Angelina Kalahari

"Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself." by Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet

Author: Angelina Kalahari (page 2 of 5)

THE BEGINNING – EXTRACT FROM THE SENSE OF OTHER

Suddenly, an enormous squeeze clutches me. It’s too tight. More follow. They feel claustrophobic and angry somehow, unlike the warm, fuzzy rubs and hugs from Mother when she is suddenly overcome with love for me. These squeezes are much stronger. They feel serious and not loving at all. They are getting even tighter now, and more frequent. I want them to stop, but they do not stop. Why don’t they stop? It’s hurting now. One follows the next quicker and quicker. Mother’s sounds are loud. She is screaming. Has something happened to us, something bad? The squeezes are really tight, now, and getting tighter. Mother isn’t stopping them. I want to stop them but I don’t know how.

I’m moving, moving away from the warm weightlessness that was my home, down a very narrow place. It’s slippery, wet, and I can’t stop moving no matter how hard I try. I’m squeezed tighter than I ever imagined possible. My shoulders are squashed up towards my head. There are many other voices. Unfamiliar voices. The voices sound scared or excited, I cannot tell which.

Something is wrong. I know it straight away. I know it with the kind of knowingness when you just know something, and you don’t know how you know it. It was always only me and Mother. But now, another presence has made itself known. It is near me but I can’t feel it. I can only sense it. It is big, bigger than Mother or me. It is beyond our lives. I don’t know how I know that, but it is a sharp truth I will always know. The knowing lives inside me, without pictures, without words. But there are sounds. Earthly sounds. Mother’s sounds. Her voice. And other voices, deeper, scary. Mother is scared. Her heart is beating fast, her breathing more rapid.

My body moves even further down the narrow place. I don’t know how I know that I will see Mother’s face very soon. I’m happy about it, looking forward to it. But as soon as I start to relax, rough hands grab my head and pull me quickly through the narrow place. My body gulps air. My legs and arms flail. A bright light hits my eyes. I cannot focus on anything, but I know the skin I can feel beneath me belongs to Mother. I can hear her sounds. She sounds nearer, clearer and happy. She is making cooing sounds. Her soft hands touch me all over, as though she is checking that all of me is here, that I am safe. Just as I am getting used to the feeling of her hands on my body and her skin beneath me and the bright lights around me, other, rougher hands take me away from her. I feel instantly cold, then. Peculiar, pungent smells are all around me. I can hear a strange sound and realise that it’s coming from me. I am crying, yes, but I am astonished that I can hear the actual sound of my crying. I don’t remember being able to hear it before and I know that I have cried many times. I wonder if others can hear it too, if Mother can hear it. Will she come to me? Mother doesn’t come. But another someone comes – like her, but with a different smell and sounds. She picks me up. She makes soothing sounds and gently sways with me from side to side. It’s comforting. I stop crying. I look up at her and see that she is smiling.

“You poor little thing,” she whispers. “What will become of you? Your ma’s just a little baby herself.”

***

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Conor O’Reilly, would you just take this bloody child to the other room. I cannot stand his constant screaming any longer.”

Mother’s words are aimed at me. Her words hurt. But there is a painful, gnawing, empty feeling inside me that hurts even more. I don’t understand why Mother doesn’t help me. I know she can take it away. But she has been lying on the small red sofa for days now. Conor and Mary have tried to take care of me as best they can. But both still being so young they need looking after, themselves. Mary, especially, often cries with me. But Conor, being slightly older, is always quiet. He never cries, or laughs, or speaks.

Conor picks me up from the floor where I had been sitting, playing with the empty bottles until one broke and a shard of glass cut my finger. It hurts, but less than the empty feeling in my body. Red liquid is everywhere. It’s coming from my finger. Conor puts me down again. He puts his mouth over my finger and sucks the red stuff into his mouth. I stop crying and watch him. Conor’s blonde hair is standing on end, matted and unwashed. His blue eyes, like Mother’s, are closed. His face is screwed up in concentration. He sucks hard on my finger, holding my hand firmly to his mouth. But each time he pulls my finger from his mouth, the red stuff starts to flow again from the small wound. Mary, who is sitting next to me, has also stopped crying. Like me, she is watching Conor’s attempts to stop the bleeding. As though she suddenly remembers something, she gets up and waddles down the hallway, her nappy hanging full and low down her little legs, her dark hair bunched up from sleeping on it. I watch her go, wondering when I would be able to stand and walk, like her. She isn’t much older than me. Conor pays her no attention and goes back to sucking on my finger. The only sounds in our small living room are the telly and Mother’s soft snoring. It’s amazing that she could be so cross one moment and fast asleep the next. I wish I could do that. But the empty, gnawing pain in my stomach has often kept me awake.

Mary comes back into the room with a tiny piece of toilet paper. She offers it to Conor. He takes it and carefully puts it around my finger. The red stuff makes a big red mark on the white paper but at least it doesn’t flow anymore.

The doorbell buzzes, and Conor goes to answer it. Mary sits down beside me and holds my hand.

Uncle walks into the room with long strides, followed by Conor. “Jesus, it stinks in here,” he says, and quickly opens a window before moving to Mother. He shakes her shoulder but she doesn’t wake up. She just grumbles in her sleep.

Uncle brought the cold, fresh smells of outside into the room with him. Other smells came with him, too. The sharp smell of fresh alcohol and food smells that make all our tummies rumble. Uncle’s dark hair is short and clean and his blue eyes wild with an emotion I don’t understand.

“Conor,” says Uncle, “take the babes into the other room. I want to talk to your mother. And change their nappies if you can.”

Conor picks me up again and Mary follows behind as we make our way down the hallway to the bedroom we share with Mother. The room is much colder than the living room where the small heater lives. Mary crawls onto her small unmade mattress on the floor in the opposite corner. She tucks her teddy close to her body. Her lips, fingers, legs and feet are blue from the cold and she is shivering. Conor puts me down on Mother’s single bed, also unmade. The sheets and blankets are cold against my back and they smell funny.

Conor changes my nappy quickly. It feels immediately warmer having a dry nappy. The empty feeling in my tummy still hurts but now I can tolerate it more. Mary knows it’s her turn next and she gets up from her mattress and comes to stand next to Conor. He lifts her on Mother’s bed so that she lies next to me. She is quiet, clutching her teddy in one hand, her other hand holding mine. As soon as her new nappy is on, Mary draws Mother’s sheets and blankets around me and her. She lies close to me. I feel slightly warmer. Conor doesn’t wear a nappy anymore.

Conor leaves the room and I know he has gone to put the nappies in the bucket in the bathroom. But he comes back very quickly, with the nappies still in his hand, his face white, a frown between his eyes. He doesn’t say anything. He closes the door, puts the nappies on the floor next to Mother’s bed, and goes to sit on his own mattress against the far wall of the small room. He sits with his back against the cold wall, his head in his hands on his knees that he has drawn tight against his body.

Mary and I are quiet. We are watching him. He doesn’t move or look at us.

We listen to the sounds coming from the other room. Uncle’s voice; loud, demanding. Mother’s voice; speaking fast, rising as if she’s trying to defend herself. Sounds of a struggle, Mother screaming, something breaking, probably more bottles. A rhythmic banging sound and Mother’s low wailing, followed by Uncle’s sudden loud, piercing cry. Then, silence. Silence for a long time…

***

I cry as I wake up, the gnawing feeling in my body is overwhelming and making me feel quite ill. Mary wakes up and starts crying, too. Conor is still on his mattress but he must have fallen asleep as well because he is lying under his blankets. He gets up quickly when he hears us crying. His eyes are red and swollen.

The door flies open. Mother is standing in the doorway. She is swaying slightly. Her hair is a mess, she has a blue bruise on her eye and a raw swelling on her lower lip. Behind her, Uncle appears. His eyes are not so wild anymore. Instead, he is smiling.

“There he is, my little man. Just look how much you’ve grown.” He pushes past Mother into the room and picks me up. “We’re all starving, Moreen. Let’s get some food. My little man is hungry. What do you feed him these days?”

It feels like a feast day, all of us sitting in the warmer living room. Mother is sitting on the sofa with me at her breast, Uncle on the beanbag with a plate of steaming spaghetti, and Conor and Mary side by side at the small table in the corner. I know they’re enjoying themselves because they’re swinging their legs as they’re eating. Mother’s plate sits next to her on the sofa. She takes small, careful bites every now and then.

I’m not sure if we are a real family, or not. I’m not sure that I like Uncle. But at least Mother is awake now, and the horrid, empty feeling in my body is disappearing. I don’t want to drink any more milk. Mother puts me down next to her on the sofa. She picks up her plate of spaghetti. My eyelids are so heavy. I don’t want to sleep because I like the sounds of my family around me. I revel in the warmth of the room and the lovely full feeling in my tummy. I’m listening to the voices of Mother and Uncle talking as they’re eating.

“So, what are you going to do with the older two?” Uncle asks. “You can’t have them all here. I can’t support all of them. They’re not mine. And you better be right about Lee being mine because if I find out otherwise…”

Even though I’m so sleepy, something in my mind registers the words and the meaning behind them, somehow. The thing I know that is wrong with me, stirs. It feels like me, but not like me. It feels big, bigger than Uncle, and powerful and dark. It peeps out at Uncle. I hold my breath. But after a few moments, it slinks back inside. I breathe out. I’m relieved because I fear I could not control it once it came out fully. I know it is waiting. Waiting for blood, for souls. For when I’m bigger…

SHORT STORY – REJECTION

“There’s gold in that voice,” my singing teacher said.

She was talking to my mother. I’d first seen that smile on my mother’s lips when I was around two or three years old. It happened when the adults around me had identified the noise I made as singing. Now, at the grand old age of six, I couldn’t remember a time without my voice, without singing.

My parent’s encouragement had made itself known in a small, pale blue, miniature baby grand piano that waited for me under the Christmas tree one year. It was perfect. I was delirious with excitement. A toy, with real keys that I could individually play, I adored that piano. Hours blurred one into another as I sang along to my heart’s content. The noise must have driven everyone around me insane. No wonder then that the piano disappeared one day, never to be found again.

I don’t know where the urge to sing came from, but there it was. Only much later did I discover that my grandmother also sang. Her grandmother was an opera singer in Europe somewhere before they’d left to make a new home in Africa, where we now lived.

We lived on a farm in the middle of nowhere. It was a big deal when guests came to visit. As the distances between farms were so huge, visitors would typically stay for a meal – either lunch or dinner. I was the entertainment. My mother would dress me up, brush out my long hair, and I would be summoned to sing for the adults after the meal. I can’t remember what I sang – it might have been hymns. Afterwards, I would receive applause and my mother would give me sweets to share with my sister as we were sent away from the adult company.

When it came time for school, I joined all the other shy, unsocial children from the surrounding farms. We stared at each other with big, curious eyes, but had learned that children were to be seen, not heard. We were an obedient, quiet bunch. Talking in front of each other was a struggle. Singing was out of the question. So, when the teacher wanted to test us for the choir, she devised a cunning plan. Square windows at the top of the wall that divided two classrooms were left open. In one of the classrooms sat all the students in neat, quiet rows. In the other was a piano. After being taught a song altogether, one by one, the students were ushered into the room with the piano. Being unable to see the classmates encouraged each young singer to utter sounds that indicated they had at least remembered the song. But in some cases, the tiny voices were so quiet that only the piano could be heard as the teacher softly played the accompaniment. Despite the awkward situation, the teacher bravely continued to search for new members of the choir to replace those who had left to join the secondary school.

My turn came. Being a seasoned professional, I sang as I usually did in front of our guests on the farm. After a few bars, the teacher stopped playing. I stopped singing, worried that I had done something wrong. But her hands were clasped in front of her mouth, her eyes were smiling at me and silent tears ran down her cheeks.

At home, I handed the letter from the teacher to my mother. She wiped the flour from her hands, untied her apron, and patting me on the head, took the letter from my hand. We sat at the kitchen table, my legs swinging in anticipation.

After what seemed like ages, I realised my mother was reading and re-reading the letter. But I couldn’t read her face when she finally looked at me. She folded the letter and put it on the table in front of her.

“You have not been selected for the choir, Annie. I’m so sorry.”

My heart stopped wanting to jump out of my chest from excitement and instead, stopped from the tidal wave of disappointment that flooded through my body. The tears that spilt from my eyes made my voice sound small and tight.

“Why? I did my best. I sang better than the others.”

My mother put a warm hand that smelled like flour and cookies on mine, but she didn’t smile. Her eyes looked as sad as I knew mine were. Singing was all I ever wanted to do. I was only going to school so that I could sing. Mother had told me that I could join the choir and I could hardly wait. Now, this. It was so unfair.

“You did sing better than the others, darling. And that’s why… Your voice is much louder than theirs. You won’t be able to blend in with the others.”

She patted my hand.

“We’ll think of something…”

I was still crying on my bed when I heard mother’s voice talking on the phone that stood on the small table in our long corridor. I couldn’t hear what she was saying but she was using her firm voice.

The next day after school, I started singing lessons with a singing teacher. But I carried the rejection from the choir deep in my heart.

After a month or so of lessons, my teacher entered me for an Eisteddfod, the annual singing and performance competition. It was my first performance in front of a hall filled with people. My mother thought I would be nervous. She held my hand as the chair beneath me shook from my uncontrollable trembling. But once I stood in front of the audience and the judge, a well-known operatic tenor, I loved every second of it.

Only when I won my first Eisteddfod as a soloist, did my six-year-old heart begin to feel hope that I could still sing even if it wasn’t with my friends in the choir.

Fading…

 

Fading…

Some days, she was herself again. Some days… What happened on the other days, the days that she was gone, she had no idea.

On the days of clarity, it felt as though she had been away on a long journey, only coming home now. She loved the feeling of coming home. It felt good to be home. It was such a relief. She felt as though she could breathe again. She wanted the feeling to continue, so this is where she would start. Here, where she was sitting in her living room, with her things around her. Here, where she felt safe.

Music lived here. It had lived here for many, many years. She would play, and they would dance and sing. Well, in the beginning, when they were too young to sing, they danced. She would be over there, by the piano, playing. He would be here, sitting on this sofa, watching them, his little family. They would be dancing: her little boy and his two younger sisters. They made up their own steps and danced with such joy, such abandon, such enthusiasm, as only small children could.

It was love at first sight. She had been around six or seven, and she knew immediately, irrevocably, that music lived in her soul. She did not know how she knew it, but she had been certain of it. As certain as the sun that smiled on the exotic, yellow African Daisies outside her mother’s bedroom window. As certain as the music that poured from the record player in the corner of the room.

The first time he had heard her play was when she was twenty years old, petite, and quite beautiful. It was a knowing within her then, her beauty. Not something she ever shared with anyone else. It was enough that it belonged to her. Like her music. But unlike her beauty, the music wasn’t hers alone. It had to be shared. She remembered well the feeling of sharing it. Of seeing the happy smiling faces around her at the hearing of it. Her feelings of satisfaction.

The beautiful dresses she could choose from, the expensive jewellery. But no rings. She had loved rings. But never any rings. Or bracelets. They clincked on the keys.

The travel: New York, Dublin, Cardiff, Edinburgh, London, Paris, Saltzburg, Milan, Rome, Athens, Barcelona, Berlin, St Petersburg, Beijing, Hong Kong, Singapore, Tokyo, Los Angeles, Boston. Exhausting, thrilling, consuming. The audiences. The applause. One performance blurred into the next as she travelled from country to country.

“So exciting, darling!” “So glamorous!”

But it wasn’t. It was work, work, work. She never felt more alive, more vibrant, more herself. Music opened her soul. It allowed her to see for herself, her path ahead. She was doing the thing she had been born to do. The thing that eluded so many others. That caused so much frustration and unhappiness as far as she could tell. But not in her. Each day was a new opportunity to explore more music, to live her purpose.

And her hair… She had been enthralled with her long dark hair. It highlighted her flawless pale skin. Well, it did then. The person staring back at her from mirrors now was a stranger. A stranger she met anew each time she looked into a mirror. She met many strangers these days. Some insisted that she should know them. That she had known them. Others carried that hurtful look in their eyes when she did not recognise them. She had come to know that look well.

Thoughts… Many thoughts. Maybe memories. Maybe dreams. They lived at the edge of her memory, teasing her with their presence. Thoughts of music. Thoughts of family.

When her babies came, she had stopped travelling. She loved her babies. But they never asked that she give up her music. He and her babies and her music lived together. He would stay with them at those times when she played. The musicals, the recitals and concerts. Accompanying other soloists. The huge old pipe organ in church. These had become her outlets for music. She was grateful. Grateful that her purpose still lived alongside her family. These were her passions. These fed her soul.

The organ extended the music. Now there was Handel’s Messiah, too, and Bach’s toccatas and fugues for postludes. Practising in the beautiful old church was an opportunity to dress up, as much out of respect for the church, as for the music. Sunday dresses and the spiked shoes she would remove and replace with soft black slippers that would glide over the pedals as she played.

Some days, she was here. With her music and her young family and him. But somehow, they weren’t here. She could not find them. She was alone. They were gone. It was terrifying. She looked and looked but she was too tired. She felt too slow. She thought about taking a short rest. She would try again tomorrow. Now there were only strangers. What did they know. Of her music. Of her family.

But on the days of clarity her life was intact again. Connections made sense. Then, there were no strangers. Only her family that she loved. She recognised them. She knew them. They were all adults now, of course. And he was there, too. Older, gentler, familiar. It felt so good. She felt good. She would walk to the piano and sit down, her fingers already reaching for the keys.

I Could Have Danced All Night. Isn’t it odd that her fingers played that song in particular. She had not meant to play it. But that’s what came out. She tried again. There was so much music. Classical music. Ah, the Romantic Music she loved so.

Stupid, stupid, STUPID fingers.

Her daughter was here. Beautiful, talented. Her youngest. Christine sang. Christine sang the last song she could play.

I Could Have Danced All Night.

(For Nita, Smitty and Christine)

DIARY OF A LETTER

An awareness of my birth started with the first word. I savoured it even as I didn’t know what it meant. More words were added, and a sense of meaning began to form. The writing – margins and paragraphs, commas and full stops, capital letters and sentences – filled my pages until I felt full with their presence, pregnant with their meaning. I revelled in the feeling of my pages – two of them – pristine, neat and smooth. Ordered lines of writing covered my first page, the message completed on the top half of my second page. The empty white space beneath, a blissful freedom, neither waiting nor pining to be filled with words, at peace with its lot.

I shared the writer’s excitement which grew as she read and re-read the words on my pages. I was to deliver a message, an important message. I sensed the writer’s anticipation of a response to the message on my pages. Pride rose in me, pride that I had been especially created for this, and a sense of something else…that I was rare, that my appearance would be an unusually pleasant surprise for the recipient, somehow. The awareness came with the understanding that other ways to deliver messages were more usual. That, in part, I understood was the reason that I was uncommon, unique.

I wondered if the words I was carrying determined my personality, my energy, and my worth. I had a sense that it did. Unable to see the words, I could not even guess at their meaning. But it didn’t detract from my happiness. I had a purpose. I had a responsibility that only I could fulfil, and no one else. It made me extraordinarily happy. I was content.

But my tranquility and cheerfulness was suddenly interrupted in a way I could not foresee. I was being folded. Oh, no! My smoothness was being disrupted. One fold. No, two!

I could hardly stand it. How could anyone do this to me? It was clear that the writer didn’t have any remorse. Apparently, she considered this ill-treatment normal. She didn’t seem to understand that I would never be the same again. I had been changed forever. From this day, I would always carry the scars of the folds on my pages. The folds were severe. They diminished my size. I was now a third smaller than I used to be. Paralyzed from the shock, I froze, but the worst was still to come.

I was being stuffed into an envelope. Of all the indignities! My edges were being straightened within the envelope before it was sealed above me. Light disappeared. I stayed as still as I could, wondering what other horrors were to come. Hopelessness washed through me. What could I do? I was pretty sure I had not done anything to warrant such abuse. I had trusted the writer, felt safe with her. This was such betrayal. My thoughts swirled round and round. How long would I be contained in this envelope? What if the writer didn’t send the envelope off immediately and I had to languish here? What if the envelope got lost en route to the recipient? How would I ever escape then? Or what if the recipient didn’t open the envelope immediately, or worse, just threw it away? I tried to stop the suffocating panic from driving me crazy.

On one level, I was deeply disturbed at being forced into a situation I had no control over. But on the other, I realized that my thoughts were not helping my situation. If only I could control them… It was difficult to think of anything other than my immediate dire circumstances. But I had to… I tried to calm myself and look logically at what had happened. Had the folds in my pages killed me? No. Had being stuffed into the envelope killed me? No. All that had happened as a result of those two scenarios was that I’d been changed. But my panic level was still sky-high. My chaotic thoughts, although the truth, did not help me to gain any new perspective. Come on, think. THINK!

It worked. The terror faded slowly.

As I thought about my purpose, about the message on my pages and how I was the only one in the whole wide world that could deliver it, I started to feel better again. I could live with the folds on my pages. Okay, so it changed how I looked but it didn’t define who I was. Luckily, the folds didn’t disturb the words. The message I carried remained intact. My reason for existence, my worth, remained unaffected despite the ugliness of the folds. I was even beginning to think that being put into the envelope might have been a good thing. Perhaps the envelope’s purpose was to keep me and my message safe. Even though uncomfortable, it was a temporary situation and I could see now, necessary, for me to deliver my message in the best possible way.

The writer clearly trusted the process. Why shouldn’t I? But I wasn’t so sure about trust. I had trusted the writer and looked what happened. Forgiving her might be a long process. Change, however, seemed inevitable. I could see that. I understood change, appreciated its constancy. It was all I had, apart from my message. No matter how scary, how painful, how uncomfortable, change allowed expansion, transformation. That was the prize; the shiny new me with a wider perspective, and a deeper appreciation for myself, being reborn again and again.

SHORT STORY: WHEN YOU GOTTA GO!

I look up from my Kindle as the tube stops. Bounds Green says the sign on the wall. The digital message that runs above the windows inside the carriage confirms the same thing.

People board the tube and take the seats of those who had disembarked moments before. Opposite me, a mother and her young son take their seats. Like me, she sits in the first seat, her little boy in the second, next to her. I turn my attention back to my Kindle and pay them no further notice.

I don’t like children. I find their energy too disruptive and parents don’t seem to notice the effect their child’s behaviour has on the people around them. It irritates me. I don’t have children of my own…never wanted any. But if I did have children, I would want them to be considerate and kind, and sit still when they’re travelling on the tube, or eating in restaurants.

The little boy opposite doesn’t sit still. He’s off the seat in no time. But thankfully, his mother doesn’t allow him to run around. Even though she is reading a newspaper, she holds on to his arm as the tube shakes and jerks along the tracks towards central London. He’s about five or six years old I estimate, and a very cute, good looking little boy with a friendly smile. He smiles at me. I smile back. Just because I don’t like children, doesn’t mean I am mean to them. He can’t help being a little boy. But that’s the problem. Small children, I find, have entirely too much energy. His mother directs him back to his seat and he slides onto it backwards, legs dangling. He’s too short for his feet to touch the floor when seated. He’s asking her for something.

“Mummy…”

“Mummy…”

I can’t make out what he’s saying, but it sounds urgent. I continue to read, knowing that the mother would take care of whatever it is the little boy needs. Only when we stop at the next station, do I hear that he’s asking if he can go to the toilet. The mother remains very calm.

“There is no toilet on the train. You’ll have to wait until we get off.”

“But I have to go now, mummy.”

“Where do you want to go? There is nowhere here.”

I can now see why the little boy is getting off the seat. He’s dancing from one foot to the other. Poor little thing. He’s clearly in urgent need of the loo. But again, his mother directs him to sit down and wait for their stop. I am beginning to admire him. He sits quietly for a little while before leaning towards his mother and whispering to her. I can’t hear what he’s saying but it’s clear that he is still talking about needing to go to the loo.

As there is nothing I, or anyone, can do to help the boy, I return to my Kindle. But moments later, a sudden flurry of activity opposite me, makes me look up again.

The boy had wet himself. I’m not surprised. His need to go seemed really urgently. What does surprise me is his mother’s reaction. She seems more concerned with cleaning the seat than she does her son. The little boy is standing in front of her, pee streaming from his shorts down his little legs. But the mother ignores him as she grabs tissues and tries to mop up the pee from the seat beside her. There’s too much of it and she has to give up, eventually covering the seat with the newspaper she had been reading. I decide her actions must betray a sense of embarrassment. Why else would she ignore her little boy to deal with a wet seat, instead?

Apparently satisfied that she had done all she could for the pee soaked seat, she turns her attention to her little boy. She wipes his legs with tissues that she adds to the wet ones already in her bag. I can’t imagine how wet everything else in her bag must be by now or what it must smell like.

I pretend to read but can’t tear my eyes away from the mother and son.

By the way the boy acts, it’s clear that this is not the first time he’s has had to pee in his pants in public. He looks around, and smiles at me and the other commuters who are also watching. I imagine his shy smile covers his humiliation. I wonder if it would affect him later?

Whether by design or because of what happened, they get off at the next stop, and I watch as the commuters around the seat warn others not to sit there. Despite the fact that the tube becomes more and more packed as rush hour on a Friday dictate it does, the seat remains empty. Only the newspaper occupies it.

Now, when I get on the tube, I never sit in the second seat even if it’s the only one available. It will forever remind me of the little boy, of his trauma, his humiliation, and the part of him he’d left behind on the tube.

The Day Of Love – Valentine’s Day

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Tomorrow is the day of love – Valentine’s Day.

I know Valentine’s Day is about romantic love, but being fascinated by the origins of things we take for granted, I discovered that the history of Valentine’s Day is rather obscure, and clouded by all sorts of legends.

The holiday’s roots lie in the ancient Roman festival of Lupercalia, a fertility celebration commemorated annually on February 15. But Pope Gelasius I changed the pagan festival into a Christian feast day, declaring February 14 the day to celebrate the memory of St. Valentine, a Christian martyr. But which St. Valentine is supposed to be honoured isn’t clear as there were about a dozen of them, the name being a popular one during the fourteenth century. There was even a Pope Valentine.

The festival used to begin when members of the Luperci, an order of Roman priests, gathered at the sacred cave where the infants Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome, were believed to have been cared for by a she-wolf or Lupa. The priests would sacrifice a goat for fertility, and a dog for purification. They would then strip the goat’s hide into strips, dip them into the sacrificial blood and take to the streets, gently slapping both women and crop fields with the goat hide. Far from being fearful, Roman women welcomed the touch of the hides because it was believed to make them more fertile in the coming year. Later in the day, according to legend, all the young women in the city would place their names in a big urn. The city’s bachelors would each choose a name and become paired for the year with his chosen woman. The matches often ended in marriage.

But, in fact, the medieval English poet Geoffrey Chaucer may have invented Valentine’s Day as we understand it today. Chaucer did what many historical romance fiction writers of today do – he often placed his poetic characters into fictitious historical contexts that he represented as real.

Around 1375 Chaucer wrote a poem, “Parliament of Foules,” in which he links a tradition of romantic love with the celebration of St. Valentine’s feast day. No record exists of romantic celebrations on Valentine’s Day prior to his poem, that received widespread attention. The poem refers to a belief commonly held, especially in France and England, that February the 14th was the beginning of birds’ mating season. His line from the poem, “For this was sent on Seynt Valenteyne’s day / Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate,” is supposed to be the reason for the invention of the holiday as we know it today.

We know that Valentine greetings were popular as far back as the Middle Ages. But written Valentine’s only started to appear after 1400.

Charles, Duke of Orleans, while imprisoned in the Tower of London in 1415 following his capture at the Battle of Agincourt, wrote a poem to his wife. It is the oldest known Valentine still in existence today.  (The greeting is now part of the manuscript collection of the British Library in London, England.)

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Today, Valentine’s greeting cards rival the amount of cards sent out at Christmas.

Why is music so important to us?

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Let us begin by investigating where music comes from.

We know that music predates the written word. Scientists believe that modern humans developed in Africa around 160,000 or so years ago. Around 50,000 years ago these humans began to disperse from Africa to all the corners of our planet.

Since all peoples of the world, including the most isolated tribal groups, have some form of music, scientists reckon that music must have been present in those original societies prior to their distribution around the world.

Social bonding for these early humans was crucial when they were more often the hunted rather than the hunter, when finding food was no mere stroll on the plains. It is believed that for them, music promoted a sense of being together in the same situation, facing the same problems. Music therefore became a communication system for the expression of emotion and the forging of group identities.

It is interesting to note that as soon as modern humans got to Europe, one of the first things they did was to leave not evidence of hunting, not evidence of a fight for survival, but a proper musical instrument. It is the earliest known musical instrument, a bone pipe, which dates back 40,000 years. It was found in Southern Germany and suggests that music was as significant to our ancestors as any other aspect of their lives. Of course, the oldest human instrument, in all likelihood, was probably the human voice.

Humans seem to be adapted specifically for music. Music activates our pleasure centres in ways similar to drugs, food and sex. The patterns and features of music are also perceived in special ways by our brains, distinct from ordinary sounds. This explains some of what we find attractive in things like the patterns of notes in an octave, musical harmony and complex rhythm.

Today if music is about anything it is about expressing and inducing emotion.

But let us first of all take a closer look at what music is. We know that it does not have one concrete meaning. That not all people will react similarly to a specific piece of music is obvious to anyone who loves music, but explaining the reasons for these differences is considered by music therapy researchers to be so difficult that the question is usually avoided entirely.

Music certainly means something different for different people. For example, to a musician, music is their life. They eat, breathe and live music. Music is their passion. For others it is a hobby, a pastime. Music is also a means to relaxation for some and a source of great excitement to others. For example, a party would be unimaginable without music.

So we know that music is at least sound because we can hear it, but you have probably also noticed that you are able to feel the sound of music in your own body. Perhaps in the past you have stood next to a large speaker. Or maybe you have felt the rumbling of heavy bass music through a table or a floor. These effects prove that sound is some kind of physical phenomenon. Sound must somehow be hitting you, letting you feel the beat. But we don’t see, or taste or smell anything when we feel sound. There is nothing but air. It stands to reason therefore that we must somehow be feeling the air when we feel sound.

A very simple but effective experiment might shed more light on how we feel the air. Gently place your fingers on your larynx, the tube through which air passes when we breathe or talk, or sing. Now, keep your fingers gently touching your larynx and sing any note for a few seconds. If you are not the singing type, you can also hum or talk instead of singing. You may have noticed that your larynx vibrated, but if you did not, you may need to sing a little louder.

The results of our experiment on sound showed that your larynx vibrated when you made a sound. This means your larynx caused the air to vibrate. We have proved therefore that sound is just vibrating air.

We now know these three things:

1. music is sound, 2. music is vibration and 3. we experience music through some form of physicality, either externally or internally.

This brings us to the next stage of our investigation. It might be very interesting to find out what music is for. Apparently the thought of music and humans fill biologists with trepidation. Its existence and variety in human cultures and the strong evidence that the brain comes preloaded with musical circuits, suggest that music is as much a product of human evolution as, say thumbs. But that raises the question of what music is for.

Darwin speculated that human music, like birdsong, attracts mates. Or, as he put it, prelinguistic human ancestors tried to charm each other with musical notes and rhythm.

Studies in neuroscience and anthropology do suggest that indeed, music did help our human ancestors survive, particularly before language. For example, scientists suggest that language may have been built on the neural underpinnings of music.

It has now been proved that music can exist within the brain in the absence of language, a sign that the two evolved independently. Since language impairment does not wipe out musical ability, it stands to reason that musical ability must have a longer evolutionary history. And because music has grammar-like qualities, it might have served an even greater function.

With music hardwired in our brains, early humans had the neural foundation for the development of what most distinguishes us from other animals, symbolic thought and language.

But for most of us in our day-to-day lives, music has three major functions.

1. Music affects our moods and can make us feel, happy, sad, excited, calm or hopeful.

2. Music adds colour to our lives – without it, the world would be very plain.

3. And music is a creative outlet, a way we express ourselves when words are not enough.

That does not tell us, however, why music is important. But to say that music is important in our lives seems an understatement, given the fact that we spend billions on music each year.

We already know that music affect our moods. Many musicologists believe that music is a form of language or communication that directly accesses the emotions without the intermediation of words and rational thought. If that is true, and I guess we all suspect that it is, then we have to look at all the music around us and its impact on us. It’s everywhere. In our homes. On the street. In shops, restaurants and lifts. Even at the dentist. We cannot escape it.

One thing we do know is that our moods affect our bodies which in turn affect our health. But the use of music and sound to improve health is not a novel idea. Though little thought is given today as to the meaning or function of music within society, the civilizations of former times, were very conscious of the power of music. This was especially true of the pre-Christian era.

It has been easy for modern man, born and raised within a society infused with the philosophy of materialism to fall into the trap of regarding music as a non-essential and even peripheral aspect of human life. But both harmful and beneficial effects of music were recognized by the ancient Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, Chinese and Indians.

From ancient China to Egypt, from India to the golden age of Greece, we find the same, the belief that there is something immensely fundamental about music. Something which, they believed, gave it the power to sublimely evolve or to utterly degrade the individual psyche, and thereby to make or break entire civilizations.

Plato and Cicero, like the ancient Chinese and Indians, believed that music profoundly affected the behaviour of entire societies. Particularly in China, the belief was held that the state should regulate the performance of music and prohibit certain types of music because of their potentially harmful effects.

These sentiments might be extreme, but perhaps it can lead us to think about what people living in modern industrialized nations have learned through painful experience, that many of the wonders of technology have deadly side effects. For example, Nuclear power was originally promoted as being a clean and safe alternative to burning coal and oil. And the ubiquitous plastics that promised to make our lives convenient are now recognized as a major hazard to our own and our planet’s health. Could it therefore be possible that music, which many of us take for granted as just background noise, could also have unrecognized effects, both harmful and beneficial.

Let us take a brief look at what happens to us when we listen to music. We all know that our heartbeat and breathing changes with different types of music, and that our eyes’ pupils dilate. Music also affects our skin temperature. But we lose music’s true power by not letting it through our bodies, and by restricting the pleasure and healing power of music, for example by sitting still in a classical concert when our body is aching to move with the rhythm of the music. The body has become so abstracted from music that we do not do the right things with our bodies and end up having not only problems with weight for example, but also with sex, energy and body dismorphia, rife, especially among younger people.

When we wilfully restrict our body’s natural movement in response to music, we’re damaging ourselves. We know this because the effects of music on the body can be measured. For example, measurements have been taken of the sensation of music in the human brain. Music can also significantly affect blood cortisol levels. Cortisol is a stress hormone, secreted by the adrenal glands. In certain circumstances, for example, competing as an athlete, elevated cortisol levels, easily obtained by playing loud, strident music, is desirable, but it is not usually a good thing. When cortisol and adrenal levels remain high with no outlet, it could cause stress, which could lead to high blood pressure, strokes and even heart attacks.

We should perhaps ask whether certain types of agitating music, such as rock or heavy metal may therefore induce excessive cortisol over extended periods of time which would become addictive, in a similar manner to the adrenal rush one gets from drinking coffee.

A French ear specialist confirmed that the same frequencies and musical styles of Baroque or classical composition that has proved beneficial for plants were also beneficial for humans. Especially those compositions rich in stringed instruments, such as violin, viola, cello and harp.

Numerous other studies from hospitals and medical schools have demonstrated the effects of music on human behaviour and physiology. For example, melodic intonation therapy, which involves speaking in a strongly musical manner, promotes recovery in stroke patients and helps those who stutter.

Mozart’s Sonata for Two Pianos, specifically, has been shown to reduce total seizure activity in epileptic. And the music was effective even for epileptics who were comatose at the time.

Spatio temporal math reasoning ability in second graders are significantly enhanced by musical keyboard training.

Music has also been shown to help reduce post surgical stress and pain, to reduce symptoms of depression in home bound elderly people, and to aid children who are developmentally delayed by enhancing hand-eye coordination.

Further research has shown that regular vocal toning of only ten minutes a day, is equivalent to taking ten milligrams of valium.

We all know about the proven effects of Baroque instrumental music on our memory and its aid in learning new languages. That is because music and language are inextricably linked through the interconnections in our brains. Therefore, musical and linguistic intelligence are highly correlated.

We also know about the Mozart effect. Yes, it even has a name. It is the theory that listening to Mozart’s music is supposed to enhance deep rest and rejuvenation, intelligence and learning, and creativity and imagination. Claims have even been made that listening to Mozart’s music for fifteen minutes, would improve our IQ by eight to nine points.

And then there is the effect of music on the unborn baby. Although sound is greatly distorted because of the liquid and tissue surrounding the foetus, there is more than sufficient musical stimulation to be heard in the womb. Some studies suggest that prenatal exposure to music, assist infant development and therefore may one day serve to improve certain developmental delays in some children.

Ultimately, attentive and sensitive listening leads us to the music inside ourselves, to the magic in music.

Of course we now know that not only music is composed of vibrations. Supposedly solid matter and all forms of energy, including ourselves, are also composed of vibrations. The only difference between each of these phenomena is their frequency of vibration. Each merges into the other at a certain wavelength, which obviously means, when one gets down to it, that they are one and the same thing.

When this vibratory activity occurs at a frequency of around 600,000 billion waves per second, it becomes particularly interesting and accessible to us in everyday life, for this is the frequency at which our eyes have been designed to sense the vibrations and transmit them to our brains in the form of visual perception of light and colour and sound.

We now know that all matter is made of molecules. The molecules are made of atoms. The atoms are made of electrons, protons, and neutrons. The electrons, protons, and neutrons are made of quarks. The quarks are made of sub-quarks. And the sub-quarks are made of vibrating strings of energy. In fact, scientists have proved that everything is in a state of vibration, by demonstrating that atoms and sub-atomic particles are themselves composed of nothing else but energy in a state of vibration and oscillation. And one of the experiments’ conclusions proved that atoms are harmonic resonators, just like humans. This resonance principle effectively disintegrates the barriers between physics and music. The principle is rapidly establishing the concept that not only the atom, but all sub-atomic particles, can be theoretically considered as being nodes of resonance. In other words, some scientists are beginning to regard the atom as a kind of tiny musical note.

Scientists have also demonstrated that the structure of the atom contains ratios and numbers which resemble to a degree impossible to account for by chance, the harmonic principles of music. The intervals and harmonics of music, mirroring the geometry of the heavens, may also be present in some mysterious way not only within the physical form of man, but also within the patterns of his psychology.

Data thus far suggests that the entire universe may then be based upon vibration, that vibration may be the fundamental nature of each and every energy form currently known to science. The vibrations could be likened to playing a note on a guitar string, then hit a fret and pluck it again. You get different notes. When these incredibly tiny strings vibrate in different ways, different forms of matter appear. 

This opens up a possibility more incredible than we could have imagined. The potential of a grand unified field theory. For example let us note the interesting fact that ultrasonic sound vibrating a glass rod causes the rod to emanate both heat and light, a demonstrable example of sound energy becoming the energies of both heat and light.

And even more astonishing, sound vibration could therefore mean that the entire Universe may be nothing more than a song.

George And The Gargoyle Who Lived In The Garden

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Come and see my guest post about my children’s novel, George And The Gargoyle Who Lived In The Garden, on the wonderful Mary Anne Yarde‘s blog, Myths, Legends, Books and Coffee Pots.

Mary Anne Yarde is the award winning and best selling author of the Du Lac Chronicles – great stories about Lancelot Du Lac’s sons a the time after King Arthur’s reign. I cannot recommend them highly enough!

My guest blog is about the inspiration behind writing my children’s novel, George And The Gargoyle Who Lived In The Garden.

http://maryanneyarde.blogspot.co.uk/…/authors-inspiration-a…

You can download my novel for free from 26 January 2016 over the next five days.

Here is the first chapter read by me:

Fear, the mind-killer

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I feel with the world in its current state, many of us experience fearfulness. But fear is the mind-killer. Fear paralyses us. Fear makes us smaller than we are. Fear tramples on our dreams.

I am a huge fan of  Frank Herbert’s Dune, from where the phrase, Fear is the mind-killer, originates.

So, I was excited when I came across this blog post by the amazing Kristen Lamb, in which she quotes Frank Herbert, and talks about this topic much more eloquently than I ever could, so I’m sharing her post here. Even though Kristen is talking about fear from the point of view as a writer, I feel it affects us all and is therefore relevant to all of us.

If you want to visit her website, here is the link to her blog  – https://warriorwriters.wordpress.com/2017/01/19/fear-is-the-mind-killer-in-control-of-your-life/

FEAR—Is the Mind-Killer in Control of Your Life?

by Author Kristen Lamb

Image via Flickr Creative Commons, courtesy of Noemi Galera.

Image via Flickr Creative Commons, courtesy of Noemi Galera.

The single greatest challenge you will face in trying to accomplish anything great is FEAR. FEAR is nothing to be underestimated and we need to learn to manage it if we want to succeed. I remember being a kid and Dune was one of my favorite movies. At the age of ten I memorized Paul Atreides’ mantra:

“I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.”

At the time I just thought it was a seriously cool movie line. It was only when I grew older that I began to truly understand how powerful these words were.

Fear IS the mind-killer. Remember last time we talked about how vital it is to make sure we have our heads in the right spot. Where the mind goes, the man follows and if we are scope-locked on all the stuff that overwhelms and terrifies us? We are doomed before we start. Our head is not in the game.

Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.

I find it so fascinating that Frank Herbert called it the “little-death” but isn’t it? Fear is not real. Fear is the work of imaginations and yet those small cracks are what can bring everything crashing down.

I will face my fear.

Words have tremendous power and we as writers are wise to appreciate this. We might be sinking into despair. We are anxious and can’t sleep. We can’t focus and so we say things like, “I am tired” or “I’m depressed” but by using these blanket statement copouts we are only feeding the very thing feeding on us. We need to face it. NAME IT.

It is okay to be afraid. It is okay to give that fear a name because until we know what it IS, we can’t fight back. What is the first thing any doctor does when we come into the ER? He finds the thing’s NAME. Sure our chest hurts and we are sweaty and dizzy and our blood pressure is wrong but that could be anything from cardiac arrest to a panic attack. NAMING what is going on is vital for any kind of treatment.

Do we really want a doctor cracking open our chest because we are having a panic attack? Conversely do we want the doctor to recommend yoga when we have a blocked artery?

I will permit my fear to pass over me and through me.

Feel the emotion. Don’t stuff it. No I don’t need a sandwich, a drink, a nap, a trip to the mall, or yet another pass through Facebook. I need to feel what is going on instead of self-medicating or avoiding it. It’s like a squall line. Just let it pass over and beyond.

Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

Here is the deal, fear isn’t (often) real and even when it is? It isn’t permanent unless we permit it to stay. We will still be here.

So why do I talk about all of this? Because we have to face and conquer fear every single day and maybe you are experiencing symptoms of fear but you aren’t aware of it. Time to peer down that dark alley of the soul…

Image courtesy of Flickr Creative Commonse, via Pedro Rebeiro Simoes

Image courtesy of Flickr Creative Commonse, via Pedro Rebeiro Simoes

You Don’t Finish

I can raise my hand and attest I am guilty. I have too many things that I start and I don’t finish. Is this because I am lazy? Hardly. Is it because I don’t love what I do? Not at all. If I get really, really honest and make a list of all the things I have left undone, I can often see fear staring back at me.

A quick story to illustrate…

I remember being SO confident when I scored my mega-agent out of New York. He thought I was brilliant and fresh and my book was sheer genius. I was on CLOUD NINE and bulletproof. I was so sure that I’d have a book deal instantly because Russ was that powerful of an agent.

I remember when I signed with him talking on the phone and he said, “Okay, here is how it is going to go down. Once I get your proposal I am going to make a few calls and then things are going to happen very fast. Are you ready for this?”

GOD YES! Put me IN Coach!

So a month passes, then two, then six and all this time my confidence is leaking out like air from an overfilled balloon *Kristen’s ego makes long farting sound*. After a year and a half?

Nothing.

I had avoided talking to my agent because I just couldn’t bear being a failure. Finally, I had to do something so I emailed and he gave me the news I knew was coming but had avoided. NY didn’t want a social media book. They believed my teachings were the tip of the spear and were afraid of it.

And I know all of this sounds seriously weird because every publisher at the time was requiring social media for all of its authors. I had many long and grueling conversations with authors who are household names who’d come to me vexed out of their minds because their publishers wanted to know why they didn’t have a million FB fans. They were desperate for help.

But these same publishers that were requiring social media, didn’t want the manual.

*head desk*

I was crushed. I didn’t want to be self-published. I wanted to be legit. I wanted to be a Random Penguin but it wasn’t in the cards. So, I gathered what was left of my ego and self-published Rise of the Machines—Human Authors in a Digital World because my ego was not as important as you guys’ futures.

But how long did I sit on that book?

Too long. Too long would be the answer.

I was terrified of failing. I was terrified of being grouped in as “one of those self-published hacks” even though I knew (in my mind) that self-publishing was just as viable as legacy and in many ways MORE viable. My head and my heart just could not get on the same page because I was afraid.

So fast-forward a couple more years and I have finished this AMAZING romantic suspense. I send it to an agent friend and she loved it…but didn’t rep the genre. She told me the book was awesome and to just query publishers direct and she would handle the contract. I got rejected. Then a publisher accepted (then they were no longer financially solvent so I didn’t feel good about signing). Then another rejected. So about this point I am batting 500. 50% love the book and 50% don’t want it.

I couldn’t leave the book unpublished any longer even though it was tempting. All the voices were there.

You teach writing, so if your book sucks you are FINISHEEEEEED.

Why can’t you get a real publisher?

Maybe you should stick with social media.

And what did I do? Again, I sat on a great book…because I was afraid. I was afraid of failure, of you guys tossing digital tomatoes at my work. Even though I know there is NO way to write a perfect book. I have read reviews for every book I adored and thought was perfect and someone else hated it. I knew this. I know this. But I was still scared sh….. witless.

But I have learned that when I feel fear that 1) it is often BS and nothing to really be afraid of and 2) it is generally a good sign I am going in the right direction. So I made some more connections and now my book is with a new and amazing publisher who I think is a great fit. Maybe the book flops. I dunno. I won’t know until I put it out there.

I was afraid of failure but also afraid of success.

What if it does well and it is the only book in me? And I can’t do it AGAIN?

Yeah well we will cross that bridge when we get there.

So if you have things you are NOT finishing, ask yourself WHY? What are you afraid of? Then do it anyway.

You Fixate on What You Can’t Control

I can always tell when I am operating in a place of fear when I pay attention to what is on my mind. What am I constantly complaining about?

***Which first of all, ditch complaining. Complaining alone is a BIG RED FLAG something is wrong.

Often we will fixate on the things we can’t control at the expense of things we can because it offers us a handy excuse if everything craps the bed. If I spent my time moaning about how unfair it was NY didn’t want my book instead of hustling and figuring out how to unleash my book onto the world?

I’d still be complaining. Then, when I never published the book and my career as an expert withered and dried up, I would have someone to blame other than myself. I sure wouldn’t have the single most popular book on branding for authors.

Same with the fiction. I had a choice. Whine about the rejections and shelve the book and hide as a blogger or suck it up and step it up.

Well, I would have been a huge deal if only someone else had done X.

NOT TODAY!

You Can’t Make a Decision

Here’s the deal. No decision is still a decision. But often when we are scared we hem and we haw and we fail to ever decide because deep down we know if we put it off long enough? Someone else WILL decide for us. Then, if it goes badly, we have an out.

Early in my writing journey I bounced from genre to genre to genre. Maybe I was a romance writer, no a thriller writer, no science fiction. Notice how this looks a lot like never finishing. Decide and commit. Do it afraid.

There are a lot more symptoms of fear but these are the three BIGGIES. Remember that nothing great is ever going to happen in your comfort zone. Courage isn’t the absence of fear, it is doing X in spite of fear.

This business is really really hard and it requires us being so vulnerable and it is super easy to get kicked in the confidence. Rejection sucks. It hurts. But failure isn’t permanent. Neither is success. All of this will pass over us and through us and…

ONLY WE WILL REMAIN.

A huge way to combat fear is like I said, we gotta name it. Then we need to make a decision and if it still scares us? Get help. If you are afraid your book is crap? Hire a pro to look at it, be honest and tell you how to fix it. Heck, email me kristen at wana intl dot com. If branding scares you? Take a class. Got a bunch listed below and anyone who has taken my classes will tell you I move heaven and earth to help you. I can be that big badass sister you need to help you sleep at night.

Get a mentor to guide you.

I have a handful of things on the business side or publishing that are freaking me out right now. Why? Because I don’t yet UNDERSTAND them. Bookbub? How does it work? So what did I do? I called in favors from people on-line, people I have served and asked, “Hey I am freaked out. Can you help a Sistah OUT?”

WE ARE NOT ALONE.

What are your thoughts? I have been struggling with confidence lately. Off my game, out of my groove. I know it is because I am doing and trying new things in new areas where I am NOT the sole reigning diva and that scares me. But I am here. We are here. We have each other.

Do you succumb to your fear too easily? Maybe spend too much time with distractions? Or complain and whine about stuff you can’t change? Hey we ALL do it. No shame here, my kiddos. Write down what you fear. Here, in the comments and we can bond.

I fear that none of what I do matters. That I am really not making a difference and I really didn’t earn any of my success. It was all a fluke or an accident and one day people are going to wake up and see I have no idea what I am doing.

There, got you started 😀 .

I love hearing from you!

And to prove it and show my love, for the month of JANUARY, everyone who leaves a comment I will put your name in a hat. If you comment and link back to my blog on your blog, you get your name in the hat twice. What do you win? The unvarnished truth from yours truly.

I will pick a winner once a month and it will be a critique of the first 20 pages of your novel, or your query letter, or your synopsis (5 pages or less).

SIGN UP NOW FOR MY UPCOMING CLASSES!!! 

Remember that ALL CLASSES come with a FREE RECORDING so you can listen over and over. So even if you can’t make it in person? No excuses! 

All you need is an internet connection!

Branding Master’s Class Series with Kristen Lamb THREE social media classes, ONE low price. Only $99. It is literally getting one class for FREE!!!! 

Craft Master’s Class Series with Kristen Lamb THREE craft classes, ONE low price. Only $89. One class is FREE!!!! Includes my new class The Art of Character.

Individual Classes with MOI!

Pitch Perfect—How to Write a Query Letter & Synopsis that SELLS January 28th

When your Name Alone Can SELL—Branding for Authors February 10th, 2017

Social Media for Authors February 11th, 2017

NEW CLASS!!!! The Art of Character January 27th, 2017

Blogging for Authors February 3rd

For those who need help building a platform and keeping it SIMPLE, pick up a copy of my latest social media/branding book Rise of the Machines—Human Authors in a Digital World on

Why are we supposed to become invisible after a certain age?

original

 

One of the most disturbing elements of ageing is the idea that we become invisible after a certain age, usually after fifty.

We all age and most of the features of aging sneak up on us. We may notice a few extra lines, a few extra pounds, our eyesight may not be as perfectly clear as it once was, we may have a few aches and pains, and don’t get me started on menopause. But none of these things generally disturb us too much because they happen gradually, giving us the opportunity to get used to our changing bodies.

I assumed becoming invisible – the dreaded concern I’d heard so much about – was also an element of aging that would sneak up on me. But I’ve been told it is very different. Apparently, it is the sudden realization of the feeling that you are no longer attractive to others, no longer considered vital and useful, no longer considered sexy and desirable. And it often comes as a result of others’ reaction towards you.

A few years ago, I was very ill and ended up in hospital. I was fifty years old at the time and relegated to the geriatric ward where – I kid you not – most other occupants were one hundred years old or older.

After I got better and left the hospital, I promised myself that I will never be treated again as invisible just because of a number that makes up my age. Sure, I don’t have my skinny, toned, youthful body anymore, my face no longer carries the glow of youth, but I’m happy in my skin. I keep my body healthy by eating properly. I exercise as much as I want to by walking and swimming weekly and I generally look after myself.

So what if twenty-five year olds don’t fancy me anymore. Do I really want them to? No. I like myself and I make the most of myself. I dress well, wear subtle make-up daily and I feel good about myself. I feel confident, and I enjoy my life. And guess what? Younger guys still look at me, and younger women appreciate my style and ask for make-up tips.

I don’t think we have to become invisible. I certainly don’t intend to, and I urge you not to either. You are still valuable, you are still useful, you are still vital no matter your age. Your mere presence in this world is a blessing to those who know you and to those who meet you.

Some of the most interesting, inspirational, glamorous, confident, funny and stylish women in my life are all much older than fifty.

In my novel, The Healing Touch, Isabelle is already over fifty when she attracts the attention of a Greek Adonis, the man with whom she falls in love, and he with her.

It is time we honour ourselves and each other, and not allow labels to affect who we should become as we age.

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