This Writing Game - Where Does It Start?

I’ve always had ‘this writing thing’, ever since I could hold a pencil and form letters, which was long before I started school. My mother taught me the alphabet in upper and lower case, how to write the letters and the different sounds they made, called 'phonics' now.  I was lucky to have my mother at home to do this sort of thing with me, and, although I was almost constantly the new girl at various schools due to frequently moving pubs with my father’s work, I had a good education. There was a lot of emphasis on producing good handwriting in my primary schools. An entire lesson could be spent practising until each letter was perfect and sat correctly placed along the lines in the writing book. I took pride in this, so much pride that my personal signature flourishes were frowned upon and deemed completely unnecessary. Individuality was not encouraged.

Books were a thing, too. My mother was an avid reader and she read my books to me. I was determined to read for myself and proved to be a quick learner when I started school. I’m from the ‘Janet and John’ era of the late ‘50s. I don’t think the ‘h’ in John ever gave me or my classmates a problem. We accepted what we were told, John says John. I remember being ready for my next reading book then having to wait longer because I kept mistaking ‘clothes’ for ‘cloths’. The things I still carry round in my head sixty-odd years after the event! No wonder I’m a bit bonkers. Anyway, I was moved up and continued going from strength to strength.

I was aged seven and in my last year of infant school when I was introduced to Enid Blyton’s Secret Seven and The Rilloby Fair Mystery by some books that were given to me. I reached the end of the book and would go straight back to the beginning and read it again. I couldn’t get enough of Enid Blyton but her books were discouraged by schools. Both parents bought me books regularly. I must have been so indulged, but I was always reading and the more I read, the more I wanted to write. The seed was sown. It took a long time to grow.

I lost my main mentor when my mother passed away. Things can be ‘meant to be’, though, and upon leaving secondary school I was encouraged by my English teacher to keep writing, so I did. Life takes unexpected turns and leads us down unfamiliar paths, mistakes are made, lessons are learned and we move on. That makes it sound simple and straightforward when, as we all know, it very much isn’t.  Personal ambition was never far away. The writing game, it’s just there, we have to do it, even if it is something for ourselves, like a journal, it’s compelling. I hope someone reading this understands and agrees with me. I’m sure I’m not alone.

Creative writing continues to be my passion. I might get round to finishing ‘that novel’ or it might stay as it is, half of it on a shelf, the rest in my laptop. I loved writing it. I loved seeing a published short story in print. If that’s as good as it gets, I’m happy. It happened.

My poem, a tongue-in-cheek look at the future of education.  I’m glad that my grandchildren are learning handwriting and basic skills that I can relate to.

An Alternative Education

The 3 Rs soon to be redundant
Computer-led kids will be abundant
With all information mega-quick
It only takes a scroll down and click
No need for any conversation
Included in their education.

Last year’s reception class have all gone
And taken a leap up to Year One
To drag sticky fingers on iPad screens
And work out what technology means.
Will this be their basic foundation
Instead of formal education?

Numeracy, or let’s call it Maths
Has rules to follow specific paths
Beginning with learning how to count
Then adding up and sharing out.
One click away from calculation
Takes away their education.

The infants are learning to use a pen
It’s not a skill they’ll need again
For a future spent staring on-line,
Social activity in decline
With hardly any interaction,
So they won’t need our education.

When did this digital preference start?
Oh why no poetry learnt by heart?
‘Spell check’ becomes their favourite teacher
With ‘Grammar check’ an added feature.
The only future expectation,
A self-taught on-line education.

PMW 2015

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Between a rock and a morpheme

Anxiety seems to have been a companion throughout my life.  When stressful events occur, anxiety is usually lurking around the corner, waiting for the fireworks to calm down.  At that point, when the initial danger has passed, anxiety will step in and attempt to prevent me from leaving the home or communicating with someone who isn't my immediate family (or a pet) ever again. 

There are tried and tested methods of coping with anxiety.  Mindfulness is something which is helping me at the moment.  My brief instructions for mindfulness would be that whenever you notice anxiety creeping in, whether it be a panic attack or just those horrid negative, self-abasing thoughts, then turn your attention to your senses.  Eat or drink something and really concentrate on the taste.  Become aware of your body; touch something and notice its temperature, how it feels beneath your fingertips.  Close your eyes (assuming you're not driving) and listen to the noises which surround you.  You get the idea. 

Another method of coping with anxiety, for me, has been language.  When I was around five years old I first started suffering from asthma attacks.  The sensation of your chest closing up, of being unable to breathe, is particularly anxiety-ridden.  I had recently learned my alphabet and I would intuitively begin to recite the alphabet when I couldn't breathe.  Sometimes I would try to recite it backwards to make it even more challenging.  I didn't realise what I was doing but it was an effective method of distracting myself from the scary sensations and allowed my body to relax, which would have actually improved my breathing at the same time.

In my teens, I took to writing word lists.  These years are notably filled with worry and were no less so for me.  When there were too many thoughts in my head, I would take up a note book and pen and sit with a thesaurus, chasing words.  This involved browsing the pages until I found a word that sounded pretty.  Then I would write all the related words in a list.  When I came to the last word I would look that up in the thesaurus and write down all the words beneath that.  And so on.  I'd still recommend that as a way of changing your mood.  If you start at a word which has positive connotations and maintain that path, the words seem to wash through the mind as you write them, spreading a little positivity with every letter.

Later again, in my late twenties, I had a minor breakdown which resulted from a long period of stress and illness.  I was incredibly anxious.  At one point I could barely open my mouth in the mornings, my jaw had been so tightly clenched in the night.  I reached the point where just talking to anyone was too much.  At this point I used the double-whammy of self-medication: sudoku and Pratchett.  By applying myself to difficult sudoku puzzles or dipping into a well-loved Pratchett novel, I found I could shut out everything that was tiring my mind while allowing it to recover.  Pratchett's Discworld is a particularly harmless place to dwell.  The characters are warm and he writes with enormous humanity and humour.  I know I can return to that world, and escape the bite of reality, any time I want.  There's a real comfort in that.

Anxiety is, as I said, something that has always been with me.  But words have long been my other companion.  Between the two there is a balance and, despite the odd blip, I know the anxiety won't ever take me away.   Not for long.

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