A Plotting Pantser's Writing Process

I'm very happy to have been tagged in a blog hop, haven't done one of these for a while, and this one is called my Writing Process. 

Thankfully it isn't focusing on how I get the words on the page which amounts to little more than managing to sit down in front of the pc or one of my notebooks (you know how I love my notebooks) with the intention of writing or editing a story. Of course there are a few obstacles on route to my desk. I have a need to see the bottom of the ironing basket and to have hung out the washing because I-did-say-I-needed-my-netball-kit-tonight. And I can't really settle until I've cleaned the kitchen because it doesn't clean itself, I said, it doesn't… oh never mind. Once through my study door, I then have to negotiate the tricky writing buffer which is THE emails, in their belief that I need to hire a car every day since my holiday three years ago and have the time, inclination and finances to create three personalised photo albums and a bonus calendar on a daily basis. Then they kindly alert me to the revelation that I may have had an accident at work ten years ago which could pay me £6,000 - unlikely as I haven't worked in an office for over fifteen years and don't see a great deal of mileage in suing myself. I suppose I could have had a dreadfully debilitating accident whilst teaching but suspect that if such an event had come to pass, the mortification of humiliating myself in front of a class full of writers who would then weave the indignity into a prize-winning story would have stayed with me and thankfully, save for the odd tongue twister moment, I have no recollection of that.

The blog hop batten was passed to me by the lovely, gracious, witty and generally uber talented Lesley Richardson, copywriter extraordinaire, who is so close to getting her novel published I can almost hear the champagne fizzing from her hometown in Ireland. You can see some of Lesley's writing here. We swap 'near miss' publishing stories on a regular basis as well as tales of hair woes (the eternal frizz combat) and hair highs (life-changing frizz-taming products) which only fellow curly haired people will really understand. Yes, I know I can't really count myself in the curly haired camp at the moment, jumped, as I have, to the 'other side', but in my head, I'll always be a curly haired girl, I just haven't got the panache to be anything else.

So, now I need to answer four questions and then I get to pass the baton on myself.

What are you working on?

I was writing a third novel, The Deadline, which is a story of a girl born to a Nazi officer and growing up in Britain but instead, find myself involved with two previously written novels at the moment.  

The first is, Misguidance, a story I wrote fifteen years ago and was embarrassed to allow back into my consciousness, such was the utter drivel I remembered the 100,000 words to be. However, happening upon it whilst dusting off the rusting filing cabinet in the inner bowels of my pc to make room for my teenagers' photography habit, what I found surprised me. As expected the style was awful – contrived, first person narration for a story which quite clearly needed some third person distance. But I did, and here's the surprising bit, enjoy the story. More than enjoy it, I couldn't stop reading.

So, after submitting my second novel, Glass Houses, following one of its re-writes, I marched off into Misguidance, moving it from first to third person and bringing it up to date – my twenty year old had to stop using the land line - oh and I ditched three characters and created another three and made it a dual narrative and well, I may as well have started again.

I was 30,000 words in when I had some great feedback from an agent on Glass Houses. It was feedback on which I knew I had to act or I would never forgive myself. And so Misguidance went back into the drawer – a little happier than when it had first come out.

And so the cycle continues; at the moment I'm back on Glass Houses following suggestions from two agents who've both seen the full manuscript and given very similar feedback – both the good stuff and the could do better, Jackie Buxton…

How does your work differ from others of its genre?

Both novels are works of general fiction with strong female characters leading the plot. Where I hope they differ from books in their genre is in the choice of hero – I like to choose unlikely ones. In Glass Houses, Tori, the main character, has committed what people consider to be a heinous crime. Her 'mistake' allegedly caused an accident which killed three people and killed many more. It would be easy to despise Tori, indeed, she doesn't always help herself, but I'd like the reader to think that there for the grace of god go you or I.

Similarly in Misguidance, its main character, Evelyn, appears to have caused misery and destruction where ever she's lived, so much so that there is one solitary well-wisher at her funeral. But when her guilt-ridden neighbour looks further into Evelyn's past she sees a pattern and manages to persuade the motley crew which make up Evelyn's past to view Evelyn, and themselves, a little differently.

I suppose I want you to like the bad guy.

Why do you write what you do?

I wish I knew! I seem to feel compelled to write about personal disasters and yet I am quite a happy little soul really. I revel in hearing stories where people triumph out of adversity and personally plump for books where characters achieve happiness against the odds. Perhaps my writing is fuelled by that.

I'm also constantly amused and bemused by the eccentricity of the human species. We all say that people make mistakes, for example, that none of us is perfect and yet, friends, family members, colleagues, neighbours, you name it, can fall out for years, forever even, as the result of an impetuous comment, a single irrational action or some badly timed honesty. In other words: a mistake. It's so easy to shatter what we've worked towards and once broken, it can't be re-built to look the same as it did before. This fragility in what we hold dear is a concept which fascinates me and has certainly leaked into both my novel plots so far.

How does your Writing process work?

Scrivener - highly recommended

In the line which runs between the writing process of (flying by the seat of their) pantsers and the plotters of the writing world, I am squarely in the middle. There's nothing I enjoy more than sitting down at the pc or with my notebook and bashing out the next 10,000 words of the plot which I didn't know existed until my characters pulled them from my brain and poured them thorough my fingers onto the page. However I have to do some work before I can get to that stage. Usually when I'm not at my desk, and most often when I'm running, driving or even cleaning (much as I despise it), I'll bash out an idea in my head. But if I can't clearly see the reason for writing the story, at least one of the characters who will make my story happen and how the story's going to end, then I won't even put pen to paper. Like a plotter, I have to have this scaffolding before I can start. After that my writing process is the anteater's tongue; a sort of tether rolled out to its full extent on page one and then quickly rolled in pulling the story with it along a clear trajectory to the ending. How the characters choose to dance on the tongue, well that's up to them.

Other than that? I use lots of cups of tea, way too many print outs to be good for the environment, the wonderful Scrivener software so that I have all my ideas and chapters on the computer rather than covering the floors of a study, bedroom and landing. I also use different locations. In different places I spot howlers and see beyond blocks which had made my writing stall. I suppose some may see this as an excuse to visit an array of different coffee shops. I couldn’t possibly comment.

So, what have you allowed to fester in a drawer for years, writing or otherwise, and been pleasantly surprised when it's reappeared? Please share!

Now for my own two tags in the Writing Process Blog Hop.

First up is Annalisa Crawford  whose wonderful blog I'd describe as 'soulful humour' - although at the moment it's all just very exciting over there as she has a new book out, a collection of short stories called, Our Beautiful Child. And thank you, Annalisa, for always finding time to leave a comment on my blog, bless you :)

My second choice is Jane Alexander who writes thought-provoking, often quirky, tales of her observations and findings as she travels around England and further afield in the search for better health (physically and spiritually). Catch Jane's blog here.

Tutu's ready? And we're off!

Ready to start. Tutu? Essential.

After 240 minutes on a bike (nought point no miles travelled) and with four bottles of energy drink, four litres of water, two jelly babies, five Nutella sandwiches and a handful of cashew nuts behind me, I'd like to offer you all a very big and sweaty hug for sponsoring me to do the four hour Spinathon in aid of Marie Curie Cancer Care. 

It was a great way to spend a morning, even if I did scowl a little at seeing 6am on a Saturday. Wonderful pedalling camaraderie and mad teachers made it fantastic fun and the promised chocolate cake and Bucks Fizz at the end gave us truly professional athletes that final kick of motivation to keep us going.

The organisers at The Hydro Leisure Centre had hoped that the 20 of us who took part in Saturday's Spinathon might raise a good £500. The latest total is in excess of £2,700. Thank you so much to all of you who responded to my blog and took the time to visit the Justgiving website with your wallets open. I was overwhelmed and so touched by your support.   

Put On The Spot

On an unnaturally hot, Wimbledon Finals Day last June, hubbie and I popped out on a bike ride. We noticed that there was an unfeasibly large amount of cyclists on the road with us and very little traffic. It was only when we spotted that all the other cyclists were wearing event numbers, that we realised we'd caught ourselves up in the annual White Rose Classic cycle event in Yorkshire.

This has happened to us once before. We'd snuck off for a birthday weekend in The Lakes for some champagne and cycling. On a bitterly cold Sunday morning, we clicked into our pedals and marvelled at how many other people had also decided that this rain spattered day was a good opportunity for a bike ride.

I was slightly surprised to be passing quite a few of the other cyclists – I wouldn't bet on me to pass people up hill – and as I was over-taking someone, we got chatting about how wonderful it was that so many people were out on their bikes whatever the weather and that this was indeed a bit of a hill after all the others, before I was forced to bid my farewell explaining that I needed to catch up with my husband. 'You go!' he said, 'You're doing so well.'

I thought that was very kind of him; I'd only left the B&B thirty minutes previously. It was only when I rounded a corner at the top of the hill to a groundswell of animated cheering and, 'Go girl!' that I clocked all the other cyclists' numbers and realised that we'd inadvertently joined the infamous Fred Whitton Challenge. With its 110 miles over hill and pass, it's generally considered the toughest bike ride in Britain. Everybody else had already done approximately 60 miles of hills and all but the most elite of bikers, were starting to feel it a little. I, however, after my big breakfast and a short warm up, was flying. Indeed, I was first woman past that point, according to the cheering crowd.

However, after laughing so much about my moment of glory, we realised that we were cycling in the wrong direction and the only option was to turn around and cycle back past the bemused crowed. I kept my head down.

Back to the White Rose Classic and a decision to do the race properly on 29^th June 2014. Then I got cancer. Chemo has chopped me off at the knee caps a few times but not too often. The rest of the time I've been trip-trapping along in trainers or on pedals, enjoying the wind or sun on my face, plotting challenges. I decided I was still going to give the White Rose a shot - a very slow, last one over the line kind of shot – but I kept it secret in case I was forced to pull out; I really didn't want to let anyone down.

Race day was approaching when a sympathetic nurse told me that my white cell count was low and I'd have to have a re-test before deciding if chemo would go ahead a few days later. I supposed that meant that I shouldn't go for a fifty mile bike ride that weekend. However, it surprised me to learn that there's very little you can do to increase, or even decrease, your white cell count. It's just down to how quickly your body manufactures the replacement cells for those lost to the cancer treatment. So, the problem mixing cycling and chemo, I learnt, was only if you had an accident. I could end up in hospital with my body struggling to fight the infection. I didn't like the sound of an infection. I know about efforts to unnaturally encourage my bone marrow to make extra white cells to deal with infection and the process hurt every bone in my body, even my jaw. I also didn't like the idea that chemo could be halted while the clever people at the hospital patched me back together again. 

But the sun was shining and my bike was looking at me like a dog when you've mentioned a walk. Should I categorically not cycle? I asked, one final time. Not necessarily, was the surprising response, but I should consider how likely it was that I'd fall off.

I thought of putting my arm in the spin drier and smashing it into too many pieces to count. I remembered my sky dive over a plant pot which resulted in a broken knee and I winced at the memory of the pain I felt when I broke my foot twisting it on an embedded tree root whilst running.

Pretty likely to fall off, I thought.

Now, I know cycling isn't for everyone but me? I was disappointed. Gutted, we'd call it in our house. My secret White Rose Challenge was off. Scheduled for twelve days after my final chemo, my white blood cells would be at their lowest. It just wasn't worth it, everyone said.

And then I saw it. I clocked the poster at the local sports centre: Four Hour Spinathon for Marie Curie Cancer Care. A cycling event to raise money for a cancer charity? It had my name written all over it. Yes, me being me, there was still every chance I could fall off my bike during the four class challenge - an exhaustion induced, away-with-the-fairies type of incident - but it would be onto a clean-ish gym floor and with twelve other participants as well as a teacher around to pick me up and dust off my bruised pride.

No matter that I haven't actually done any spinning for about six months.

Brilliant, my friend said, I'll do it, too. Well, actually, after she'd had a couple of glasses of wine I told her she'd love it, glossing quickly over the fact that you could choose how many of the four classes you'd like to attempt. Hey! The bigger the challenge, the larger the euphoria at the end!

My other friend I snagged when she was hosting twelve people for an evening of tapas.

So, we've signed up and it takes place on the 7^th June. Could I ask you to sponsor us? If not for the challenge of spinning for three hours longer than I've ever done in one go before, then for the fact that I have to be in my saddle by 8am on a Saturday. Those who know me well will understand that actually being ready for the start of a spin class would be an achievement in itself.

There are always lots of requests for our hard-earned cash and I will still speak to you if you can't manage this one. But if you'd like to support Marie Curie Cancer Care which provides high quality care and support for terminally ill people at the end of their life, I'd be so grateful for your support over at http://justgiving.com/brimhamsharrogate   

Thank you.

Heightened Sensitivity

The trouble with cancer is it's always there; scratching away, nails on the blackboard, a dog barking in the middle of the night or the wind rattling the windows when you've just watched a horror film. It's just there: first thing in the morning, last thing at night, meddling, fidgeting in your brain. Will there be more cancer? It asks. Hopefully not, they got rid of the original little pest and the chemo, radiotherapy, Herceptin and Tamoxifen – the wonderful medical people are throwing everything they've got at it – is the belt and braces to keep the little blighter away for good, I tell myself. Excellent, my grey matter responds. But then my irrational self shows its ugly little head and off we go again, Will there be more cancers…? You get the drift.

However, there is a flip side to 'cancer noise' and I can only call it a heightened sensitivity.

The first weekend after results day, the Friday of the week after Christmas which will be forever engrained in my brain, my oh so supportive hubbie and I went for a walk. We've done this walk several times. Local people will know it as the Fewston and Swinsty reservoirs walk. We first did it with babes in slings, then rucksacks, then prams (I use the plural as I had to return one which fell apart in just a year and was told that prams weren't really meant for walking with children but for loading into cars. But that's another story). We did it again with their little legs skipping behind, for a short while with their long legs skipping in front and now, well they tend to have better things to do.

So, it was just me and him walking a walk we'd done several times before. Funny, I thought. I've never noticed the smell of the peaty path quite so keenly before. Forgive the cliché but there was a glint of sun over the ripples on the lake and I thought it was mesmerising. Children laughing always makes me smile – isn't that just the nicest of sounds? – but that day it made me beam. And then we went for a cup of tea. It was just a cup of tea in a refurbished pub on a cold day with a loud, crackling fire and candles oozing lavender and jasmine (I think) flickering atmospherically. That cup of tea was the most wonderful cup of tea I'd ever drunk. And I drink a lot so that's a pretty bold statement. And so it goes on. I can't really explain it. It's just that when people say nice things to me or others, I really, really notice. When people crack a joke, it's very, very funny. When a song comes on the radio which I love it makes me cry. But it's ok, it's just happy to be alive tears.

And all those moments, which happen several times a day, well they blot out the cancer noise too.

I hope I appreciated these things before.

And writing, writing really keeps me focused on the positive and I've been doing some of it this week. I've submitted to The Borough Press, an imprint of HarperFiction, as part of a two week opportunity to submit directly to a publisher who normally only takes agented submissions. Writer friends, you have until 21 April to apply so get to that pc forthwith! Click here for the website.

I've also sent my pages to Chase Magazine for the next issue – and the latest edition can be seen here: pgs 64/65. This month I finally take a look at some of the books languishing in my To Be Read pile, namely, The Hundred year Old Man Who Climbed Out of the Window by Jonas Jonasson (apart from the story, I marvelled at the translation from Norwegian), The Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry by Rachel Joyce (inspired to read by Joyce's wonderful second novel, Perfect), God's Own Country by Ross Raisin (quite harrowing in parts but infinitely readable) and finally The Man Who Forgot His Wife by John O'Farrell (an amusing and touching romp by one of my favourite authors). If there are any of these lying forlorn in your TBR pile, I thoroughly recommend them all.

What books are beckoning you from your TBR pile?

Psst! Young writers!

I've been lucky enough to judge a batch of stories in the 500 Words children's short story writing competition hosted by Chris Evans and Radio Two over the past two years. It's been an honour to be involved and the ability of our nation's young people to write a readable story within the confines of 500 words always impresses me. If you entered, I send you massive congratulations. Writing a story is an achievement itself, let alone editing and polishing it until it's fit to enter a national competition. The very best of luck to those of you who entered and I send you all great wafts of fairy dust as we count down the weeks until the winners are declared at the Hay Festival at the end of May. 

Although I am sworn to secrecy on the content of the stories I read, I can tell you that elements of every single story were entertaining and yet, of course, some of the entries had that little something extra which convinced me to give them the top marks.

And thus the reason for this blog. Both years I noticed that the stories which scored the best marks had something in common with each other. Let me explain.

The competition is divided into two age groups: nine and under and ten to 13 year olds. Each of the thousands of judges at this first stage is sent a selection of around 30 stories without knowing anything about the author, not even their gender or exact age. Judges are then required to mark each story on-line and award it a score out of ten in each of five categories:

* Originality

* Plot

* Characterisation

* Language

* Enjoyment

Once marked, each story is listed on the judge's page in order of score. The ranking of the titles constantly updates itself as more stories are marked. At first I was sceptical. How could I judge the 'feel' of the story and the impact on the reader simply by giving aspects of it a clinical mark out of ten? Surely a scoring system couldn't adequately reflect my gut reaction?

In reality, both years I've been flabbergasted by the accuracy of marking the stories in this way. And both years, I've seen it in black and white: a common factor linking the top three stories.

So, here it is. I noticed that the stories which came out top consistently scored highly in 'originality'. It wasn't that this was a superior category of the five used for judging, after all, a maximum of ten points was available in each of the five categories, but where a story felt original, it was much more likely to also score highly in 'enjoyment'.

This is logical and something we writers young and old should remember. It doesn't matter how well a story is written, the quality of the language used or the writer's command of grammar, if it's a story with nothing new for the reader, it's unlikely to keep their interest. Who wants to read a story where they know what is going to happen? Who will bother to spend the time reading something which asks no questions, where we don't have to think? There's Candy Crush for that.

But, I hear you cry, people tell us there are only seven types of story and everything ever written is based on one or more of those. How can we possibly be original living in the 21^st century? This is true to some extent. There are certain themes, such as overcoming adversity: Harry Potter, or the great adventure: Robinson Crusoe, which are the backbone of all story writing. But this is all they are; a tool, a start point or a model. They are the base for a plot on which we add our own characters and situations; a base to add our writer's touch. 

We can take a familiar story and add different people, change the time frame, the country and the events themselves. Take Harry Potter, for example. How would he fare in the year 2114? How would his magic be received then? Would technology be better able or less able to cope with his tricks? How about the other characters? Let's change them a little. What if Voldemort really wanted to be nice? Or should we change our hero? Does he even need to be male? What if 'she' was a different kind of character at school? What if she wasn't very successful? What if she was a clumsy oaf whose only chance to escape ridicule – and death – was her magic but she kept making mistakes? All of a sudden you have more of a comedy but still with its element of adventure.

There are too many possibilities to count and this is true of all story telling. My advice is to start out with an idea and think how you can make it different. How can you make it special and individual? How can you make it your story? Tell yourself that you're not going to write Harry Potter again. After all, JK Rowling had seven novels to tell her story, you have only 500 words.

If, when you write, you can really believe that your reader would sit in a chair, on the bus or in bed bothering to take the time to read your 500 words over any other story they could pick from their book shelves or reader, then you are a long way to writing a story they will want to read rather than a story they've read before.

Write for your reader. Be original. And check your work – spelling and grammar mistakes distract us from the actual story. And by the way, having an adult check your work is not cheating - all professional writers have editors :)

This year's 500 words competition is now closed but there are lots of other competitions open to young people. Click here for a great list of local and national competitions in 2014. You can also find lots of competitions at Firstwriter.com.  

Have fun! And let me know how you get on!

Your Personality in Your Hands

The road through Cancerville was a little rocky last week. However sure I was that I didn't want to use the much documented Cold Cap, however prepared I felt for my hair falling out; the speed with which it all disappeared was shocking. In three days it was pretty much gone. What feels like chunks of your personality falling out in handfuls can only be described as distressing. The seventy year old, uncannily reminiscent male I glimpsed whenever I had the misfortune to catch myself in the mirror, a reflection in the window or glass of a cupboard door – I never realised quite how much we see our faces through the day – was not a sight which gladdened my heart.

My indoor headwear of choice (thanks Susie!)

But, like those before me and those who will unfortunately follow, I have come through the other side and am starting to embrace life with a bald head. A very cold, bald head.

Now I feel able to say to anyone going through this, or holding the hand of someone who is, don't feel you have to pretend that losing your hair is OK, because it isn't. You don't have to tell yourself you look better bald, unless you do. But do remember that hair loss due to chemo is only temporary. For some little understood reason, hair often starts to grow back in cycle four of chemo, not weeks after the end of the final cycle which I'd imagined. And that means that in six small weeks, we could be seeing some tufts of new growth and wondering what colour the baby hair will be. (Anything but Silver Fox for me, please.) Will it be curly or straight? If I get the additional chemo curl, I'll have an 'afro', something which would gain me great kudos with my teenage children. If I go straight, finally I'll have the sophisticated-together look us curly haired mops can never quite pull off. Alas, I fear suave sophistication doesn't come as a package but a first impression of decorum wouldn't go amiss.

Going out for the first time with my wig on felt like I was wearing a sandwich board to broadcast the artificial nature of my head covering to all. But it doesn't anymore. Wearing a Buff, a sporty headscarf, to the gym felt like I was screaming, Caution! Very poorly person on treadmill! Albeit in reality, some people smiled, others gave me a hug and most people didn't notice.

Nonetheless, I did hibernate for a couple of days while I re-adjusted. It's just how I like to cope with things. So I retreated to my office and did my part in the judging of the 500 Words 2014 children's short story competition, hosted by Chris Evans and Radio Two.  This is the second year I've judged and again, I immensely enjoyed the experience. Every one of my batch of 34 stories was entertaining in an amusing, exciting or poignant way but, similarly to last year, I noticed a common factor linking the stories to which I awarded most marks.

I decided to blog about this in the hope it might help our writers of the future move forward not only with their writing generally but also in this and other competitions. I've posted the blog separately here: Psst! Young Writers! Here: Psst! Young Writers! and would be grateful if you could direct your young folk over there if you feel it could be of interest. I explain the categories used in judging the stories and also include some links for other short story competitions for young writers.

As for my writing, alas I didn't make the long list of the Bath Novel Award. But my short story, A Life with Additives, was read during A Roof over your Head, an evening of reading and music organised by the wonderfully altruistic writer, John Taylor  an event which raised in excess of £470 for the homeless charity, Shelter. And so I class that as a great week for writing.

And the pain of last week's hair loss feels a lot further away.

Have a great week!

Unashamedly spineless

I had my first dose of chemo this week. It was pretty much as expected. The staff couldn't do enough for me, the cups of tea were plentiful and we were even brought sandwiches and cake thanks to my session being fortuitously allocated to lunch time. After a saline drip was set up, the chemo was administered, in my case, through a cannula in the hand.

And that's it really. The rest of the time you sit and chat and wonder if you have enough eggs at home for Pancake Day – which we did although I wish I hadn't burnt the 'non-stick' pan a few weeks earlier.

I can't pretend it was a walk in the park. It generally feels as if I've had a murky pair of swimming goggles prised over my head resulting in smeared, wobbly vision, a crashing headache and morning sickness without the baby. Oh, and water tastes like flat Alka Seltzer stirred with a dash of mud. But it's one down and that means five to go which is better than where I was last week and another week closer to my ultimate goal: cancer in the past tense.

So, instead of pondering on the well-documented side-effects of chemo, I thought I'd let you know my decision.

Did I go cold?

When I write blog posts I hope that they might entertain and even provide a nugget of information but I don't really expect them to help me make life affecting decisions. However, the flurry of responses which came via Facebook, here, and in person - thank you so much to everyone - really helped my thought process. I quickly realised that what I really wanted to find was an excuse not to wear the Cold Cap; something we'd call in our house, 'an excuse to be a woos', for fear it was spineless not to at least attempt to try it.

Then a friend mentioned two of her friends who did use the Cold Cap. Unfortunately it had no effect for the first but in the case of the second it worked - ish - with her hair thinning but not falling out altogether. However, due to the thinning, the special shampoos needed to minimise the hair loss, the lack of serum, gel or mousse, hair-drying and curling or straightening, the friend hated her hair. No products? I broached. What, no frizz-calming, curl taming products? I'd look like Tina Turner, I exclaimed, perfect in Mad Max, granted, but not, perhaps, in my village. And thinned, curly long hair? Roll over Rab C Nesbitt.

Crucially, the friend was glad she endured the ordeal because she was happy to have her own hair at the end of the treatment.

But, personally, I didn't go for the Cold Cap.

Instead I had my hair cut to ease the pain of it falling out. I picked up my wig from the wig shop. And I sat and thought about ice cream in pancakes rather than Ice Cream Head.

And I'd made the right decision for me.

Unashamedly spineless.

On another matter, I've been writing. I've hacked and added and slashed the word count again and screamed into the deadline for the Bath Novel Award by thirty minutes. The longlist is announced on 24^th March. I never go into these things thinking I'll win, but I always keep my finger ends on the touch of a glimmer of hope until that Fat Lady Has Sung. All whiffs and sprinkles of fairy dust gratefully accepted :) 

Have a great week!

A Cold Cap

I'm not scared of spiders, nor would I jump on a chair if I saw a mouse. In truth I have few phobias, save for birds trapped in kitchens but I blame that on the cat - RIP Gismo. Not that I ever witnessed the squalls and spitting feathers for more than a few seconds, you understand, before slamming the door behind me and yelling to my beleaguered mother to come and eradicate the irate bird from the scene.

But a demented bird is about it for phobias for me. Apart from the biggy. Apart from The Cold.

Cold fingers and toes have driven me to tears on several occasions. I'd like to say that I have Raynaud's Disease but can't actually claim it to be proven. Although I do know that however many pairs of gloves I wear when I walk, however many layers of Woollie Boolie socks and shoe covers I wear when I cycle, my extremities are always colder and whiter than everyone else's.

This fear of the cold invades my rational thought, sending messages to my brain when my ankles are lapped with cold water, that this is a dangerous situation, that I should evacuate immediately, when the rest of my family and friends are bathing merrily, seemingly oblivious to the potential for the hideous effects of Ice Cream Head which threaten us all.

So why am I talking about the cold?

It's no secret that most people who undergo chemotherapy for breast cancer lose at least some of their hair. I have long hair and confess that the thought of being bald distresses me slightly less than the prospect of finding large clumps of matted, curly hair all over the carpet, in my hands after combing, in the sink and, horror of horrors, on my pillow.

Even the most beautiful of wigs can't prevent the hair loss on the pillow.

When you're diagnosed with cancer, it's terrifying. However, several practices quickly kick into play which help to make it more bearable. One of these practices is the allocation of a key worker, a nurse specially trained in cancer care assigned to be your first point of contact throughout treatment. When I realised that the nurse who'd helped to break the news to me and my husband was going to be with us on every step of this bumpy cancer route, I could have jumped up and hugged her. She was so calm, so comforting, so knowledgeable that I started to feel that we'd be alright after all.

My key worker mentioned the Cold Cap. It's a tool which may - 'may' being the operative word - prevent hair loss as a result of chemotherapy. The process involves freezing the hair follicles while chemotherapy is administered. The patient often sits in warm blankets and gloves and is advised to take pain killers before the cap is applied but nonetheless, the process isn't for the faint-hearted

Did I mention I don’t like the cold, my pathological fear of Ice Cream Head? 

Cooling Cap, thanks to Macmillan Cancer Support for the picture

When I heard the invention described as a 'cap' I imagined it to be a peaked affair with 'New Yorkers' on the front and ice pads pushed discreetly under the rim. Oh no. The cap in our Cold Cap would appear to be more like the tight fitting lady's swimming cap, a la turn of the last century capable of administering temperatures of minus 30 degrees to the hair follicles all around the head. 

So, I ask my nurse, what does it actually feel like to wear a Cold Cap? 

Well, she says, I've heard that it's like the worst tooth ache but in your head.

OK.

But that only lasts for the first 15 to 20 minutes, after that the head just feels numb.

OK. That doesn't sound too pleasant either.

This is how hats should be - warm.

 The other down side to the Cold Cap is that it has to be worn either side of treatment so that the hair follicles are frozen for the entire time the drugs are travelling around the blood. A typical one hour course of chemotherapy can thus take three to four hours. Do I really want each session to last the morning when I could be in and out of hospital and getting on with my day? You also can't hear and thus talk to others while you're wearing the Cold Cap which is something which doesn't come very easily to me.

But perhaps a little time and a lot of discomfort is worth it for the chance to keep your hair, to keep your sanity, to stop yourself ageing twenty years over night and to prevent the ghastly clumps of hair on the pillow?

Perhaps. I change my mind daily.

I looked at the stats. Does it really work? I've scoured Mr Google and respected cancer charity forums and find success rates ranging from 20% to 75% with the odd site claiming even higher successes based on the type of chemotherapy. It's undisputed that the Cold Cap has some success in preventing hair loss entirely and, more commonly, in decreasing the amount of hair which goes. Unfortunately research doesn't tell us which hair the Cold Cap chooses to save. The advice is to have a wig in reserve and the National Health are kind enough to contribute to that.

Thus I went wig shopping with my children last week. I had hoped we'd spend a few hours trying out outrageous wigs on each other, my teenage fashion Aficionados stating categorically which wigs I could and couldn’t carry off. Unfortunately it was a little more sombre than that and they were only allowed to advise. That said, we were unanimous on the decision and I'm excited about the potential new me which emerged from the appointment. But no clues as to the style of wig - even my hubbie hasn't seen it yet.

So, after musing over it for weeks, researching the hard facts and attempting to brush phobias aside, will I be using the Cold Cap?

Absolutely not.

But you might want to ask me again tomorrow.

Unrequited devotion to duty

I will admit to not having done a great deal of work of late. It's really difficult to fit it all in around the operations, recuperations, appointments – ahem - trips to coffee shops, trips online… so was delighted to receive my copies of the January / February edition of Chase Magazine and see that I could still occasionally manage to put a few words on paper.

I'm talking about Dear Thing by Julie Cohen and Crossing The Line by Christian Plowman in this edition. 

I only write about books which have blown me away and which I desperately want other people to read. And these two are no exception. The subject matter, surrogacy, is what drove me to Cohen's novel but once in, I found it was as much a story of unrequited love as making babies - an unexpected extra dimension which was joyously painful to read.

The second, Crossing The Line, is an auto-biographical view of life as an undercover detective. It's a theme which wouldn't normally jump out at me but once it had become clear that I'd read the entire first chapter in Waterstones, I felt compelled to buy it. Plowman's story is certainly gripping, powerful and, I admit, quite entertaining (even if I did feel a little voyeuristic in my fascination of the dirty underworld Plowman frequented) but it was also overtly sad and it was the human cost to Plowman which really had me fascinated. 

Please click here to pop over to Chase to read more (pages 50/51).

How's my new companion, cancer today? Well, I'm one step closer to booting the gate-crasher from the party. Last week I had my second official operation (third if you count the unexpected extra one to clear up the burst artery) and I'm back and fighting and just hoping we can finally get on with chemotherapy soon. It's funny the world you enter when you find out you have cancer, when you start wishing things like chemotherapy upon yourself. But the sooner we crack on with it, the sooner we can start talking about cancer in the past tense. Next post I'll tell you about the wig buying trip with my children. If you ask me nicely, I may even include photos.

Blood, Blood, glorious Blood

I'm going to talk about blood – not the messy, congealed kind but the type stashed away neatly in hospital blood banks.

Before I get going, I should explain that what happened to me was an extremely rare side-effect of the surgery to remove my tumour and not to be feared if you have to undergo the same. Indeed, even when it does occur, the results are not always so dramatic – but then, I'll do anything for a good story.

Barbamama - happy to be alive!

So, after my initial surgery I suffered a burst artery which lost me lots of blood and after two transfusions and the injection of so much saline fluid I looked like Barbamama, followed by three more pints of blood in the emergency surgery which followed, I emerged happy to be here to tell the tale and oh so grateful that somebody, or some people, of my blood group, happened to give blood recently.

Thanks to a poignant donor campaign when I was a student, I'd been giving blood ever since. Every four months I'd pop along to my local mobile centre, chat with the nurses, eat all their biscuits and toddle along home feeling oh, so virtuous. For anyone who hasn't given blood or received it before, I should say that a large chunk of the 30-45 minute process is taken up with screening to limit the risk of disease spreading through your blood to a patient and the blood is rigorously checked for infection after you've given it.

When I woke up alive and well and more than a little proud of the bruise from shoulder to hip and the marvelling from staff at just how much blood I'd received for one so small, I was relieved that I'd given blood in the past. Who'd have thought that one day it would be who me who needed it?

I knew that I wouldn't be allowed to give blood anymore* and consoled myself with the fact that at least I'd given blood for the past twenty years.  And then I worked it out. Four monthly giving is the maximum allowed for women (three monthly for men) so that the donor has ample time in between to build their blood supplies back up to normal levels. So it would have taken one person twenty months of giving just to provide the amount I needed to be sitting up again. On that basis, the potential amount of people I could have helped over my entire adulthood was a paltry 12. Twelve! I was shocked.

Now, I know not everybody is going to need five pints but nonetheless, how much blood would we need in the banks if we had a natural disaster or an epidemic? Could there ever be a situation where I could have been lying there with the staff whispering, 'Hang on in there Mrs Buxton, we're just waiting for your blood to arrive from Newcastle, Edinburgh, John o' Groats…'?

There is a bright side to having cancer and that is that everyone wants to help. It's the loveliness of the human spirit; everyone wants to make it right and if they can't do that, they want to make it easier or more comfortable. Is this a good place to thank everyone for the cards, messages, flowers, chocolates, candles, moisturiser, fluffy socks and fleecy cardigans, poignant charms and pieces of jewellery, books, DVDs, writing retreats (oh yes!), magazines, cleaning, ironing, notebooks (you know how much I love my notebooks), offers of shopping, lifts, meals for my children, cake, bags of healthy cancer-fighting eating and meals-on-wheels on my doorstep and hugs and positive vibes? You're all sent from God.

But, back to blood. I've realised that there is another way that people can directly help and that is this. If you can, please would you give blood? Only 4% of the population do, I've discovered. And please, tell your friends and family. You'll be helping me because I'm not allowed to give blood anymore and you'll be helping to save lives. It's that simple. Click Here to find out more and your closest place to give.

Let's get those stocks back up, I feel I've had more than my fair share of late.

And to all of you who do regularly give blood, thank you from all of us.

*Incidentally, I've also had to take myself off the Anthony Nolan Trust donor (stem cells) list which helps people with blood cancers such as leukaemia. Would you take my place on the list? Click Here to find out more J

Pebbles

Sometimes someone chucks a pebble onto the path we're walking and we trip before staggering slowly back to our feet.

Every time a sizeable pebble has been thrown in my direction I've sought solace in writing, either in my own in the form of a diary or in that of others -which has been more tricky. Whenever I've wanted to find real life stories of people who've faced similar pebbles and, most crucially, are walking upright again, I haven't really found them.

When my boyfriend died when he was only 17, I searched for that book but I never found it. Years later I vowed I'd write a version of my story in the hope it might comfort people in their darkest moments that there IS life after the death of a loved one – even at 16 when the world is still so gloriously black and white. But I never wrote it.

When my daughter had a stroke, only 15 small months of age, I devoured websites, support groups, non-fiction and even fiction to find an inspirational story of a baby with half a body paralysed who'd then gone on to lead a happy, fulfilled life. And even though I know the world is packed with such success stories now, my 13 year old daughter being one of them, I couldn't find the story I craved back then.

So, now I learn that I have breast cancer and the path of the next few months – and years – will be well speckled with pebbles on the route to what I pray is a full recovery.

But this time, I've decided that I am going to write it down.

I'm going to blog about the journey. But I want my posts to have purpose, not just to be cathartic for me, but with the aim of calming a few nerves for those in a similar position but who are perhaps a little further back on the road. So I will only post when I feel I have something positive to say, something I've felt or learnt which might help someone in a similar position. It won't be for everyone, already I fear my humour is lurching a little into the macabre, but if I can pass on the message that having cancer is not all bad, then I'll call that a success.

You know, it's really hard to feel down when so many people are showering you with love and caring. Love really is what makes the world go round, or should be anyway. 

Have a great week!