Endangered pets

The glamorous neighbour has jetted off to Northern Ireland to visit family and doesn't seem to have learnt from the sea monkey incident, when the then-three-year old gave the tank a shake to liven them up. They didn't seem any worse for it, but it took me a while to recover.

So when the glamorous neighbour knocked on the door late one night and asked if I'd mind looking after the stick insects for a week, I really ought to have said no. Perhaps I didn't learn much, either.

It's going well so far - they're low maintenance and the kids love helping. We spray inside the tank every day and put a few sprigs of foliage in every other day for the beasties to chomp on. I haven't yet spotted any of the insects, nor the eggs that the glamorous neighbour says are in there...low maintenance, but boring!

They're not eating the foliage very quickly. The glamorous neighbour didn't say anything about clearing out the older foliage, so the tank is beginning to resemble a jungle. The four year old and I were peering in there today and I made the mistake of mentioning it.

"Easy," he said, reaching for the lid. "I'll throw some in the bin, Mummy."

With reactions that Superman would be proud of, I grabbed his hand just before he began plundering. Maybe I have learnt something after all - to guard against the four year old. But perhaps next time I'll just say No to pet-sitting...

Falling before the hurdles...

One of the first tips when entering competitions is to read the rules properly. I'm a  bit obsessive about that - I find myself scrutinising what font size to use, and how to format my work. But I made a massive mistake when I entered a children's story competition, and I'm not quite sure how it happened.

Perhaps I only read the theme in the overview of competitions that arrived in January, though I think I read it a few times in the magazine when the competition was open, too, as I remember rewriting some of it to fit the brief. So perhaps I just misunderstood.

The details mentioned an untraditional family, and being a bit of a plank that day, I didn't interpret that as a stepfamily. I wrote a story I was proud of, as it's not a genre I'm keen on, nor drawn to, but I worked hard on it, and it made my eight year old laugh. It probably wasn't very original; it was about a little boy, Jack, whose stay-at-home mum returned to work with glee, leaving Dad in charge - just before Jack's birthday. Not impressed that Dad was in charge of the party, he and his little sister started a campaign to sack Dad and reinstate Mum. 

As soon as I saw the winning entry in the magazine, I could have kicked myself - my story was never on the right lines. I'm so disappointed in myself, but it's a reminder to read carefully before you write. I've just completed the October and November's stories, (leaving me with only one to go!) but before I send them, I'm going study the details one more time.

 I never thought I'd say it, but there is something worse than failing because you're not good enough:  failing because you weren't careful enough. Grr!

Back of Beyond

I don't really live in the back of beyond; it's a small town on the edge of the Peak District with distracting views (if you don't look too closely at Sainsburys in the valley). It has some quirky, individual shops that are tempting when you're trying to keep hold of your cash, and a dilapidated library that rumour has it will be improved at some point. But is there a writing group here? No. Within a five mile radius...? Err, no.

In my grand quest to improve my writing, the thing I really need is some feedback; proper, unbiased feedback, preferably from people who know a little bit about writing. I am going to pay for a critique of one of my novels (one day - perhaps when the library is renovated), or perhaps even embark on a writing course, if I find time between washing uniforms and cooking uninspiring meals. (The uninspiring meals are often what causes the need to wash the uniforms.)

So joining a writing group seems like the obvious thing to do next to improve my writing. There's no way I can commit to the nearest group, however, which meets weekly in a market town twenty minutes' drive away. As I pondered this problem, (ignoring the little voice that suggested I set up my own writing group and let the children wander around in sweaters stained with spaghetti bolognese), I realised that the internet could be the answer. There must be online groups, surely?

And I was right. There are groups. And more groups. And more....and now I'm paralysed by indecisiveness. How am I meant to choose? And, since using one is not as defined as 'Monday night at 8', what if I end up spending so much time playing around in an online writing group that I use up all the time I'd tagged for writing in...? Or am I just afraid of stretching myself?

Would love to hear other people's experiences and recommendations!

Three to go!

I made the ghost story deadline with only 24 hours to spare. This is my idea of living on the edge...I've had a look at what next (concentrating my thoughts on the next project does make rejection easier) and was slightly shocked to see that the end of my year of stories is approaching fast.

 There's an adult fairy story to submit, which is already at second draft stage (thank goodness. I look ancient enough with the strain of four children, without going grey over deadlines) ; a flash fiction story which will, at least, be fewer words to conjure, although it will need a lot of skill; and then a final story for December which has a given first line. 

I think that final one will be the hardest as I have no ideas what I will write yet, and I know that the deadline will rattle towards me amongst all the Christmas chaos that comes at the back end of a year. But I'm starting to believe I might make it - that I might actually write and submit a short story for every month of the year. 

It will be time then to plan a writing goal for 2014... How are you doing with your writing goals this year? I'd love to hear what goals other people have set, and maybe I can steal one for next year!

Sod's law

If anything that can go wrong eventually will, I might as well embrace pessimism now. I'm certainly working my way through a variety of disasters from the mild and faintly humorous to major and life-changing.

The four-year old, finally mature enough to remember house rules like: "Only draw on paper", drew on the wallpaper at the top of the stairs. A row with my husband cast a cloud over a day. The baby has a strange growth on her inner lip. (The doctor says it's fine and will go away.) A friend had bad news at a hospital appointment. Steam from the dishwasher has made the veneer peel away from the cupboard door, and I really need to fix that before the four-year old spots it and makes it irreparable.

But, "Sometimes things don't go, after all, from bad to worse..." (Sheenagh Pugh). Writing Magazine thumped through the letter-box this morning, and I turned straight to the short story competition, and saw my name in the short-listed column. Wow. Then I looked at the letters page and my name was there, too. Little successes are enough to sweeten a day, even if they can't erase worries about people I love.

Maybe there's a reverse Sod's law  - anything that can go right, eventually WILL. (I might as well be unrealistically optimistic as pessimistic - it's more fun!) What better reason to persevere, than believing that things will eventually go the way you imagine?

The landscape of life

The landscape of our family life has changed enormously in the past two months.

 I'm handling the daily turmoil that comes with a separation, jerking from one emotion to another. My thoughts are an endless stream of non-sequiturs, and the children don't respect my need to lick my wounds in peace. I'm glad; their irreverent happiness and endless demands for attention don't leave room for wallowing, though there are days when I feel like I'm not waving, but drowning.

It's crippled my creativity, but I've kept writing - to friends, my sister, my husband. Maybe one day I can use this bleak time for something. For now, I'm waiting for it to pass.

And September is here; season of the spiders, pressed uniforms, stuffy central heating and turning leaves. The tribe are back at school...and this year, that means three of them. The house feels empty; the baby is a delight and our time together feels like a something to be treasured. She sleeps for a couple of hours a day - hours I could fill with distracting American sit-coms, and which I should fill with domesticity.

I really want to spend those hours writing, and on at least three days I've guiltily indulged myself, dragging myself back to reality for a school run that I'm not fully present at.

 Perhaps I'm recovering - or perhaps next week I'll be sluggish again.

I just hope the baby doesn't grow out of her daytime naps too quickly.

Perspiration

My latest story has been the product of perspiration rather than inspiration. I'm slogging on with my self-set challenge to enter a competition a month and my latest was August's Love Story (with a deadline in September - best not ask, I think).

I'm not feeling loved up at the moment, so it was a feat to think up a love story at all. This was, however, the whole point of my challenge - to write things I didn't FEEL like writing; to force myself to produce in a way I don't usually. I had to cheat slightly and took Rapunzel, one of my favourite (and quite dark) fairy stories as inspiration. It didn't flow; it hiccuped along and I must have written eight drafts, as the deadline raced towards me. There were several times I felt like giving up, and times when plot jams looked impossible to sort out. But I plodded on, and in the end I was quite proud of what I'd achieved.

I'm not sure the story is great - I'm fairly sure when I next look it over it will horrify me. But I was pleased this morning, and when I hit 'send', with only two days to spare, the sense of achievement was more than I have felt for any other story this year. I suppose it has been such an effort, the achievement is proportionally impressive.

I'm especially proud of myself for keeping a promise to myself, to write this story, despite all the excuses (many of which are quite plausible) I could have made. I'm proud of my determination to write...and I'll look back to this high moment next time I'm cringing over a rejection.