This is the leg

And this is my daughter-in-law on having met with no understanding

Trudi Murray

This is the leg that had a cut
and this is the germ that crawled right in
This is the fever that came on fast
and this is the bed of hot and cold
This is the dash for help at dawn
and this is the Doctor who acted quick
This is the blip he expertly spots
and this is the query? a bad surprise
This is the Doctor who ordered a scan
and this is the specialist and her machine
This is the findings in black and white
and this is me, reluctant to hear it

This is the waiting.

This is the fun, I thought on the way
and this is the town I’ve never been to
This is the map I followed along
and this is the clinic here, at 3
This is the waiting room, hot and full
and this is the baby crawling about

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Music cells

At school we did music practice in tiny rooms that had once been nuns meditation rooms. There was room for a piano and a person. They weren’t very soundproof and walking down the cloister outside one could hear a cacophony of piano, violin, cello, flute, oboe, etc.

But not from my cell.  I used that time to scribble romantic stories -mainly fantasy – in little notebooks and on scrap paper.  I never got caught.

That is why I scribble and am not a concert pianist.

REGRET

Regret. It ought to be banned.

It comes together with waste.  Waste of time, waste of potential, waste of knowledge, waste of life.

Here I am at 70 and I regret my life’s lack of self confidence, that I didn’t train as a teacher, that I accepted how the world was – a place where  the highest I could achieve was  Personal Assistant!   And certainly not ‘the boss’.  Why ever not? Why did I accept the mores of our time, the gender gap, the not good enough for university. Why did no-one challenge me?  I realise now that I am not stupid .

How little my education gave me, how little I made the effort to use what it did give me.  How I regret that I was not kicked and pushed and thrust to achieve. I regret that no-one knew I scribbled my stories – a secret because I didn’t think they were ‘good enough’!  Only now I begin to explore the world of writing, the blogs, the help that’s out there, waiting to be picked up and used.  Of course it’s not completely too late, but I regret I didn’t find it sooner.

The tagline of my one and only story, Dolphin Days, creeping towards publication is “If you don’t experience failure, you’ll never learn to handle success.”  My protagonist is quite like me, really.

Progress

Today the typescript was reduced to single line spacing. Ensure Fast Draft otherwise the ink will bankrupt me. Margins narrowed almost to extinction. Spend time stripping paper off gummed blocks of squash scoring sheets and using it to print. (I am a Scot). Then press button on Print All.  Discover no page numbers printed. Spend time numbering by hand 185 pages.  Discover the squash scoring sheets weigh twice as much as cheap paper and I can barely lift 185 pages.  Write begging email to an author friend asking her to proof and edit.  Think the postage will make me faint.

‘Ere we go

Well, I suppose we all have to start somewhere, but I never thought I’d have to Blog. Such a revolting word. Nearly as bad as Moist.

I wrote a story. Now I’m told I have to promote it if I want anyone to read it, so….

What did the earwig say when he fell over the edge?