2019 Blog Plans!

So, here we are in a fresh, new year and if you're particularly eagle-eyed, you may have noticed that this blog also has a fresh, new header.  Don't worry, I won't be offended if you didn't notice, but... Well, I'm rather pleased with it, despite my usual lack of design ability.

The main reason I figured the header needed a spruce up was the fact that the old one was technically out of date.  It still suggested that there would be a free bedtime story for children, released right here every Wednesday at 6pm.  And if you're a regular reader, you'll know that that's no longer true.

One of the reasons I decided to stop writing the weekly bedtime stories was because I was spending so much time planning them in advance and writing them in bulk, I wasn't finding time to blog about anything else.  What with having a day job and a YouTube channel to maintain, writing the stories was becoming the only thing I did on this site and I missed the frequency with which I used to be able to write about anything that took my fancy. 

I was also stressing about the incongruous nature of there being a sweet bedtime story nestled right beside an angry blog piece about, for example, romanticised abuse in fiction. 

For those reasons (and a few more besides), I called a halt to the weekly bedtime story feature in the hope that I would find the time to write something else, instead.  A rather fanciful part of my brain is still keen on the idea of finally getting around to writing that difficult second novel, but if I can make do with posting regularly on this blog - and getting back to writing about a whole variety of different things - then I'll be satisfied.

So, in 2019, you can expect to see more of me on this blog.  No, no... Not like that.  I've not taken to posting nude selfies or anything.  Nobody wants that, believe me.  But you can expect to see more rants, more opinion pieces, more random posts about whatever has popped into my head that day and, as ever, plenty of personal anecdotes.

The Rambling Curl will be rambling in all directions, this year.  I'm rather excited to get started!

Inktober/Blogtober (An Alternative Take): Day One

Can you believe it's October already?!  Surely, it was only Pancake Day last week, or something...  Mind you, this is me we're talking about; every day is Pancake Day.

With the start of this month, comes two challenges that creative types often like to get involved with - Inktober and Blogtober.  Now, I have no real talent when it comes to drawing or painting.  If you don't believe me, you should check out Craftastrophe, the new drunk craft channel (yes, you read that right) that I share with my amazing friend Lesley, who has artistic talent in spades. In fact, you should just check that out anyway, because it's hilarious, even if I do say so myself...

Blogtober, you might think, would be much more me.  And yet, each year, I studiously avoid taking part.  It's not because I don't love writing.  It's more that I'm notoriously picky about what I write on this blog.  I enjoy going off on a big old rant, but if I found something to be angry about every day in October, I feel like I'd end the month with a massive coronary.  I also enjoy baring my soul a bit and sharing experiences from my life, here.  It helps me to untangle my thoughts and it stops me internalising everything if I've made myself write it down, instead.  There's also a part of me that knows I've been helped by other people - total strangers - who've written about their experiences and, in doing so, have inadvertently made me feel less alone in whatever I'm going through.  Why wouldn't I want to be the stranger who helps someone else?!  So, I do like the whole "I wear my heart on my sleeve - or rather my blog," thing.  But if I was to share personal thoughts every day for a month, I feel like I'd reach the point where I'd reveal something I really should keep secret.  

With all that in mind, I figured this would be another year in which both challenges passed me by.  That is, until the aforementioned Lesley - fabulously talented artist and generally awesome human, remember?! - suggested I use the Inktober prompts to inspire me to write something every day.  It could be a short story, a poem, an essay, it doesn't matter, as long as it's linked to the prompts.

And that, my friends, is exactly what I'm going to do.   Preamble over, let's get cracking...

You don't notice it at first.

A verbal cut delivered with a smile,

It leaves no scar on show.

But somewhere inside,

Those words are stored.

Drip, drip, drip.

It's just a joke, they insist.

Someone so close would never do you harm.

You tell yourself to laugh;

Aim your frustration

Squarely at yourself.

Drip, drip, drip.

You get things wrong too often;

Why don't you stop and think before you act?

Guilt gnaws at your stomach.

Why does anyone

Put up with you?

Drip, drip, drip.

You deserve the pain you feel.

Anger, a bullet with your own name on.

Poison flows through your veins,

Yet you barely

Felt the needle stab.

Drip, drip, drip.

Who were you before all this?

Why did they ever want you in their life?

What made you change so much?

The answer,

An antidote.

Drip...  Drip...

The veil lifts and you see clear.

A ball of clay, you were moulded anew.

Smooth surface picked open,

And you crumbled

Into dust.

Drip... Drip...

And so the strings must be cut.

Now you must rise from flames you did not light.

Don't walk away; you run.

And search until

You find yourself.

Drip...  Drip... 

...Stop.

I AM Still Alive...

I don't think any of my New Year's resolutions were to blog more.  Which is a relief, because... Well, aside from the bedtime stories that go up every week (and which are often written a month or more in advance), I'm not doing so great at the old mass communication, thing...

I don't need to do the whole "life has been tough" schtick.  You've heard it.  You know about it (in sketchy details, because duh, I don't want everything in my life to be online).  So, I'm not about to talk about my woes, don't panic.

But I am going to say that those woes are very much affecting my ability to write.

The trouble with having one major life event that has caused enormous emotional upset is that you can relate literally everything to that life event.  You sit down to write a blog about something and then realise it's something you used to do with someone who you can no longer have anything to do with and you just think "THIS SUBJECT IS RUINED, NOW."  

Either that, or you decide that you want to write an honest blog post about your feelings and the pain you're going through.  And then you open up your blog and realise that your last three or four posts have been you doing exactly that.  Which sucks, because writing is a terrific outlet, but nobody wants to be that person who just pours their misery out onto the page over and over again, so you end up saying nothing, instead.

Or, you decide that you'll try to make a helpful post on the subject of the type of trauma you're going through, in the hope of helping others in the same boat.  Only to realise, a paragraph or two in, that you're nowhere near over it enough to be helping anyone.  If anything, you should be seeking out help from someone else.

So, that's what I'm doing.  In a week and a half's time, I'll be starting counselling.  Because, if the random, sudden onslaught of snotty crying I indulged in at gone midnight last night is anything to go by, this one, emotionally battering life event, is not something I'm going to be able to get over without a bit of assistance.  And I don't feel any shame in admitting that.  Sometimes we need help.  And that's okay.

Perhaps I will end up blogging about the counselling process and what it (hopefully) teaches me.  Perhaps I will rediscover my ability to write about other things and I'll suddenly be posting far more often.  Perhaps this is a road that will take a while to walk, and my writing will have to take a bit of a back seat, whilst I throw myself into building my YouTube channel (which you should totally check out, because I can't be all mopey on camera, so it's generally a fun place to spend your time).

Whatever happens, if there are any regular readers out there, wondering where my lists of weird things, or my rants about the world have gone, just be reassured that they'll be back.  I'm still here.  I'm just putting myself back together.

There is nothing I want to do more - besides making YouTube videos - than write.  I have so many blog ideas, so many subjects I want to get my teeth into...  But right now, there's stuff in my brain that cancels out all of that and makes it hard to do.  One of the most depressing - and ironic - things about being a writer, is that when life is hard, all you want to do is write about it, and that writing often comes really easily.  But, when you've poured your heart out onto the page (or the screen), it's done.  You can't keep doing it, despite it being the only thing you have to say - or the only thing you feel able to say.

So, I will be back to my usual blog-y self in time.  But first, I have to get back in touch with who I was before this all happened.  

I'll let you know when I find her.

What a novel blog post...

I would apologise for the title of this post, except... I'm not sorry; we all know I can't resist a pun.

Anyway, this post is essentially something of a celebration.  To explain what we're celebrating, I'll tell you a story...

Back in 2012, I was recovering from an abusive relationship that had threatened to completely destroy my life.  I'd been in a really bad place in the first few months since leaving, but, as 2011 gave way to 2012, I was starting to turn a corner.  I began to have counselling and my counsellor eventually suggested I contacted a charity called Women's Rape And Sexual Abuse Centre (or WRSAC for short).  I was massively hesitant about calling them.  I hadn't ever been raped and I felt like a fraud; I was still in a place where I didn't fully believe that what had happened to me had even been abuse.  But I called them.  And making that call changed - possibly even saved - my life.

Unfortunately, it was also during that time that lots of people I knew started banging on about a book called Fifty Shades of Grey.  They kept saying how "hot" it was.  How "romantic" they found it.  How every woman should have a man like Christian Grey in their life, if only they could be so "lucky."

I told my mum that I was going to have to read this fantastic book and bless her heart, she came back from a trip to the supermarket with a copy for me.  To this day, I feel a sense of genuine guilt that the book was a present from the person I love most in the world, because reading it... Well, reading it was akin to being smacked over the head with the relationship I was literally just beginning to get over.

It felt like I was being told I should be grateful to have been with someone so wonderful.  It felt like I was being told that I just wasn't perfect enough to "cure" my abuser with my amazing love, the way that we're supposed to believe that Ana cures Christian (which is bullshit on so many levels).  It was as though EL James had taken my experiences of abuse and rewritten them as a love story.  I felt sick.  And EL's silencing of abuse survivors and charities who tried voicing their concerns - not to mention the nastiness doled out from legions of Fifty Shades fans to anyone who dared to criticise the trilogy (and yes, I've read all three books) - only worsened that sick sensation in my belly.

And yep, I got my "angry writer" hat on and wrote to the press about it.

Then, one Summer evening, as I sat with my new support worker from WRSAC, I found myself blurting out: "Someone should write a book that tells the truth about men like Grey.  A book about a girl who meets this sexy, passionate guy with a dark, tragic past, but instead of romanticising abuse and making it sound as though you can "cure" it with love, the story should actually show emotional and psychological abuse for what it is."  And then, given how I was already making big, blurted statements, I made another: "Do you know what?  I'm going to bloody do it myself."

That's how Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections was born.  And it's why the very top person in the list of individual dedications at the start, is Chloe from WRSAC - my support worker.  The first person I ever told about this book, before I had even started writing it.

It took me well over a year to write the story.  Partly because I'm so used to writing children's fiction and partly because I was trying to juggle a day job, as well as other writing at the same time.  But mainly because the story is semi (and I emphasise that word) autobiographical.  Some of the cruel jibes Richard North (the Christian Grey of this tale) makes are words I've had spat at me from the person I loved.  Some of the situations are ones I found myself living in.  All of the pain that Jenna - my lead character - experiences is pain I went through myself.

Even the title comes from personal experience.  When I went to see my GP to ask for counselling - four months after I left my ex - I caught sight of myself in a mirror on his desk and I didn't recognise the reflection.  I thought of those funfair mirrors, where everything is distorted and you don't look like yourself.  Then, because I was in such emotional pain, I thought "no, those mirrors are fun.  This is more like when a mirror is cracked and your reflection is bent out of shape."

I revisited that experience not only to gain the title for this novel, but to try to explain the trauma that Jenna is going through, when she seeks help.  Towards the end of the novel, she explains to her own support worker:

“When I went to the doctors, I saw my reflection in a mirror and I looked so different.  It felt like I wasn’t looking at myself.  It was like... You know when you look into a mirror that has a crack in it and your reflection is distorted?  It was like that, only the mirror was fine.  It was me that was broken.”

- Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections, chapter 33

The subject matter is such that it's unlikely this book will ever be "beach-reading."  It's not always an easy read, but it's an important one.  And, I hope, a powerful and moving one.  If reading this book makes one person realise that abuse doesn't have to just mean hitting, or raping a person, then it's done its job.  

Yes, there are sex scenes.  Because abusers are charming, clever, passionate.  They don't waltz into rooms like pantomime baddies, accompanied by a thunder clap and eerie, dramatic laughter.  They could be the most gorgeous person you've ever laid eyes on.  They could be the funniest person you've ever met.  They could be the best sex you've ever had.  It's important to write that into a story 

like this, because too many people are convinced that they'd spot abuse in reality, when the truth is, even when you're going through it, you don't necessarily recognise it for what it is.  I didn't.

So, yes, this is a big leap from anything I've written, previously.  And no, this isn't a story to share with your little ones before bed (seriously, don't do that).  But it's an important book and it's one I hope you do share with your friends and loved ones.  Because when we educate ourselves on what abuse really is, we hopefully protect ourselves from it that little bit more.  And that can only be a good thing.

Once the story was written, I spent a long, long time editing it.  It was massively important to me to get it right.  Eventually, after two years of cutting bits, adding bits and deleting words here and there, I came to realise that I could carry on editing forever and never think it was perfect.  So, after one last edit, I decided it was what it needed to be: Real.

It's not my story.  It's heavily influenced, obviously, but I didn't want to just write an exact account of what had happened to me.  Instead, this book is half-autobiographical and half-fantasy.  I think it works better that way.  

I said at the start of this that this blog post is something of a celebration and I meant it.  We're celebrating the completion and publication of my first adult novel.  But much more importantly, we're celebrating the fact that I was free to write it in the first place.  

There are no "cracked mirrors" in my life, anymore.  When I look in the mirror these days, the woman staring back at me is one I recognise and am proud of.  

And I'm proud of the book she's written, too.

Purchase Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections as a paperback book. (readers in the USA can click here)

Purchase Cracked Mirrors And Torn Reflections for the Kindle.

Self-Publishing: The Truth Behind The Gloss

I wrote a children's book.  You can buy it here.

I just typed "self-publishing success stories" into Google.  There were over four and a half million results.

Every now and then, we hear about a writer who was rejected time and again by traditional publishers, only to self-publish and become a phenomenal success.  Even bad writers have made squillions out of self-publishing (I'm mentioning no names here, but we all know who I mean, right?  Right.).

The saying goes that everyone has a book in them.  Hopefully not literally, as that sounds frankly uncomfortable...  But if we're all aspiring writers, then how can we hope to be that one, shining example of someone who's made a fortune out of self-publishing, when we're merely one author in a sea of billions?

My new ebook received its first star-rating on Amazon, very recently.  It got five out of five.  I was so thrilled, I did a victory dance.  It was every bit as epic as you imagine it to be.

The dream is to be doing well enough with my writing that I can give up the day job and spend days, tapping away at my keyboard until the tips of my fingers are worn.  That might sound hellish to some, but to me, it sounds divine.

The truth of the situation is that my sales figures aren't going to have Michael Morpurgo crying into his coffee any time soon.  Even with three traditionally-published children's books under my belt, I'm an unknown.  I'm dipping my toes into self-publishing, completely aware that the next big success story may never be me.  

But that's not going to stop me from trying.  The sheer number of book-reviewers I've had tell me they "don't do self-published books" today isn't going to stop me trying.  The number of media outlets I've contacted, begging for an interview or a short promotional piece, who've completely and utterly ignored me, isn't going to stop me trying.

That's the thing about doing it yourself.  The clue is in the word "yourself."

Once I receive a print-on-demand copy of my book, I'll see if any local schools want me to do a reading, or even a writing workshop.  I'll keep badgering reviewers, to see if anyone wants a PDF of my book, so they can read and review it.  I'll keep shamelessly self-promoting Seven Days With The Cherry Tree Gang over on Twitter and Facebook.

But most importantly of all, I'll keep writing.  Because the more titles you have, the more of a recognised author you become.  The more ebooks are up on Amazon, the more likelihood you have of earning royalties from sales.

My book hasn't surged into the bestsellers lists.  It hasn't already sold thousands of copies.  It's not made me a household name.  But it's out there, because I put it there and I'll put more out there until there's literally just tiny stubs where my fingers used to be.  Then I'll dictate books to some poor soul, so I can still put more stuff out there.

I'm a dreamer of improbable dreams, sure.  But sometimes, dreams come true.

Nothing To Say...

The trouble with blog-writing, is that once you commit to it, you're supposed to keep it up.  Regular little updates are expected, on anything from the biggest news stories of the day, to simply what you had for dinner last night (a very nice roast, if you're interested, which I'm sure you're not).  And sometimes, no matter how hard you try, inspiration just doesn't come.  From anywhere.  So, you find yourself sitting in front of your laptop, desperately hammering the keys, in the hope that you can write about something - anything - before eventually slumping onto the keyboard, in a state of silent panic that you've actually lost the ability to write at all.

The funny thing is, I've not run out of subjects.  It's just that it sometimes feels as though I've covered everything I want to say at that very moment, already.  Following her despicable piece about wanting to drown (or shoot) migrants this weekend, I was tempted to blog about Katie Hopkins, but... Well, I've done that already.  Then I thought about writing a piece on the awful abuse Sue Perkins received, after being (apparently wrongly) labelled as Jeremy Clarkson's successor on Top Gear, but I remembered that it was only last month that I wrote about Jeremy Clarkson and I've already written about online abuse, as recently as February.  In fact, I wrote about it twice.

It's not like I shy away from personal topics, either.  This might be a public blog, but I'm not averse to writing about some of the most deeply personal issues in my life, such as my experiences of emotional abuse and my sadness at not having become a mum, yet (and my worry that, seeing as I'm 32 and single, I may never do so).

But today, I just can't seem to find the right words, let alone the right subject, hence the inclusion of what I can only call a "greatest hits" list of links, above, in the hope that someone stumbling upon this blog for the first time might actually realise that I can write a coherent post, now and then.  Today just isn't the day...

Random photo, for no reason.

There are probably several reasons for my lack of brain-function when it comes to writing, today.  Firstly, I'm massively overtired.  I went to see (and MEET - still not over that!) McBusted on Friday 10th April and after that excitement, I only really had a day or so to chill out before I went off to sunny Butlin's in Minehead from Monday-Friday of last week.  Cue many late nights, probably too much alcohol and noisy neighbours who woke us up at all hours with their loud chatter, television watching and... Other stuff I won't mention.  The day after I returned home, I also went to a wedding and stayed up late after the reception, so basically: Zzzzzzzzz.

My mind is also not my closest friend at the moment, seeing as it's bombarding me with images of some poor guy I barely know, who I have quite a crush on.  I don't think I've ever said more than a passing "hello" to him, which is why said crush is so silly, not to mention the fact that he lives and works a good three hours' away.  I'm not put off by long-distance relationships, but I'm sure he's probably put off by the thought of some soppy mare who can't even bring herself to make eye contact when she's in the same room as he is...  So my conscious brain and I aren't exactly on speaking terms. 

Anyway, I sat down at my laptop, with the absolute intention of writing something decent.  And then I was distracted by YouTube.  And then by a site on which I ended up designing a birthday gift for my best friend.  And then by a local property website (because damn it, if I win the lottery one of these days, I need to know what's out there...). Procrastination is truly the greatest skill of any writer.  We might be able to put words into semi-entertaining sentences now and then, but our true talent lies in our ability to avoid doing so at all costs, on days like these.

So, my humble apologies for wasting the last few minutes of your life with this utter drivel.  But I thought it might be interesting to leave a post up online that reminds both me and my readers (if I still have any, after this...) that sometimes, we have nothing to say.  And that's okay.

Wednesday is "Bedtime Story Day!"

CALLING ALL PARENTS!

I've had an idea.  Dangerous, I know... ;-)

Some regular readers to this blog will know that I'm a published children's author.  Writing - in any form - is a passion for me, but writing stories for children is a special love of mine.  Becoming a published children's author was, for a long time, my absolute dream - something I had worked on, albeit unsuccessfully, for many years.  Three of my books are now out there and that's great.  But I have a head full of stories.  So, how could I get those other stories out there into the world, quickly and easily?  The answer seemed pretty obvious...

My first ever book launch.

Starting today, every Wednesday is going to be "Bedtime Story Day."  

I'll be publishing a brand new children's story every Wednesday evening at 6pm.  All of these stories are completely original and unconnected to my previous book series.  They're aimed at children aged between 4 and 7 years old.  Now, I'm no artist, so there won't be pictures, but... I can remember my mum reading my chapters from books without pictures (or featuring very few) every night before bed, when I was maybe six years old, so I'm hoping that the lack of pictures won't be a problem.  That's what our imaginations are for, after all!  

What I'd love is for this idea to really take off and if it does, then I'll think about upping the frequency of the "Bedtime Story" feature to twice a week (and maybe more, depending on demand).  Of course, if this fails completely, then I'll have to have a bit of a rethink!  But please, if you're a parent, or you know someone who is, give this a go and let me know what your little ones think!

With all of that waffle out of the way, let's move onto the very first original story!  I hope you - and of course, your little ones - enjoy it.

*        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *        *

Sidney The Shell Bird

Sally Jenkins loved making things.  She loved her necklace, made from beads she’d found in the bottom of her mother’s sewing box.  She loved her set of paintings, sprinkled with glitter to make them extra special.  But most of all, she loved Sidney.

Sidney sat perched on Sally’s bookshelf, surrounded by toys and books.  His body was made from a lump of clay, painted pink.  His head was a large, pointed shell, with two black-eyed peas glued to it for eyes.  His feet were two smaller, slightly rounder shells.  Sticking out from his sides were two large, yellow feathers resembling wings, with a third yellow feather as his tail.  Sidney was a rather funny looking creature, but Sally adored him.  She took him out to play with her in the garden and she’d sit on her bed in the evenings, telling him all about the things she had done at school. 

Sidney was very happy living with Sally.  But there was one thing that made him unhappy. 

Every day, whilst Sally was at school, Sidney would sit on the shelf and stare out of the window.  Flying across the sky, he could see birds.  Real birds.  Sidney had seen his reflection in the glass and he knew he looked different.  He knew he had feathery wings, but when he flapped them, nothing happened.  He was too heavy to fly.  He was certain that he was a bird, but he had never seen another who looked the way he did.  Sidney longed to find out what kind of bird he really was, but none of the other toys in Sally’s bedroom seemed to know.

One morning, as Sally hurried off to school, Sidney made a decision.  “Barrington,” He called to Sally’s favourite bear.  “Today is the day!”

Barrington Bear yawned and rubbed one shiny glass eye with his paw.  “What day?”

Sidney puffed out his pink, clay chest.  “Today is the day I’m going to find out what sort of bird I am,” he declared.  With that, he hopped down from Sally’s shelf and landed on her soft bed, before jumping down to the floor.

“Where are you going?”  Eliza, the porcelain doll asked.

Sidney pointed to the window.  “Out there,” he replied.

Before Eliza or Barrington could say anything else, Sidney had hopped out of the bedroom, down the stairs, through the kitchen and out of the cat flap into the bright, morning sunshine.

This is it!  Sidney thought.  I’m out here, with the real birds!

For a while, Sidney simply enjoyed bouncing through the grass, gazing up at the blue skies.  Then, as he reached the end of Sally’s road, he spotted a pair of birds, shaking their black feathers as they flew down from the roof of a house.

“Hello!”  Sidney called as he hurried over to the birds.  “Excuse me, can I ask you something?”

One of the birds cocked his head to the side.  “Who are you?”  He asked.

Sidney smiled.  “I was hoping you could help me to answer that.”

“Whatever do you mean?”  The second bird replied.  She fluffed out her feathers.  “We’ve never seen you before!”

Sidney swallowed hard.  “Well...  I mean...”  He stammered.  “What kind of bird am I?”

The first bird laughed.  “You’re not a bird, are you?”  He chuckled.  “You don’t look like any bird I’ve ever seen!”

Sidney lowered his head and his yellow wings drooped.  The second bird nudged the first with her wing and looked Sidney in the eye.  “What my friend means, is you’re definitely not a blackbird, like us,” she told him.  “I’m afraid we’re not sure what kind of bird you are.”

“Oh,” Sidney replied.  “Thanks anyway.”

Determined not to be put off, Sidney left the blackbirds behind and continued hopping onwards, for what seemed like miles.  Finally, he came to a large set of gates, with a sign above them, written in large letters: “ZOO.”  On one side of the sign, was a painting of animals Sidney had seen before in storybooks – a lion, a zebra and tiger.  On the other, was a painting of two, brightly coloured birds!  Sidney beamed.  “This is more like it,” he declared and hopped through the gates with an excited bounce.

Before long, he stumbled upon a large, green bird, with an enormous, multicoloured tail.  Sidney gasped.  “You’re amazing,” he exclaimed. 

The bird nodded.  “Of course I am,” he said.  “I’m a peacock!  We’re fabulous creatures!”

Sidney grinned.  “Am I a peacock, too?”

The peacock stared down his beak in disgust.  “You?  A peacock?  Oh, absolutely not,” he sneered.  “Look at you!  You’re small and funny looking.  I’m tall and beautiful.  You’re nothing like a peacock!”

Sidney turned away.  “Sorry to have bothered you,” he mumbled.

Sidney trudged towards the exit gates, when he heard a squawking noise.  He turned around and looked up.  “Hello?  Who’s that?”

“Who’s that?”  A voice echoed.  A parrot sat perched on a branch, staring down at Sidney.

Sidney managed a smile.  “My name’s Sidney,” he called.

“My name’s Sidney!”  The parrot sang back.

Peering up at the parrot, Sidney frowned.  “You’re called Sidney too?”

The parrot began prancing up and down the branch, flapping his wings.  “You’re called Sidney too!”

Realising what was going on, Sidney shook his head.  “Never mind,” he sighed.  As he plodded towards the exit, he could hear the parrot singing to himself.

“Never mind!  Never mind!”

As Sidney passed through the exit gates, he was fed up.  Nobody knew what kind of bird he was and worst of all, they’d laughed at him.  With a heavy heart, he decided to go home. 

By the time he reached Sally’s garden, the sun was beginning to set.  The sky was darkening and Sidney was feeling glum.  As he headed towards the cat flap, he heard a voice coming from a nearby tree.

“Are you alright, little friend?”

Sidney glanced up.  Sitting in the tree was an owl.  Seeing Sidney’s sad face, the owl spread his wings and flew down to the ground beside him.  “You look ever so sad,” he said.

Sidney sighed.  “Well...”  He began, before changing his mind.  “It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

The owl shook his head.  “Oh, but it does,” he replied.  “If it’s making you so unhappy...”

Sidney flopped down in the grass beside the owl.  “It’s just...  Everyone has been making fun of me,” he said.  “And all I wanted to know was what sort of bird I am.”  He sighed and turned away.  “But I guess maybe I’m not a bird at all.”  Sidney rose back to his feet and began plodding away when the owl called after him.

“Not a bird?”  He exclaimed.  “Why, you most certainly are a bird.”

Sidney span round.  “I am?!”  He cried.  “Do you know what kind?”

The owl thought for a moment, the way that truly wise creatures often do.  Then he smiled at Sidney and pointed with his wing.  “Look at your body, made from the finest clay!  Look at your feathers, so yellow and bright!  And your head is made from a perfect shell.  And that is where your name comes from.  Sidney, you are a Shell Bird.  And might I say, you’re the finest example of a Shell Bird I’ve ever seen!”

Sidney gasped.  “Oh, thank you!”  He could hardly wait to scurry back up the stairs and tell all of Sally’s other toys the news. 

From that day onwards, when Sidney watched other birds flying past Sally’s window, he didn’t feel sad, or confused.  Sidney knew just what kind of bird he was.  And even more importantly, he knew he was already exactly where he belonged.

THE END

Happy World Book Day!

Today is World Book Day.  It might sound like an unimportant event in the grand scheme of things, but to me, this day is an important one.  It's a chance to talk to kids about books, encourage their love of reading and, for me as an adult, to reminisce over stories I loved when I was growing up.

For me, there were many books that cemented their place in my affections when I was young.  One of the earliest ones was Angelina Ballerina; a book which is still beloved by children, today.  And a book featuring a character I totally dressed up as a few years ago for World Book Day...

I had a tail and EVERYTHING.

I also loved Enid Blyton's The Magic Faraway Tree and The Wishing Chair and once I got a bit older, I had (and still have) a huge soft spot for Susan Coolidge's What Katy Did.

But there was one book I loved above pretty much anything else.  One book I could read over and over and never get bored of.  This one:

Jill Murphy's The Worst Witch is, as far as I'm aware, the only book I deliberately own two copies of.  The one on the left in the photo is the very same, well-thumbed copy I first got when I was only around 7 years old.  The pages have turned that yellowish colour that defines old books and the spine is, as you can see, a bit battered,  The copy on the right is one I got a few years ago, funnily enough, on World Book Day, if I remember rightly.  I was at work, but I heard that Jill Murphy was doing a signing at the primary school across the road from where I worked back then, so I handed someone some cash and pretty much begged them to get me a nice, shiny new copy of The Worst Witch for her to sign.  They duly trotted off to the primary school later that afternoon and when I finished work, I was presented with this:

One of my most prized possessions.

So why did - sorry, do - I love The Worst Witch so much?

Well, it tells the story of a trainee witch called Mildred Hubble.  She's studying at Miss Cackle's Academy For Witches, but she's not exactly a model student.  She's clumsy, her spells usually go wrong and before her adventures have even begun, she's already had to stick her broomstick back together after crashing it into a wall.  There's a particularly unpleasant girl at her school, named Ethel, who picks on Mildred mercilessly and her form-tutor, Miss Hardbroom isn't exactly nice to her, either.  Eventually, Mildred decides enough is enough and runs away.  And yet, in doing so...  She ends up accidentally saving the day and returns a hero.

Much like Katherine Carr in What Katy Did, Mildred is something of an unexpected heroine,  Her heart's in the right place, but she doesn't quite know what she's doing...  Reading The Worst Witch for the first time, aged around 7 years old, I absolutely fell in love with the messy-haired, freckle-faced Mildred.  I may have been pretty good at school, but I shared her clumsiness and her sense of not quite fitting in.  From the moment I first read the book, all my drawings were of girls with long, plaited hair and freckles.  All of the stories I made up from that point onwards (and I made up a lot of stories as a kid) featured someone getting into mischief or trouble, but usually managing to turn things around, by hook or by crook.

The Worst Witch wasn't just a story I loved.  It fed my imagination so much that it made me want to write my own stories.  It was The Worst Witch that led to me sneaking blank exercise books home from school, in which I would create my own characters and situations, adding little illustrations to go along with them.  It's genuinely no exaggeration to say that reading Jill Murphy's book set me onto the path towards becoming an author myself.  

As a child who moved around a lot (I was a military brat) and who ended up being bullied pretty horrendously at secondary school, creating my own little imaginary world became the ultimate escape.  And although as I got older, my taste in books matured, I kept a very soft spot in my heart for the children's books that had been my constant when growing up.  I realised the important effect they'd had on me and I decided that I wanted to write stories for children, myself.  Thrilled by the way books had sparked my imagination and grateful for the escapism they had provided when necessary, I wanted to create something that would do the same for future generations.  Even long after I had left education and entered the world of work, becoming a children's author remained one of my biggest dreams. 

In 2011, that dream came true, with the publication of three children's books, under the banner title The ABC Animals.  The three stories, featuring jungle animals getting into various scrapes and learning lessons along the way, all shared something in common; each featured a character who didn't seem a likely hero showing that you can be a hero, just by being yourself and by opening your eyes to those around you.  It's safe to say those early influences of mine hadn't exactly rubbed off...

Okay, so I didn't set the literary world on fire... Yet.  The point is, writing is still a massive part of my life, as the very existence of this blog proves.  And I'm still thinking of stories all the time.  Being a children's author is still a dream (although now it's "to be a successful children's author...").

One of the most treasured moments of my life took place just a few months after my own book launch.  Jill Murphy was holding a signing for her latest children's book at the very same local book shop.  I wasn't working that day, so I hot-footed it down there, bought a copy (somewhat conspicuously, seeing as I had - and have - no kids to give it to...) and slightly nervously waited in line for her to sign it.  When my turn came, I swallowed hard in an effort not to come across as a crazy fan-girl and I told Jill that it was thanks to The Worst Witch that I had followed my own dream of writing.  She asked if I'd had anything published.  I said yes, The ABC Animals and she nodded over to where one of the titles in the series was sitting on a shelf nearby and said: "I was just reading that, earlier!  It's good!"

Now, she may have been lying.  I'm aware of that.  But I choose to believe she wasn't.  I choose to believe that the very author who sparked my love of story-writing really did read one of my books and she really did like it.  

Whatever the case, it doesn't really matter.  Because the whole point is that we can take inspiration from anything and we can use it to run with; to fuel our own dreams and to act as targets for our goals.  For me, it was a simple story about a clumsy girl who doesn't quite fit in, which touched a nerve and stayed with me right into adulthood.  

I bought my copy of The Worst Witch at a book fair with a token I'd been given by my school (I seem to recall I won said token as a prize for a poster competition I'd entered).  Today, children all across the UK will have gone home from school with a book token, to celebrate World Book Day.  I just hope whatever they spend it on fires their imagination the same way that books fired mine as a kid. 

It might even set them on a path towards becoming the writers of the future.

After all, a story can take you anywhere...

Me as Mildred Hubble.  World Book Day 2015.