A Little Less Squished

I have mentioned the inimitable A Squash and a Squeeze by Julia Donaldson here before; such is the impact this favourite rhyming book of my then toddler has had on my life. I'm not sure how much of the moral my youngest took in at the time – that everything in life is relative and happiness lies in appreciating what you have –but she certainly went to sleep with a smile after numerous renditions of, 'Glory me! It was tiny for two and it's titchy for three'.

Little did I know that I'd still be quoting, A Squash and a Squeeze long after the screams of, 'Take in my hen? What a curious plan,' had turned to the killing fields of the Hunger Games.

Roll over Dickens and Tolstoy.

In A Squash and a Squeeze, the wise old man asks the farmer's wife to trust in his philosophy. Her poky house is getting her down and she doesn't have room to 'swing a cat', let alone her farm animals of assorted sizes, which the wise man asks her to add one by one into her already straining abode. It's only when he directs her to remove them, that she realises quite what she had before.

2014 has been a bit of a squash and a squeeze for me and none more so than the summer holidays, rammed with radiotherapy appointments at the expense of work and being with (and transporting) my teenage children. Where the old lady filled her house one by one with extra animals varying in size from a hen to a cow, my 2014 was filled with treatments for cancer. But as in the book, it's all relative; I am one of the lucky ones.

That doesn't mean I haven't lamented the lack of time.

Throw in chemo! the oncologist said.

I can't I cried. I teach, I edit, I write

I work for my husband (badly), have a small business

(which suddenly seems humongously large)

and short stories and a novel I'm trying to type.

And I want to ride my bike.

I can't take on chemo, my life is a squash and a squeeze.

But in the chemo went.

Take out a week every three to recuperate

And add in Herceptin every three weeks for a year

And radiotherapy.

Oh! don't shed a tear, after 15 sessions you'll be out of here.

And then add in Tamoxifen for the next four years and one

It's only a pill, with any luck, it won't make you ill.

And then I blinked and it was September. The big cow had stopped dancing on the dining room table. I locked the door soundly behind it. Goodbye chemo, farewell, I hope. Radiotherapy has been winched out of the top window. In the kitchen there are still a few hens pecking at my feet; a reminder that this cancer journey still rolls on but you know, I can manage perfectly well even with a constant tickle at my toes.

So sympathetic, professional and advanced has been my treatment that although I breathe in the less cluttered air with relish, there is a part of me which hasn’t disliked the squash and a squeeze of the last nine months. I've found it interesting, supportive, friendly and hopeful. I'd have gladly done without it but without the brilliance of the medical profession and the incredible love and support of those around me, the path life has forced me down would have been much less bearable.

And let's face it, I might not have been walking it at all.

My cancer journey isn't over. I can't imagine it ever really coming to an end, although an all–clear after five years is a milestone I wish on every wishbone to meet. Nine months after diagnosis, however, emotionally and practically, I'm feeling a little less squished. 

Story-telling Charades

Asking me for a book recommendation is a commitment to a game of story-telling charades. I can give you un-abridged plot, swear my undying love for the characters and unbridled respect for the author but rarely can I give you their name or the title of the novel, without a little mental gymnastics first.

You just have to read, I say. Ok, it's a summer theme, same author as the one everyone's read with the blue cover, a desolate beach scene, silhouette of lovers holding hands. Don't recognise it? Oh, then put that on your list too. You'll cry, I warn, but it's uplifting as well.

The author? You'll know her, she's written loads! She must have been there, I add, sagely, must have had a close encounter with death because it was the little things she mentioned; the not washing the pillow cases. Edinburgh, you know?

After You'd Gone! You call. Yes! You've read it, I say, brilliant isn't it? I'll never forget it. So, what's the author's name? I can picture it on the cover in block white print. Same surname as a funny male writer. No, they're not married, not even related, shame. But she is married to a writer, another funny bloke, he's not O'Farrell though. He's William Sut…

O'Farrell! We scream in unison. Maggie O'Farrell. Phew! Instructions For A Heatwave, I say. Read that on the beach.

So, even though I'm never knowingly without a novel by my bed and another in my bag, putting together my list of recommended reading can be quite an undertaking. After much jumping up and down to my book shelves, family tree-esque diagrams and a convoluted path around Google, I've come up with my list of ten recommended stories old and new for the summer edition of Chase Magazine* – see page 54/55 - to spare you the charades. 

A new edition to Chase Magazine is Kids Corner on page 56 where a young writer has the chance to see their piece of short fiction in print. This issue's contributor is Georgia Buxton, age 13, (and no relation to me :D) with her quirky insight into Planet Zarg. If you know any keen writers under the age of 16, living in Sheffield, Rotherham or elsewhere in South Yorkshire, who'd like to see their writing in print, please encourage them to give it a go. 

All submissions should be emailed directly to the editor: joe.cawthorn@rotherhamadvertiser.co.uk 
as a Word attachment. Short stories, poetry and flash fiction up to 500 words in length all welcome and successful entrants will receive up to five free copies of the edition of Chase in which their article is printed. Good luck!

So, what have you been reading lately? Please share. Charades-type descriptions always acceptable...

*You may have to register with Chase the first time you click on the online edition but it's plain sailing after that.

Why Not Me?

I quite expected to get cancer. Even though I prefer my glass most definitely half full, I've always been a, 'Why not me?', rather than a, 'Why me?' kind of girl. I think accepting the unsavoury situations which jump out at us unbidden, is the first step to giving them a great big slap in the chops.

And 1 in 3 people will contract cancer at some point in their life so why wouldn't one of those people be me? I guess I just hoped that I'd be 109 when it knocked and so short on faculties that I wouldn't really notice. But no matter, I'm here, having treatment for cancer and this is how I intend to move forward.

I thank my lucky stars that I developed cancer in 2014 rather than 1974 because the treatment available these days means that chances of survival for most - alas not all - cancers are so much better than when I was growing up, and rising all the time. But treatment is brutal, expensive and not fool-proof and thus prevention would be infinitely preferable.

Whilst the experts know how cancers are formed, they don't always know why one person contracts cancer and another doesn't. Once the well-publicised triggers such as smoking, excessive alcohol, obesity, sun exposure and genetics have been discounted, medicine puts it down to bad luck. In this case we're grateful for the brilliance of modern treatment and hope that we're not unlucky again.

However, this is the one area of science which doesn't work for me. I get twitchy putting my life in the care of luck. The body is clever but cancer cells are evil little blighters. We're back to my, 'Why not me?' scenario. Something about the mix of my body, my diet, my environment, my genetics, even my character meant that I developed cancer. And I cannot see any logic that says that if I change nothing, this won't happen again. I needed an action plan.

But to be able to hatch my plan, I had to understand how cancer was formed.

I shall endeavour to explain it how I understand it, in my – spent longer revising to scrape through, I reckon it's the easiest science so I'll choose that one, Biology o-level than all my other subjects put together – kind of way. I apologise in advance to those who know their stamen from their stigma or what the periodic table was actually for.

It's all about cells. I imagine our body like a small town inhabited by cells; a little like an ant colony. There are hospitals equipping white blood cells with the tools to fight infection. There's the train collecting and depositing oxygen around the body so that it functions efficiently and productively. Constant building work is going on to make new bones or repair over-stressed muscles and joints. Then of course there are the big organs made up of lots of cells and commanding great respect. If the body gets over-taxed, the lesser organs are ordered to go into standby to ensure the brain and the heart stay in control and manage the body out of the crisis.

It's a very harmonious town. Yes, things go wrong. The control centre for each cell - its DNA - can become damaged and feed it the wrong instructions so that it becomes a faulty cell and be no use to the body. This happens fairly regularly, it would seem, but these Bad Cells are generally expelled; a very necessary and common process in the body's continual pursuit of good health.

However, the body's defences don't always work as effectively as they should do and sometimes a Bad Cell isn't ejected but instead reproduces uncontrollably. Left unchecked (and the body has many checking systems; we are talking a perfect storm here) Bad Cells will eventually grow too powerful for the body's defences. Eventually, our town faces more than a cluster of Bad Cells but instead, a cancerous lump. Now, the most effective tool open to the body is to call in the heavies, the medical profession, who come with a big spade to uproot the lump and cast it from the body forever.

That can be the end of it but if the cancer has been around a while or is a particularly fast growing cancer – like mine, many thanks for that, body – it might have got cocky and started throwing out baby cancer cells which could be hiding somewhere in the body. Or the lump could have taken root in a very built up, hard to reach area and the spade couldn’t get near it. Any chance at all of this and the super powers come in, launching chemo, a bomb which reverberates right around the body. It  kills off all fast growing cells (we hope) such as our hair and disease fighting cells and within this group of fast growing cells are, you betcha, the most fast growing of them all: cancer cells. See you bad boys. In the super power's army are other fighters such as radiotherapy which attack locally and the peace keeping forces such as Herceptin and Tamoxifen (protein and hormone inhibitors without which some types of breast cancer struggle to divide and conquer) which are there to maintain the status quo.

So, back to my action plan. What was it that I did that created an environment in which the Bad Cell thrived? Why didn't my defence system work quite as well as it should have done? And the, 'Why not me?' question: why wouldn't this happen again?

I'm quite a healthy soul. I've always loved sport and spend hours every week doing it. Much to the constant consternation of my sisters and friends (I'll whisper it) I don't much care for cake, am happier munching my way through a bowl of salad. So, she says, glossing over the daughter's warm banana cake devoured last night, my diet is naturally fairly healthy. Breast cancer doesn't run in my family. I've never smoked and when it comes to alcohol, I'm generally considered a, 'bit of a lightweight'. But more about that later.

I'm very wary of scare stories and don’t tend to trust information unless it's endorsed by recognised cancer charities and bodies. My favourites are Cancer Research UK  and Macmillan Cancer Support not least because I know that on their sites, I would have to actively search for statistics, none of which I have any interest in knowing, the very idea of them terrifies me. I've read up on diet, environment and the validity and otherwise of well-documented cancer triggers we hear of in the news and this is what I've come up with. I'm not saying it's a check list of what every person needs to do to prevent cancer or to stop it coming back, nor indeed is it a catch-all list. After all, if it was, I'd be very rich and decorated with various honours, not least the Nobel Prize for Science - and did I mention my lack of aptitude for science? But, in addition to some small diet tweaks, broccoli and walnuts to name but two, here are two changes I've chosen to make based on my own research and lifestyle.

Sleep
There has been much in the press about shift workers living less long than day time workers and there is some evidence that not allowing the body enough time to regenerate can increase the risk of some serious ailments including stroke, obesity, diabetes and, interestingly, the recurrence of aggressive breast cancers.Click for more info. This is early research but to see any link at all when I am someone who's rarely slept more than five hours a night since my teens, was enough for me to make a definite change to my sleeping habits. Before midnight is when I now got to bed, seven hours later is when I wake. Much as I lament that with the new regime has come a loss of ten hours of my old writing time every week, I can't write a book from the next life can I? 

Well, I don't think I can, anyway.

And, an unexpected bi-product was that after only a few nights of better sleep, people noticed. I recognise that people may have expected me to have grown three noses after my diagnosis but nonetheless, I had many comments on how well I looked including one friend who'd said she'd spotted I'd been looking tired (oh the shame) but she'd put it down to us all getting older. Pah! Forget anti-wrinkle cream, my advice for serious, and not so serious reasons, is that if you're skimping on the zzz, get thee to bed!

Alcohol
Remember when I said that I was a bit of a lightweight when it came to alcohol? Unfortunately, women drinking any more than 2-3 units of alcohol a day put themselves at a slightly higher risk of developing breast and other cancers. For men the safe limit is 3-4 units. Click for more info. That's fine, I thought, no need to make any changes there. But then I looked into what a unit really is and realised that 2-3 units per day is actually more like one standard drink a day. I didn't drink every night of the week, nor did I binge drink before, but I did regularly drink more than one glass of alcohol in one sitting. Now I don't drink more than seven units a week and it's been surprisingly easy to make the shift.

No longer do my husband and I crack open a bottle of wine during the week - it would last us a couple of nights, like I say, we're not talking your classic high risk here - unless we have someone round to supper. If we go out at the weekend, I'll have a glass of wine. It's all I need. I just like that first taste, like the first chocolate; always the best and downhill from there. I like the fact that I can join in a toast for someone's birthday, have a splash of wine in the sun, a glass of red with a Sunday roast, but I also like the fact that I don't wake up next morning with the horrendous sinking feeling that I might have increased my risk of breast cancer.

That said, all the advice I've read and been given in hospital is that these are lifetime choices. Break the rules now and again and the result will not be automatic cancer. Nor will all heavy and even light drinkers get breast cancer. Remember, cancerous cells are the result of a perfect storm; a multitude of ongoing factors, only some of which we can influence.

Please don’t have nightmares! And, as always, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

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!