort, the conditions in the hospital were certainly not conducive to relaxing. We made small talk, as you do in these situations.
"It's no fun getting old you know," he told us, "make hay while the sun shines!"
On that note the bell rang to announce visiting time was over. I gave him a quick kiss on the forehead, we smiled, and then with a wave at the door, we left.
That was the last time I saw Uncle Jim, a few weeks later he passed away.

Around summer of that year I had what could be termed a break down. It was nothing dramatic. It sort of crept up on me, an inability to focus on what I was doing, a certain forgetfulness, feeling stressed and bemused at work, with things I would have easily taken in my stride before. Sometimes, travelling home on the bus, I would find myself starting to cry, just a little bit, and I really didn't know the reason. (mind you, if you've ever travelled on a Bradford bus, you might think that was justification enough!)

"Take some time off, go and see your doctor," my friend and team leader, Jo, advised, at work one day.
So I did.
"What appears to be the matter?" the doctor asked.
"Well you see..." I began, and then burst into tears, "I seem to keep doing this all the time!"
She passed me a tissue, and wrote a note for four weeks off work.

So there I was. Four weeks off work, gloriously sunny days, nothing much to do.
For the first two weeks I did pretty much that...nothing... I still felt out of sorts with myself, not as weepy, but I found new things to get stressed at.
I had a magnificent argument with a doorknob one day.
I was walking into the dining room, when for the third time that morning it "grabbed" me by the sleeve and threw me up against the door.
I whirled on it, and in my very best John Cleese impression (except I was deadly serious) yelled at it...
"I'm warning you! One more time, and you're coming off that door!"
I was pulled up short by the sound of explosive laughter from the stairs, my eldest son, trying hard not to fall down them at the sight of his apparently insane mother ready to have a fight with a doorknob.
I started to laugh too, there's nothing like laughter for easing a tense situation... even when it's with door furniture.

I think that was the turning point, I started to feel better. I was still forgetful though, on one day a quick tour of the house revealed fifteen different jobs I had started and then abandoned. Each time I was led into a different room I had forgotten what I was doing and started something else.
Ok, for those of you who know me, I was stressed then, and nowadays we can probably chalk it up to early onset senility.
Where was I again...

Oh yes. As I started to feel my spirits lift I began to ponder what exactly was the problem? It wasn't grief exactly, it was more to do with what Uncle Jim had said. His last words to me...
"Make hay while the sun shines."
The sun was shining that day, as I sat on the garden swing, but, I realised, I certainly wasn't making hay.
I was content with my life in many respects but one. I realised I really didn't enjoy my job.
I just kept doing it, because I didn't know what else to do.
If I was good at anything I'd long since forgotten what it was.
"Well," said my mother "when are you going to write that book you were always promising me years ago!"
She had a point, I just didn't know if I was any good at writing anymore.
It had been a very long time.
Over twenty years of writers block.
Plus I didn't know what on earth to write about.
"Write about me!" my mother urged laughing.
I should point out that by this time my mother had been dead for over two decades.

When you are getting advice from your dead mother you can do one or two things.
You can call a psychiatrist, or... you can write a book about it.
I decided to try the second option first. So, I started making notes...