In my role as librarian, I was introduced to an interesting picture book about an adult not taking in a child’s world. Fixed to their phone, the adult never looks up to see what the child is wondering at, questioning, experiencing. So the child craved attention that the adult couldn’t give. From the child’s point of view, the adult is absent and uncaring.
As a teacher, I learnt to look ‘beyond the behaviour’. In this case, why is the adult not engaging with the child’s world, interests and imagination? The adult IS there, ie physically present, in the same room, on the same walk etc, and yet to the reader it’s obvious the child must be feeling terribly alone. Why?
As a grown-up, I can feel lonely in a crowded room. Often surrounded by people chatting, laughing, enjoying the social atmosphere, in my head I experience the noise, light, scent, taste, texture separately and all at once and therefore in excess. This is sensory overload. I now avoid situations that overload me, that are too much. Why? because it hurts: physically and mentally. And it takes a long time to recover from.
Like the difference between a corner shop and a hyper-market, I can tolerate parties in small doses, if there’s somewhere quiet to retreat to (a safe space) and if I’m in comfortable company (this applies to work and pleasure).
Having friends, colleagues and family who understand this is vital for maintaining a healthy mind and outlook. For everyday function and functionality.
Crash and Burn
For those who prefer metaphors, imagine this:
You say you are a car driver, that you can drive. You have passed your test in the theory and practice of driving. Does that make you a safe driver? More to the point, what makes you a safe driver?
Imagine the impact of each of these things:
The car takes petrol. You add diesel.
The windscreen is dirty. You never wash it.
The fog lights don’t work. You don’t find out why.
The brake lights don’t work. You don’t notice.
Every road surface feels bumpy. You haven’t checked the tyre pressure.
The heating doesn’t come on. You constantly complain.
You’re given a Haynes manual for your make and model: You give it away.
Does your car get you from A-B safely? No, it does not. It breaks down. You get a flat tyre on the motorway. You crash. Why? Because as a driver you have done the social-situation-party-host-equivalent of shouting at your guests, spiking their drinks with drugs, blinding them with multi-coloured flashing disco lights and making them dance around their handbags because you didn’t provide a cloakroom.
And the moral is? Passing your test is just the beginning.
If you think you are now a car driver, think again. Ask yourself, what do I need to help me be a safe driver? And then, hopefully, you’ll be less likely to breakdown, get a flat tyre, crash. And more likely to enjoy the journey, wherever it takes you.
P.S. Did you spot the connection to writing and 'getting unstuck'?
Families. Love them, hate them (hopefully not!). Either way, they can be inspiration or distraction for story making, which equates to the same thing really.
Present company, whether they bring us joy or angst, can be supportive. Cups of tea and slices of cake to keep us going, looking after the kids, or cat-sitting so we can take some time out to actually put words on the page.
The ones yet to be born; our future family are, come to think of it, the ones we are writing for. We owe them everything, so spare them nothing – bare all!
Perhaps though, the most interesting family are the ones who are no longer with us: our past participles. We are all we have learnt from them, all they have given us. They are gone and not forgotten.
Therefore, delving into our family history can indeed be a great story starter. Everyone has their own ready-made cast of characters to research, explore the places they lived and define their professions. This, I learnt, while writing my own story.
For years I’ve researched and traced my family tree to the bewilderment of some living relatives. Why do you want to know about the past? Why do you want to visit their old haunts? Why do we have to spend every Saturday afternoon scraping moss off headstones to read indecipherable names? Why, why, why? Because it’s interesting. Because I want to know who I am and where I came from. And, ironically it seems, only the dead can tell me.
Perhaps not everyone wants to know and that, I accept. For curious minds however, and future selves who might not know yet that they might want to know in the future (if you see what I mean), we owe it to them to have the choice.
So, family history keepers write down what you know about Great Uncle Bulgaria, or cousin Jane twice removed. Think about their lives, their interests, their jobs and what was happening in their world. Create a timeline, draw a map, build a picture of their environment and step into their shoes.
Comfortable? Well, accept that someone else’s brogues might not be a perfect fit because it’s only a metaphor and look with your own eyes – just look a little longer and a little deeper and maybe your ancestors will give you a story starter!
If delving into the past doesn’t unstick your words (it’s not for everyone), return to the present and apply the same thoughts to your life, your special interests, or best subjects at school and write what you know.
For example:
· Some writers focus on historical fiction
· Some writers have favourite settings they return to
· Some writers prefer science fiction and fantasy
· Then there are the adventure writers
· While others have skills in poetic language and a real way with words
to bring their stories to life, or use dialogue as the key to moving the action forward
However you do it, the most important thing to know, is that if you want to write a story, you have to start!
Updated: Aug 17, 2023
What are your earliest memories?
I’m sitting in the bay window of my childhood bedroom following the path of raindrops as they make their way down the outside of the glass.
I’m fascinated with how the water catches and wells at the bottom of each V in the diamond shaped leaded panes.
There is no direct route.
Natures tears have to wait their turn to fall to earth.
Gran is washing me in the kitchen sink of a holiday park static caravan, on the Isle of Wight.
It’s my first day at Infant School.
I’m waiting outside the gates with Mummy.
I’m wearing a yellow dress, not school uniform.
Apparently, the last two didn’t happen quite like that.
I suspect memory, second hand story and photograph have been stirred into a generous helping of time to create a fiction-mess.
Are your memories always in colour?
I can see that yellow dress (and feel the scratchy polyester against my bare legs!).
The sink is stainless steel and the kitchen is white; maybe even colourless.
My bedroom walls are peachy-pink.
Floral patterned navy blue curtains are pinched back from the bay, their roses concertinaed in a fabric press.
Those images lead to other images in my mind, spilling out from each room or setting:
I can see the school playground… fragments of games, faces, noise.
Gran is singing to me, lulling me to sleep.
I’m walking out of my bedroom, into the hall.
Doors to the other rooms are open, waiting to be remembered and explored.
What can you remember?
Close your eyes and picture a place or time you know well. It might just start a story…
