Writing out of my experience

 

I have always been a pacifist and if I had ever been in the position of fighting in a war, I would have been a conscientious objector and, gone to prison. Writing out of my experience I deduced would therefore be writing from the opposite perspective.

I remember in 19405/6 I asked my mother why there was a house in the Cresent with hedges so high and thick that one couldn't see the house or into the garden. The reply was that the people who lived there were conchies. She then explained what a conscientious objector was. 

March 1915 somewhere on the Western Front

The mud is deep and thick. It is also frozen. The temperature has been below freezing for days. The men are dying like flies, not only from bullets or bombs or grenades but from flu. Spanish flu. They have no idea why it is called Spanish flu. German flu would have made more sense. All night long explosions are loud, and the night sky is occasionally lit up like fireworks but the two squaddies sharing a cigarette know otherwise.

"I can't stand this," says Tom.

"What choice have you got mate. It's not like you can hail a taxi and ----"

"Don't be daft man. I have heard of some blokes shooting themselves in the foot. They get sent home."

His mate Jack says, “I suppose that’s one way out. I am too much of a coward to do that.”

Tom asks, “What brought you here anyway?”

“Me Dad I suppose. And the neighbours. And the newspapers. And the bloody posters. I couldn’t sleep. All I could hear was, "coward, coward, coward”. So 'ere I am. In the trenches. O' course, I’m frightened as well. I am terrified. I write home as often as possible because I am here to make my father proud of me. He told me that if I didn’t sign up, he would disown me. I love me Dad and didn’t want him to be ashamed of me. He and me mother took me to the station (me mother was crying o' course). They wanted to give me a family send off. He actually shook my hand. “

“I wonder if he would be proud of you if you could see you now, soaked to the skin, freezing cold, dying of hunger and shivering from fear.”

“Well, that’s the last of the ciggies. And there’s no food left. “

“What the bloody hell is that.”

“ShShSh. Don’t move. Someone is creeping along the trench. I can just see his helmet. It’s a bloody Gerry.”

“I can’t kill another man, Gerry or no Gerry.”

“You must. If we don’t kill him, he'll kill us.”

The German faced them and pointed his rifle.

The squaddies faced the German and aimed their rifles at him.

Just then a grenade exploded in the trench at the same time as the two squaddies and the German fired their guns.

Jack’s mother opened the door to receive the telegram.

“Well, are you satisfied now,” she said to his father, “Are you proud? Here you read it.”

Of course, it said,” KILLED IN ACTION”.

Last Line First

 Last Line First

I knew I had flaws. Despite my vanity and pride, my quick temper, my eccentricities and rapacious literary ambitions, I believe Paul had truly loved me. He had been an exciting and wonderful lover. Yes, Paul was the love of my life, the one who would for ever live in my heart.

As for my feminist leanings, the remark he had once made that he never objected to my "hobbies", nor ever attempted to confine me in any way, was perfectly true. At least that is what he told himself.

He was a musician and at first, I attended all his concerts and in truth some rehearsals too. I even flew back from Italy, where I was on holiday, to hear him perform the Bruch violin concerto. But, early on I recognised that there was a danger of my life revolving around his. At first, I managed to write in the margins as it were during his rehearsals. Writing, unlike music is silent and moreover can be done discretely. There was no paraphernalia. Unlike the amount of baggage, he hawked around. It wasn't just the instruments (he played the French horn and the trumpet as well as the fiddle for a time) it was the bags of music, and the music stands and sometimes amps and mics. At first no-one knew that I was a writer not even him.

I am not sure how it came about but people started to ask,” What are you writing?” and “I hope that is not a crit of the band.” and “Are you a journalist?”

 I would look up, smile and continue to write. Then I thought why not say more. So sometimes I'd say, “I am writing a short story.” or “It's my diary.”  Next, I elaborated, and I'd say,” It's the last chapter of my novel. I have to get it to the publisher.”

I had to change my replies because people started to want to know more and they would ask, "What's it about? And “What kind of novel is it? Detective? Historical? Love story? “

That did it. I had a light bulb moment. I asked myself some questions. “What in God's name was I doing? I wanted to be a writer. I had an office in my house with a damn good desk, a bookcase full of reference books, a telephone at my elbow, and even a computer which gave me access to Wikipedia.”

At about that time ten copies of my autobiography which I had self- published arrived. Of course, Jack knew nothing about it. He hadn't seen me writing it, nor had he been aware that I was communicating with a publisher. When I received the first copies, I put them on my well stocked shelves of books, and he never noticed. That all changed when my friend, Janet, suggested that she wanted to help me to take it from the page to the stage. She did most of the writing here, but I suggested which parts I thought would work and she wrote them. Janet had written a couple of plays and performed them around Liverpool and Manchester to great acclaim. We had a mutual friend who had produced and directed her plays and was willing to do the same for me. Keith was gay and a really good friend who frequently accompanied me to exhibitions and theatre productions. On one occasion when I told Paul that I was going to Manchester with Keith he seemed upset and objected. 

“You know Keith's gay, don't you? “I said. 

To which he replied, “Does he have a certificate to prove it?”

He was a good producer and director. We were lucky enough to perform my play in a prestigious theatre and it was well attended. The audience were very appreciative. Jack didn't appear. He knew the date, the venue and the performance time. A huge bouquet arrived at the theatre from him for me. Later, he didn't ask about the performance, but he did ask if I had received the bouquet. He wanted praise for his exceptional thoughtfulness.

I managed at last, to end the relationship. For now, I had become what I had always longed to be, a woman of letters.

Quote -Georgia O'Keefe

I wrote this in 2011 

One works because it is the most interesting thing one knows to do. The day one works are the best days. On the other days one is hurrying through the other things one imagines one has to do to keep one's life going. You get the garden planted. You get the roof fixed. You take the dog for a walk.You spend the day with a friend...You may even enjoy doing such things...But always you are hurrying through these things with a certain amount of aggravation so that you can get at the paintings again because that is the high-in a way it is what you do all the other things for...The painting is like a thread that runs through all the reasons for all the other things that make one's life.

This applies to me except the ' work' has changed from weaving to painting, to writing and now it seems to be gardening. And also for the past ten years learning French.

 The interesting idea which has come through is that the first quote comes first. No matter what the 'work' is I have to be alone and when I go to bed I like to know that I have achieved.

Where am I?

The Loss of Self

I have lost myself.  I am invisible. I don't know where I am. 

I can see an elderly woman in my house. She uses my bathroom, and sleeps in my bed. I have no idea who she is.

I try to find myself when she is in the bathroom. I look in the mirror. The bathroom mirror is/was always my favourite. 

I am not there, not in the mirror. My mother is there. But she can't be can she? She died 30 years ago and yet there she is.

The woman dresses in my clothes then goes slowly, ever so slowly, downstairs clinging to the banister. In the kitchen she puts on the kettle to make a cup of tea. As she reaches up to take a cup out of the cupboard, I notice her hand.  It is wrinkled and blue veins tell me that she is indeed very old. She makes the tea and takes it into the garden. She stops by the back door where she locates a walking stick. She carefully, oh, so carefully with the help of the stick,  mounts the three steps which take her to my favourite seat.

I think, "You can't sit there. That's my seat. I like it because I can see all of the garden from there." 

Back in the house I watch her eat my food. Throughout the day she moves about my house, reading, watching TV, and writing. She even went in my studio and added a few strokes to the painting that I have been trying to finish since Xmas.

Where, oh, where am I? I am invisible. Am I looking down from above? At the end of the day she, the elderly woman climbs the stairs, undresses and climbs into my bed. I try to find myself again in the big mirror above the dressing table. I am not there. My sister is there. She is often there. How can that be? She died before my mother.

So where am I? And who is this elderly woman who is living in my house?

Literature

 I have been reading about literature and feeling ignorant. The two writers whose books have made an impression on me are Christopher Hitchens and Virginia Woolf. CH was knowledgeable about the world, politics and literature. VW thought deeply about the written word. She theorised about the construction of stories and novels. She communicated with other writers e.g.  Arnold Bennet. She was bored with novels and wanted to create a new way of structuring her novels.  Her first experiment with this was "Jacob's Room.

I have discovered that I can educate myself on Google and Wiki about this. I didn't know that she had written a book of short stories. I shall go to the library and borrow VG's books.  This is a good site to explore.    Interesting Literature