Good morning Mr. America,
Lately, it seems my every second sentence begins with the word “I”. That’s the trouble with all this promote-your-books-till-you-drop stuff: it breeds enervating attacks of the screaming me-me’s. So now, since I am about as sick and tired of writing the word “I” as it’s possible to be, I’m going to change tack and talk about someone else.
Polly. My extraordinary mother. Although I didn’t realize she was extraordinary until she’d gone. She was a writer, was Polly, a proper writer, with proper published books. You won’t have heard of any of them, mind, they didn’t exactly make her famous.To give you an idea what they were like, here’s a picture of the cover of her first one:
Yes, I know, not exactly best-selling material, not even in 1952 when it was published. For a preview of the innocent thrills awaiting inside, (I am sure you can’t wait to find out), the blurb begins: “When three of the girls of St. Jessica’s discover an old derelict garden, far up on the hillside behind the school, Caroline, the new Junior Captain, sets her heart on keeping it a secret...”
It doesn’t get more innocently thrilling than that, does it? Perhaps I should republish it as a Kindle book. You never know, it might just take off and spark a renaissance. I’ll let you know if I do, so you can buy it, and tell all your friends to buy it...
I digress. More books followed, but then Polly met Roderick. While meeting Roderick may have been good for expanding the world’s population of unsuccessful writers, it wasn’t too good for her own writing. She wrote just two more books after that. One of these was the biography of a bishop. He was an interesting bishop as bishops go, but a biography of a bishop was even less likely to make Polly famous than the tale of Caroline’s desire to keep the secret garden secret.
It wasn’t her modest success as a writer that defined Polly, at least not in my eyes. It was her spirit of endurance, and the unwavering optimism with which she met and surmounted the many challenges life threw at her. There was the Liverpool blitz of World War II to endure, for example, and that was speedily followed by tuberculosis. After nine months in a sanitorium, Polly emerged with just one lung. It was a handicap that never stopped her doing anything, though, and she did plenty. By the time of her death she had become one caravan shy of a gypsy, for we calculated she moved house or town, country or continent, more than 90 times in her lifetime – that’s more than one move a year.
And then she was no stranger to poverty, sometimes going hungry, so the rest of us could eat, especially during the period Roderick was training to be the worst vicar in the history of vicardom. She was no stranger to heartache either, not least the heartache of being traded in for a younger, sexier model after eighteen years of marriage.
If I had to sum Polly up in one sentence, it would be this: She knew how to live and she knew how to love.
Next time I’ll go back to what happened after Roderick ran off with the Sunday School teacher, and Polly bundled my middle brother and I onto a boat heading for England. We didn’t linger there, though. We had that average of one move a year to maintain, after all.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Till next time,
Your friend,
Margaret.
Hello Margie,
It was a pleasure to read about your mother and how she inspired you to write. She sounds like quite a woman. I would like to share the same sort of inspiring stories about my own mother, but it is not to be. She was a woman who loved her children, was a faithful partner to a difficult man, and she was a hard worker, but she did not inspire her children to greater things. I feel bad about publicly exposing my parents' failures, especially since my Aunt, her sister, is one of our readers, but I won't pretend that my childhood was peachy-keen and all my and my siblings psychosis are all of our own doing. The fact is, the four of us are all terribly insecure and we know where the fault lies.
My mother, God rest her soul, rarely offered up a word of praise. If she were still alive, I would most likely hear: "Oh, that's nice. Did you know that so-and-so's boy is a published author with a book on the New York Times' best seller list?" Or: "Well, if that was the best you could do, then that is fine." My father wasn't any better; he would analyze anything I did and then tell me how it could be improved. I've inherited his critical eye. If not for my wonderful wife, and her undying praise for our children, my kids would be just as messed-up as me. I love my parents, because that's what children do, and I certainly could have had worse (drunk, abusive and negligent parents abound), but I do secretly envy your mother's spirit and how she influenced you.
It's funny, looking back - I didn't discover my love for writing until my late forties, but I do remember wanting to write a novel when I was around eleven. I put a bunch of loose line-paper pages in a folder and wrote one paragraph, which promptly went on top of the hallway dresser, never to be touched again. It was thrown-out by my mother weeks later. I'm sure she wrote it off as another one of my "hair-brained schemes".
So I guess I've now painted an even more complete picture of a boy who was ripe for the taking. I wanted affirmation and to be a part of something more than anything. Drugs were my gateway to acceptance. Jocks had to have muscles and skills. Brainiacs had to have excellent grades. All a stoner needed was a joint, that he was willing to share, and he was in like Flynn.
After those fateful words from my brother, "now you're cool!", I dove head first into a world that demanded more and more of my allegiance. Every faction has a set of rules, and the drug culture is no exception. The first rule is: "parents don't know shit - don't trust 'em". I had no problems with that. I had lost respect for their opinions long ago. The second rule was a bit foreign to me. "Never, ever - in a million years - tell the truth". Honesty is another one of those pesky character traits that gets me into trouble. But I was committed to the cause, and soon I had such a tangled web of lies spun that I didn't even recognize the truth anymore. It was the third rule that made me begin to question my lifestyle. "Everything you do is always better when you are stoned". But I would experience a lot of heartache and even some good times before I came to that realization. We have much to 'chat' about until then.
I fear I have gotten long-winded, so I will sign-off until next week.
Your American friend,
DB
Hi DB,
What struck me most about your (searingly-honest-as-ever) letter was the way your very vocation got thrown out with the rubbish at the age of eleven. That was something that should never, ever have happened. I was struck also, and not for the first time, by the power of the spoken word, and how its effects can linger, for good or for ill, long after the utterer has gone.
I was struck afresh too by my good fortune in having a Polly in my life to encourage me always. She didn’t even stop doing so when she died. She quite literally appeared to me in a dream a few days after she'd passed away, saying: “You must never ever stop writing.” She would say that to you too, if she was still here to say it. Of that I have no doubt. And speaking of writing, what are you working on at the moment? Have you started a new book yet?
M.
M,
I shouldn't go on blogging without answering at least one of your questions. (I haven't forgotten your inquiry concerning my Catholic upbringing) The answer is a short "No". I have completed a work that I am neglecting to rewrite, but my personal demons have prevented me from starting anything else. Sometimes I feel more like a mole digging in the dark than I do a writer. If not for this blog, I would only use my computer for surfing and Facebooking. I need to get off my arse and rewrite my latest, but every time I try, self-doubt and apathy get the best of me. Woe is me. Would you come to my pity party? I'll bake a cake. :)
DB
P.S. As far as my 'vocation' goes, writing is more of a hobby right now. If we had to depend on it for a living, we would be on the streets.
Lately, it seems my every second sentence begins with the word “I”. That’s the trouble with all this promote-your-books-till-you-drop stuff: it breeds enervating attacks of the screaming me-me’s. So now, since I am about as sick and tired of writing the word “I” as it’s possible to be, I’m going to change tack and talk about someone else.
Polly. My extraordinary mother. Although I didn’t realize she was extraordinary until she’d gone. She was a writer, was Polly, a proper writer, with proper published books. You won’t have heard of any of them, mind, they didn’t exactly make her famous.To give you an idea what they were like, here’s a picture of the cover of her first one:
Yes, I know, not exactly best-selling material, not even in 1952 when it was published. For a preview of the innocent thrills awaiting inside, (I am sure you can’t wait to find out), the blurb begins: “When three of the girls of St. Jessica’s discover an old derelict garden, far up on the hillside behind the school, Caroline, the new Junior Captain, sets her heart on keeping it a secret...”
It doesn’t get more innocently thrilling than that, does it? Perhaps I should republish it as a Kindle book. You never know, it might just take off and spark a renaissance. I’ll let you know if I do, so you can buy it, and tell all your friends to buy it...
I digress. More books followed, but then Polly met Roderick. While meeting Roderick may have been good for expanding the world’s population of unsuccessful writers, it wasn’t too good for her own writing. She wrote just two more books after that. One of these was the biography of a bishop. He was an interesting bishop as bishops go, but a biography of a bishop was even less likely to make Polly famous than the tale of Caroline’s desire to keep the secret garden secret.
It wasn’t her modest success as a writer that defined Polly, at least not in my eyes. It was her spirit of endurance, and the unwavering optimism with which she met and surmounted the many challenges life threw at her. There was the Liverpool blitz of World War II to endure, for example, and that was speedily followed by tuberculosis. After nine months in a sanitorium, Polly emerged with just one lung. It was a handicap that never stopped her doing anything, though, and she did plenty. By the time of her death she had become one caravan shy of a gypsy, for we calculated she moved house or town, country or continent, more than 90 times in her lifetime – that’s more than one move a year.
And then she was no stranger to poverty, sometimes going hungry, so the rest of us could eat, especially during the period Roderick was training to be the worst vicar in the history of vicardom. She was no stranger to heartache either, not least the heartache of being traded in for a younger, sexier model after eighteen years of marriage.
If I had to sum Polly up in one sentence, it would be this: She knew how to live and she knew how to love.
Next time I’ll go back to what happened after Roderick ran off with the Sunday School teacher, and Polly bundled my middle brother and I onto a boat heading for England. We didn’t linger there, though. We had that average of one move a year to maintain, after all.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Till next time,
Your friend,
Margaret.
Hello Margie,
It was a pleasure to read about your mother and how she inspired you to write. She sounds like quite a woman. I would like to share the same sort of inspiring stories about my own mother, but it is not to be. She was a woman who loved her children, was a faithful partner to a difficult man, and she was a hard worker, but she did not inspire her children to greater things. I feel bad about publicly exposing my parents' failures, especially since my Aunt, her sister, is one of our readers, but I won't pretend that my childhood was peachy-keen and all my and my siblings psychosis are all of our own doing. The fact is, the four of us are all terribly insecure and we know where the fault lies.
My mother, God rest her soul, rarely offered up a word of praise. If she were still alive, I would most likely hear: "Oh, that's nice. Did you know that so-and-so's boy is a published author with a book on the New York Times' best seller list?" Or: "Well, if that was the best you could do, then that is fine." My father wasn't any better; he would analyze anything I did and then tell me how it could be improved. I've inherited his critical eye. If not for my wonderful wife, and her undying praise for our children, my kids would be just as messed-up as me. I love my parents, because that's what children do, and I certainly could have had worse (drunk, abusive and negligent parents abound), but I do secretly envy your mother's spirit and how she influenced you.
It's funny, looking back - I didn't discover my love for writing until my late forties, but I do remember wanting to write a novel when I was around eleven. I put a bunch of loose line-paper pages in a folder and wrote one paragraph, which promptly went on top of the hallway dresser, never to be touched again. It was thrown-out by my mother weeks later. I'm sure she wrote it off as another one of my "hair-brained schemes".
So I guess I've now painted an even more complete picture of a boy who was ripe for the taking. I wanted affirmation and to be a part of something more than anything. Drugs were my gateway to acceptance. Jocks had to have muscles and skills. Brainiacs had to have excellent grades. All a stoner needed was a joint, that he was willing to share, and he was in like Flynn.
After those fateful words from my brother, "now you're cool!", I dove head first into a world that demanded more and more of my allegiance. Every faction has a set of rules, and the drug culture is no exception. The first rule is: "parents don't know shit - don't trust 'em". I had no problems with that. I had lost respect for their opinions long ago. The second rule was a bit foreign to me. "Never, ever - in a million years - tell the truth". Honesty is another one of those pesky character traits that gets me into trouble. But I was committed to the cause, and soon I had such a tangled web of lies spun that I didn't even recognize the truth anymore. It was the third rule that made me begin to question my lifestyle. "Everything you do is always better when you are stoned". But I would experience a lot of heartache and even some good times before I came to that realization. We have much to 'chat' about until then.
I fear I have gotten long-winded, so I will sign-off until next week.
Your American friend,
DB
Hi DB,
What struck me most about your (searingly-honest-as-ever) letter was the way your very vocation got thrown out with the rubbish at the age of eleven. That was something that should never, ever have happened. I was struck also, and not for the first time, by the power of the spoken word, and how its effects can linger, for good or for ill, long after the utterer has gone.
I was struck afresh too by my good fortune in having a Polly in my life to encourage me always. She didn’t even stop doing so when she died. She quite literally appeared to me in a dream a few days after she'd passed away, saying: “You must never ever stop writing.” She would say that to you too, if she was still here to say it. Of that I have no doubt. And speaking of writing, what are you working on at the moment? Have you started a new book yet?
M.
M,
I shouldn't go on blogging without answering at least one of your questions. (I haven't forgotten your inquiry concerning my Catholic upbringing) The answer is a short "No". I have completed a work that I am neglecting to rewrite, but my personal demons have prevented me from starting anything else. Sometimes I feel more like a mole digging in the dark than I do a writer. If not for this blog, I would only use my computer for surfing and Facebooking. I need to get off my arse and rewrite my latest, but every time I try, self-doubt and apathy get the best of me. Woe is me. Would you come to my pity party? I'll bake a cake. :)
DB
P.S. As far as my 'vocation' goes, writing is more of a hobby right now. If we had to depend on it for a living, we would be on the streets.