Ramblings…

I’ve got one or two things to talk to about tonight. Nothing very profound, but still, good things. I’ve been tired lately, I’ve been working so much. At my day job, you understand, at the Galleries of Justice museum, which is many jobs rolled into one. I’ve been a Victorian warder, a Georgian murdress and a servant-whore in the last couple of weeks, as well as working with school groups.

Today was an interesting day at work. The Galleries of Justice also operate the City of Caves, a short distance away. This is a network of caves, accessed through a 1960s shopping centre. The caves, like the hundreds of others beneath the buildings of Nottingham, are manmade, cut into the sandstone rock on which Nottingham stands. It’s the same rock that Nottingham Castle is perched on, and into which the dungeons of my usual haunt at the County Gaol are cut into. They go back as far as medieval times, but found their heyday later, when used as a tannery (where leather was made). Still later, the residents of Drury Hill, an infamous thoroughfare in Victorian and early-twentieth century Nottingham, cut down into the rock to make cellars and extra rooms below their houses. Later still, they were used as air raid shelters during the Second World War. It’s a fascinating place. The history is tangible, and you can see it in layers, like a physical timeline. In one part of the cave system you can look above your head and see the concrete underside of the uncommonly ugly Broadmarsh Shopping Centre. Just below–in places almost touching it–are the remains of the red brick walls of the houses of Drury Hill.

Drury Hill

 

You can even see some of the old kerb stones. You are practically standing in the cellars of those houses, looking at the steps they cut into the stone, the broken dividing walls that made them into seperate properties. And you see the sandstone itself, the older caves, the medieval well. Just a little further on and you find an old tavern cellar, divided by just a wall from the railway tunnel that brought about the demolition of the tavern itself. The whole place is a mess of chronology and archaeology, fact and fable.

Part of the Tudorl tannery

It’s hard to be a tour guide there. But what a privilege to spend time in such a meeting point of history. So many human stories, over so many centuries, all gathered in some gloomy holes in the sandstone, cowering under the concrete of progress. But still there, persisting, when they could have been filled in and lost. Even Drury Hill, once so notorious and now invisible from the surface, still lingers there. A ghost of the past. These are the things that move me. These are the things that make me want to write historical novels. I want to find the stories, resurrect the ghosts, find their traces in our present and bring the history back into the light. It makes me feel excited about being a writer again.

On a different–but related–topic, I’m excited to talk about a new anthology. My writing group, Sapphist Writers, have been busy for some time writing and collecting poems and short stories. And now we’ve put it all together into an anthology. Even the wonderfully exuberant front cover was a collaborative effort. This collection is all about celebrating the diversity and creativity of a group of women brought together by a love of words. It will be available online (we’re finalising in which formats) through the Sapphist Writers’ blog, from 28th February. That’s the launch night, and also the night that Sapphist Writers are receiving an award at the Nottinghamshire’s Rainbow Heritage Celebration Evening. The anthology contains two of my poems and two short prose pieces, and a whole host of other wonderful pieces. All proceeds will be going to Nottingham Women’s Centre.

So, good things. And writing about them has made me happy, despite my being hormonally grumpy tonight. I’m finding life’s like that at the moment. There’s lots of depressing, agonising, sad and difficult things. They don’t go away. But the bright, happy, exciting, colourful things are always there too. And that’s wonderful!

Joy, gratitude, and being a real writer…

Sometimes (as we all know) life is hard. Sometimes I feel like I’m pretending…”all the world’s a stage” as Shakespeare once said, and the men and women just “players”. Like the world sees one face, while behind the scenes is another one. One I’m scared to allow into the spotlight in case it’s not good enough or, worse, so horrible it makes the audience run away. I don’t want to stand in a spotlight on my own, in an empty theatre…And that makes it easier to stay hidden in the wings. Or at least, when I do make it onto the stage, to remember to avoid the glare of the spotlights and make sure I’m wearing a mask.

(image from theater-masks.com)

It’s not that I’m looking for adulation. Just that I’d like to stand on that stage, in the light, and be comfortable with who I am.

This week, I have a constant audience of one. From a photograph, I’ve conjured an image of my younger self. She’s about 6. And I’m spending a lot of time looking into her eyes. Holding her hand. She’s going everywhere with me. Because it’s her that gets frightened and worries about being alone. It’s her that worries about not being good enough and thinks it’s safer to hide. I’ve tried to show her before, what a wonderful thing life can be and how we just have to get out there and enjoy it. But somehow she’s never quite convinced and hangs on to her pink Care Bear and regards me with some doubt in her eyes.

Yesterday, I was able to reassure her that’s she’s worth caring about and she believed me. I was able to let her know it’s okay, one day people will see her and they will like her. And I told her not to worry about what other people do or say, because I’m here to take care of her. We went for a walk in the sunshine and I bought her cake. But I sensed she was still dubious.

Today, she’s watching as I answer questions from friends, fellow authors and readers–and many who fall into more than one of those categories–on my publisher’s facebook page. And I feel proud to have her watching. For once I feel like I haven’t let her down. There’s a lot of questions, all of them insightful and fun. There’s also a lot of appreciation and praise for my books, and for my answers to the questions. People care what I think. People have read my books and enjoyed them. People recognise that I have something interesting to say about writing, fiction, maybe even life. And I’m not pretending. I AM the writer Rebecca S. Buck. Those books are mine, just as the answers to the questions on facebook are mine. And they’re honest too. I’m not holding back or worrying, I’m just being myself and letting people see into my thoughts. I’m telling them I have a new book, The Locket and the Flintlock out in May, and not being concerned that they won’t like it. I hope they like it because I loved writing it and I love to give my readers something they enjoy. But I’m not letting the fear that they won’t stop me telling them about it.

The Locket and the Flintlock, coming May 2012!

I’m getting more excited and more emotional with every comment and question. I’m so touched to be noticed, for my words–and me–to be cared about.

And my younger self is sitting with me.  I can tell her with confidence today that she will grow, and she can make it past the fear. She will be a writer, just like she’s always dreamed. And people will like what she writes too. I can reassure her, and for the first time I don’t feel like I’m doing it under false pretences.

Today I am overflowing with joy. To have the chance to talk about history and writing with a global community of friends is amazing. And I am profoundly grateful. To all the people who have helped me to get here…to all the people who’ve taken time today to talk to me…and to the world, or God, or Fate, or whatever you call the place we all come from and the power that guides our lives, for giving me the ability to write. To be able to view the world in all of its colours and take them into my mind and transform them into words. For the perception to truly see things and the drive to want to express them. I am grateful too for the beauty of the world and the complexity of the people in it. Sometimes the wonder of that miracle is almost overwhelming. I think it is partly in searching for strands of meaning that I write. But I’m grateful it’s not simple. I’m grateful for the challenge.

Today I am grateful for many things. And it gives me the confidence to look into the eyes of my younger-self companion and smile and convince her that life will be good, she will start to reach out for her dreams and some of them will come true. And, looking back at me, I see her delight, and the promise she can’t articulate…she will never, ever take any of this for granted.

 

 

Epiphany

Happy New Year to everyone reading this. I hope it’s a wonderful year for all of you.

So, today is Epiphany. The last day of Christmastide. Twelfth Night (or that could have been last night, depending which calender you follow…) I’ve just finished off the Christmas ice cream and ordered some bathroom scales. A diet begins tomorrow. But I’m not blogging about calorie-related resolutions, you’ll be pleased to hear…

Today is the day that Christians celebrate the visit of the Magi to the baby Jesus. ”Epiphany” comes from Greek and Latin, via Middle English, meaning “apparition.” It represents not just some wise men from the “East” paying tribute to a newborn Messiah, but the manifestation of Jesus to the gentiles. That makes a it a very inclusive festival, if you ask me. The message being that Jesus came for everyone. Okay, we don’t all believe in Jesus…but the idea of hope, light and love being something everyone can have a share in is one that I like.

'Adoration of the Magi' by Gentile da Fabriano

I have always been fascinated with the story of the Magi visiting Jesus, ever since I first learned the Nativity story, and that fascination has never gone away. They’re only mentioned in one of the Gospels (Matthew), we don’t know for sure there were three of them, who they were or where they came from. They’re almost mythical, mysterious and exotic. Wise men, astrologers or kings? And those wonderful gifts, gold, frankincense and myhrr. Something otherworldly, symbolic and luxurious in the squalor of a stable.

I lived in Slovenia for a while, and often strayed into other countries, such as Austria and Germany. There, you would see  C + M + B written in chalk about doorways, with the date of the year. A blessing for the house in the coming year, with the traditional initials of the Magi. It has a touch of magic about it, something transcending pure Christianity.

C + M + B 2009 written above a door in the Czech Republic (from Wikipedia)

Giotto di Bondone's 'Adoration of the Magi' showing the Star of Bethlehem as a comet.

And then there’s the matter of the starthey followed. It’s controversial, that star. There’s been plenty of attempts to work out if any real astronomical event could account for it (there are theories, but they don’t really hold up). A miracle? A detail added to fulfill a prophecy? Sent by Satan (as Jehovah’s Witnesses believe)? In the end, we’ll never prove the Star of Bethlehem was real, any more than we’ll ever have proof that God exists (or otherwise). But it’s a wonderful idea. A light, burning in the sky, leading wise men through the desert to a place where they will find the source of peace, love and light, to where they will find meaning. Whatever your beliefs, surely the beauty of that is undeniable. We’re all looking for our star, a light to follow…to lead us forward through desert places, to show us the way, to help us find hope and joy. At the beginning of this new year, I’m keeping my focus on my own personal guiding light…aware of my own epiphany…

Because epiphany isn’t just about wise men in the desert. In our modern terminology, “epiphany” is something more personal. It’s a moment of sudden truth, clarity of perception, or insight. I know that feeling. Okay, there hasn’t been a revelation in a split second. But really, in a whole lifetime, what is “sudden”? In many ways the last year has been my epiphany. Every passing month brought with it a new revelation, a new understanding, a new ability to feel in a way I never dared to. And that brought a new way of looking at the world and my place in it.

I can feel that in every moment now, as I contemplate the year ahead. Epiphany is the time Christians ask for God’s blessing over the year ahead. I’m doing something very similar. I’m looking ahead to a good year and allowing myself to hope. I don’t remember another year I’ve been so hopeful about. True, there are parts of it I am not looking forward to. But I know how to deal with them now. I am not going to allow myself to be scared of the world, or of the people in it. Or of myself. If keeping to that involves working at it, then I will. And if that sounds trite, so be it. For me, it is an epiphany.

It’s going to be manifest in my writing too. The Locket and the Flintlock will be out in May (from Bold Strokes Books) and I’m very proud of it, as I am of my previous novels Truths and Ghosts of Winter. But I feel something more adventurous inside me, waiting to make its mark on the page. I see the world through wiser, more perceptive eyes. And therefore, I write with more wisdom too. It’s exciting.

So, today, I am celebrating in a quiet way. I feel like I’m at a turning point. My star has led me to a place of hope. And I will ensure that light doesn’t die.

Candles…

Yes, I am aware that my last two posts are candle-heavy. It’s that time of year! I’m not in the candle industry, I promise…I’m just a fan of candles…

Christmas!

I’ve just reached the end of first round edits on The Locket and the Flintlock (coming from Bold Strokes Books in May 2012). It’s exciting. I’ve created characters I love so much I wish I really could bring them to life so I could meet them. And I’m feeling very inspired for the book I want to write next too…very inspired. Like I might actually start writing. Which is all excellent and distracting. I’d barely noticed the passage of time until I went into a supermarket today and noticed the shelves had been stripped bare as though there was a natural disaster on the way. Of course there isn’t. It’s just Christmas…though I don’t know how on earth it got here so quickly…

So, it’s the night before the night before Christmas. It’s quite possibly going to be the strangest Christmas ever. For reasons in my life that I won’t go into, I don’t have a tree…or garlands…or tinsel…or lights. I do have a Christmas pudding. I mean, some things are too important to miss. I don’t have a pile of gifts waiting to be opened (a few, but not a pile). And I don’t care.

This isn’t going to be a “bah humbug” blog post though. I’m not going to bemoan the commerciality of Christmas and be all self-righteous about having opted out of it. I haven’t really. It’s just happened. But I’m incredibly glad it has, even if some of the reasons for it aren’t ones to celebrate.

Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas Present (from Wikipedia)

For once, Christmas is about connecting with the spirit of this time of year. Because they’re not being outshone by decorations and lights, each and every card means more to me, and I’m really thinking of the people who took time to send them to me. And there’s quite a crowd on the shelf, which never ceases to surprise me. That many people thought of me for long enough to write a card. Wow. I’ll always be grateful. And there’s all the e-mail greetings, hugs and smiles. All of them mean the world.

I’m also very aware of the meaning of Christmas this year. For me, going to church is involved and that’s been incredibly special. Tomorrow I’ll be at a Christingle service where we will hold oranges representing the earth and candles representing Jesus as the light of the world. In so many ways Christmas–for Christians–represents the beginning of the story, the birth of hope and joy. Whatever religious doubts there are–and I have plenty of my own–it’s hard not to feel some of that. More than that, the coming together of people to celebrate light in the depths of winter is something so much more ancient than Christianity. This is the time of solstice, Yule, Saturnalia, Hannukah…and countless other celebrations to banish the darkness and encourage the coming of the light…just because my winter celebration is framed in Christian terms, it doesn’t mean I don’t feel connected to all of those other festivals. All of those people who have celebrated at this time of the year…for centuries…all the people who will celebrate this year. Christmas is a time of community, of being together…and even when I am alone, when I think of Christmas, I am part of something.

Christingle

Christmas is a time of childhood, of course. We sing the carols we’ve always known. We remember waiting for Santa to arrive. As such, for me at least, it’s a time for reflection too. Childhood is over. Santa is not going to come, I’ll never be Mary or an angel in the nativity play. But that’s because I’ve grown up and while there’s a certain amount of loss involved in moving on, in becoming an adult, and while some hopes have to be abandoned, others take their place. I don’t think about what I want for Christmas anymore. I pause and contemplate my hopes for the coming year.

When I was a child, every year without fail, I was dressed in a costume for Christmas. It started with Santa, with a red dressing gown and cotton wool beard. I was a fairy with sequins sewed onto a white vest and a netting skirt. I’ve been a cracker, a parcel, a tree. My mother made these costumes for me. I would put them on and then parade around in front of grandparents, uncles and cousins and be admired. Or should I say, the costume would be admired. According to those who saw this display, the best of them all was the year I dressed as a snowman. It was quite a costume. Made of white, thin foam, it covered me from shoulders to toes, and even had mittens to hide my hands. The head was a huge hollow ball of the same foam with a snowman face (coal black circles of card for a smile and a cardboard carrot nose) glued to the front. I viewed the world through two blue plastic circles to be sure my eyes didn’t detract from the overall effect. Impressive. A fun Christmas memory for my family. But I honestly don’t remember whether I enjoyed being in there or not. It’s a blank. No one else really knew whether I enjoyed it or not either.

I think a lot of Christmases have been like that, even without the costume. And not just for me. We do what we think we should and forget what it’s all about. All that outward festivity and inward stress. All the commerciality in the name of a spiritual festival. All the family celebrations barely masking hidden tensions.

But this year is different. I’m not dressing up as anything. I’m happy to be me. I’m happy for Christmas itself to be stripped back to basics. A time of quiet and peace and allowing the light in to the dark places.

So, tomorrow, my Christingle candle will have a lot of meaning for me. Even if you’re not celebrating the holidays in a way that involves lighting a candle, I would urge you to do it anyway. Just for you. Have your own festival of light. Light a candle. Think of all the other diverse people in the world lighting candles…dancing in the light…or longing for it in darkness. Feel connected and part of something. And think of the year ahead. The message of Christmas is hope. What do you hope for? Allow yourself those hopes and be at peace with them. In doing so, you will allow others their hopes too. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle, that is the most wonderful of Christmas gifts.

Merry Christmas to everyone who reads this…and may 2012 bring you joy, love and peace.

And a fabulous Doctor Who Christmas special! Another essential of the season!

Doctor Who at Christmas (from www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho)

 

A Candle in the Darkness

I realised recently that darkness and light play a massive part in all of my thinking. Whether it’s about creating an atmosphere in a novel or story, knowing which parts of the old prison I work in will freak visitors out most effectively and where a frightened child will feel safe, or about more philosophical, deeper feelings and the metaphors through which I understand the world, I see a lot of things in terms of darkness and light.

Image from Wikipedia

I wonder if this is really the most fundamental of all the ways in which we relate to our world? There is little more straightforward and predictable than night following day and the light coming again at dawn.  It is a part of the experience of every human culture, for all of time. So, many religions use darkness and light as a way of talking of the difference between evil and goodness, or sin and redemption, death and life. Shakespeare used the theme effectively in many of his works, Macbethsprings instantly to mind. We talk of the Dark Ages and the Enlightenment.

There are interesting paradoxes once you start to explore the concepts of darkness and light. The dark is frightening and dangerous…yet it is also a place in which we can hide, obscured and undiscovered. It is peaceful even while it can suffocate. It is a place of passion and restful sleep. But there is no clarity and all is guesswork. Meanwhile, the light can be too stark, leaving us exposed and vulnerable and blinking in bewilderment. We can see with clear vision, but that also enables us to see what is wrong and allows little comfort. And what of the twilight times, when the spirits walk and shapes blur and all is about transition, the eternal cycle of day and night? How do we feel as we slip from one state to another? Should we cling to the light and fight the darkness? Or accept its embrace?

Image from Wikipedia

I’ve been exploring Christianity just lately, going to church. My favourite Christian song of the moment is “Shine Jesus Shine.” It’s impossible, I find, whatever doubts I have, not to feel uplifted by the message of hope. And it’s all about light. Jesus, to a Christian, is light and hope, the way to fight the darkness. Most religions celebrate light and flame in some way, at some point in the year, often in the darkest depths of winter. Hanukah in Judaism, St Lucia’s Day in Sweden, candles and the Yule log in the Pagan and Christian European traditions of midwinter and Christmas, the Hindu festival Diwali…the list is endless. We even light candles on our birthday cakes.

Image from Wikipedia

Humans, it seems, need light every bit as much as flowers need it…we’re drawn to it more irrevocably than moths.

Sometimes though, it is hard to walk out into the light. Darkness, frightening though it is, obscures our faults, the things we are ashamed of. It allows us to be stealthy, watching the world without being seen. It can be a safe hiding place. Why leave it and be exposed? However much we long to bathe in light, it undoubtedly requires a greater honesty and acceptance of ourselves to do so. Being seen requires us to be brave and
steadfast in our belief in ourselves. But it is, undoubtedly—as scores of our traditions show us—also a basic human need.

My advice to anyone lingering in the dark is to remember that you’re a creature of light. The hope is there, however obscured.  You just need to find it and not be frightened of it. Light a candle or a gentle lamp in a dark room. Feel the golden glow spreading from its source and surrounding you, soothing you more than the darkness ever could. Let it show you for who you are and be proud. Let it be a halo around you. Be aware, for a while, of the darkness outside the halo. Examine it from your new perspective.  When you can bear that light and it becomes a fundamental part of you, you won’t want to slip back into the shadows, you’ll step into the brightest light without fear.

“As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of mere being.” Carl Jung

 “We are told to let our light shine, and if it does, we won’t need to tell anybody it does. Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining—they just shine.” Dwight L. Moody.

 “As we let our light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence actually liberates others.” Marianne Williamson.

Google “Quotes about light” and just see how many words have been spoken and written about it. Some of them very beautiful and thought provoking. Come out of the darkness. Shine. Today, I finally understand how that feels.

Image from Wikipedia

Surprising myself…

I’ve not posted for a while. I guess life has rather got in the way of reflections on life…I’ve also barely written a thing, depsite two  nagging streams of creative inspiration which I am convinced will lead to full novels at some point. I’ve just not had the chance.

But I have got a new job. A job I don’t mind telling everyone about, because it seems to compliment my writing, my academic interests…and is generally more reflective of who I am than any of my other recent employment. I’m now an Interpreter at the Galleries of Justice musuem (in the Shire Hall and County Gaol of Nottingham, the place I fictionalised as a setting for my first novel Truths).

The Galleries of Justice

I love my job. It’s very random. Just yesterday I sat down facing a severed head…walked past a sword propped in a doorway on the way to the staffroom…had a conversation with a witch who then went on to kill the Sheriff of Nottingham in a Victorian courtroom…dodged through the shadowy cells so as not to interupt the ghost hunters…oh and spent the day dressed as a stern Victorian. In the coming week I’ll be a reform school teacher and a drunken Georgian prisoner. I’ll also work, as myself, with groups of school children, helping them understand their experience of visiting such a historic building…

And I am constantly surprising myself. I first had a taste of the job when I was 18. At that time I was terrified of public speaking, but my desire to share my knowledge of history won out and I found I could talk to huge groups about what went on the gaol exercise yard. But I’m still not comfortable being the centre of attention, or with the sound of my own voice. So before every tour group reaches me, I have a moment of wondering “what on earth am I doing? This isn’t me! Why would anyone listen to what I have to say? I can’t even act!”

But then, anywhere from one to thirty pairs of eyes are on me and I open my mouth and…I surprise myself. I am stern. I am loud. I am authoratative. I share my knowledge. I crack jokes and get laughter in response. I gesture emphatically. I let myself become a character and don’t feel remotely reserved about it. And I am shocked every time. I wonder where Rebecca’s gone.

It’s an amazing learning experience. That surprise is very similar to how I feel when I remember I’m a writer. The revelation is “wow, I really can do this…and people are actually liking what I do…”

I hope to never lose that sense of wonder. Because I think it’s crucial to not taking life and it’s opportunities for granted. I think it’s essential to fulfilling the potential we’re all born with, to knowing just how much we can do. Just now and again you have to surprise yourself. And in order to do that, you have to push…you have to take risks…you have to try to do the things you don’t think you can. Because when you discover you can, it’s the most amazing feeling. You see the true miracle of how multi-faceted we all are, the skills and traits we all keep hidden because we’re not confident in them…and seeing that, you realise how much fun life can be if you stop being scared of it.

I’m not saying give everything a go. There are things you don’t want to try in life. I have no interest at all in adrenaline rushes and will never be a thrill seeker in that sense. But there are always those nagging thing. The things you want to try…the things you see others do and suspect you could do just as well…the things you’ve always wanted to do. If the opportunity arises…go for it. You have to. We’re here to live our lifes and keeping the things you want to do buried under a lack of confidence stops you living life to full…

So. Go for it. Let your light shine into the world. Tap into your creative side and trust your instincts. Surprise yourself by finding just what you can do. It’s the way I’m trying to live…one day at a time, learning about myself, one surprise at a time…I’m getting there…

Oh and my third novel now has a beautiful front cover! The Locket and the Flintlock will be released in May 2012 by Bold Strokes Books. That’s a thrill that never goes away…and the wonderful surprise of seeing my name on a book cover never really diminishes…

Please check out the Galleries of Justice on facebook and also add our very own Villainous Sheriff, to see photos and find out about special events!

The road less travelled…

The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

TWO roads diverged in a yellow wood,   And sorry I could not travel both   And be one traveler, long I stood   And looked down one as far as I could   To where it bent in the undergrowth;         5     Then took the other, as just as fair,   And having perhaps the better claim,   Because it was grassy and wanted wear;   Though as for that the passing there   Had worn them really about the same,         10     And both that morning equally lay   In leaves no step had trodden black.   Oh, I kept the first for another day!   Yet knowing how way leads on to way,   I doubted if I should ever come back.         15     I shall be telling this with a sigh   Somewhere ages and ages hence:   Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—   I took the one less traveled by,   And that has made all the difference.         20

Sometimes, there are moments when life seems to be giving you some kind of message. When more than one unrelated person   uses the same phrase or begins the same conversation. Intuition, instinct, fate, higher power, coincidence…who knows. But I think it’s important to listen. The phrase ‘the road less travelled’ has come up a lot recently, and reminded me of Robert Frost’s words, which I have loved for a long time. And I realised their relevance to me has never been greater than it is now.

I’ve not written a post on this blog for a while, though you can read some of my thoughts on vampires and lesbians over at the Girls Who Bite blog. This wonderful anthology of lesbian vampire erotica from Cleis Press, containing my subtly erotic ‘She Knows I Am Watching’ about a New World vampire in Oxford,  is released in a few days. An exciting reminder that, whatever else I’ve been doing, I am still a writer.

I haven’t blogged on here for a while because, I guess, I feel like I’m lingering at some kind of crossroads, and it’s not really the place for sitting down with my laptop and explaining my thoughts. There’s not just two roads diverging ahead of me. There’s several. There’s also the path stretching out behind me.

I’ve been gazing backwards quite a lot lately. Going through boxes of long-stored artefacts of my childhood and looking into the eyes of my six year old, ten year old and teenage self in photographs that look surprisingly dated. Those moments are a long way back down the path behind me, however well I remember them. I’m nearly thirty. Properly grown up and everything.

I'm the littlest witch with the green hair!

And yet, part of me has been lingering on that pathway. It’s not been a sunshiny, leafy road and there are points where I’ve tripped, fallen, and been chased by monsters. But somehow I’d wandered onto a path with no junctions, no offshoots. I just had to keep going and there didn’t seem to be anywhere to turn. And because I didn’t stray, it became familiar to me. Not safe, perhaps, but known. And by retracing my footsteps, I knew I could always get back to the little girl at the start of the journey.

Of course, eventually, I reached this crossroads. I’d been searching for it, and, as if by magic, suddenly here I was. And the roads ahead looked scary and unfamiliar. Looking backwards seemed to be the best way to keep hold of myself, as though part of me was always going to be on that road behind me. Surely I was defined by the path I’d already taken…

But, in looking back, I realised something. I’m here. I’m at the crossroads. I’m not still on that path. I can look back down it and remember what it was like, but I reached the crossroads, I made it to this point. And I can rest here a while, whole and complete, and contemplate a while. There is time to question. I’m not on my own here either. I have friends, people who care, people to help me. That’s a huge improvement on that lonely old path.

I’m looking at the roads ahead. The one which is well-worn is very obvious to me. But I don’t want to travel the same way as everyone else. It’s no fun, for a start. Plus, I don’t think I could. I’d feel lost, and finding my way by following the crowd is not something I’m comfortable with.

So I have to choose another road.  Looking along some of them, I can see where they might lead, but I’m not sure. There might be unexpected twists and more junctions. I have to decide, because I can’t take all of those roads. It’s a decision with a lot of responsibility, but I will be brave. I might even head out across the untamed land and make a path of my own. I have visions of wild flower meadows, shadowy woodlands, blue skies and dramatic storms; moments of peril and moments of breathtaking beauty. There will be hope, faith and love, just as there are dangers and doubts. I don’t know where the road leads. But I’ll be the one painting the signposts and deciding which way to turn next.

Because, I no longer believe you’re defined by the road you’ve already taken to get to where you are. I believe you’re defined by the road you choose into the future.

Wow, what a weekend!

It’s taken me until Thursday to recover from the 2nd Annual Bold Strokes Books Author Event in Nottingham. I don’t think I realised quite how much I wanted it to be a success, just how important it was to me. Even when all the work that could be done had been done, there was still a certain tension. I suspected it would be wonderful, but I didn’t know for sure.

I shouldn’t have worried, of course. It was wonderful. Although it’s kind of a blur for me, I’ve heard enough feedback to know that people had a interesting and fun time.

Personally, I found it phenomenal that we’d brought together such an ecclectic bunch of people. Mostly women, and mostly gay, but not all. Mostly readers and budding writers, but not all. To see old friends and new chatting together, people from both sides of the Atlantic and from various UK and European destinations all getting on together. There are no words for how exciting that is. They appreciated the books, the readings, and my beautiful Nottingham. New friendships were made and old ones renewed. And knowing that it was, in part, because of me. Wow. There aren’t other words for it. I feel genuinely proud.

And how wonderful it is that words brought these people together. Creativity, inspiration and a love of fiction. This is why I write. I love words, I love imagination, I love escaping into a fictional world. I love to read. To have the ability to create those worlds, to give readers new words to respond to is an amazing thing. Facing a room full of those readers makes me only appreciate it more. And I’m aware of what a gift it is, how lucky I am. I felt humble and proud at the same time. So many discerning readers, mostly older and more widely read than me, and a whole bunch of talented writers…to be part of it was an honour, to know I was one of the reasons it was happening almost astonishing.

Reading from 'Ghosts of Winter'

I’m still vaguely bewildered when someone asks me to sign a book for them. I’m not sure I’ll ever get over that. I still have an inner terror that they’ll be disappointed and wish they’d not bought it. I signed a lot of copies of Ghosts of Winter. I’m just beginning to trust that people genuinely want to read it and aren’t just humouring me…And it means the world.

If you are a budding writer, this is for you: Write. Write with all of your heart and soul, as if you’re going to be published. Know, in the back of your mind that you might not be, but believe that you are. Write something you would be proud to see in the world. Don’t limit yourself by what you think the world wants to see. Write what you want to say, what is in your heart. And don’t listen to the people who tell you you’ll never make it. Because you just might. If you want to write, make it part of your journey. “We may run, walk, stumble, drive, or fly, but let us never lose sight of the reason for the journey or miss a chance to see a rainbow on the way.” (Gloria Gaither). As a writer, the chances are you will stumble a lot. There will be rejection, there might be criticism, envy, or people who tell you it can’t be done. But don’t lose sight of the rainbow or the fact that you CAN fly. This weekend was my rainbow. It was glorious and I am so grateful for it. But I wouldn’t have seen it if I’d not kept writing. Not been afraid to change direction when the first one wasn’t working. Not been afraid to send my words out into the world and see if someone would publish them. In what were very dark times for me, I reached for that rainbow and I wrote. On Saturday and Sunday, I really truly appreciated how vibrant those colours are.

Last year, this event marked my first event as a writer, and also, in many ways, my public coming out. It’s been quite a year since then, personally and as a writer…Without going into depth, it’s been a journey that’s brought me back to myself. To punctuate this phase of my journey with such amazing, special events is a real privilege. But it’s not a full stop, just a comma…there is more to come. Next year’s event will be more amazing. I have another book, The Locket and the Flintlock coming out in May 2012. And I’m still taking one step after another on my journey. I read somewhere recently that “Success is a journey not a destination…” (Ben Sweetland) and it’s true. The success of the wonderful BSB event was amazing. It reflected my own success as a published writer. But I’m going on…I won’t rest on the success and be content. If anything, it drives me forwards.

So I want to say thank you. To everyone who was involved in the BSB event. To my publisher, Bold Strokes Books, for letting my voice out into the world. To Victoria Oldham, for supreme and inspiring organisational skills. To every writer (and editor) on the panel (Gill McKnight, Lesley Davis, Justine Saracen, Stacia Seaman, Cari Hunter, I. Beacham, Jane Fletcher). To Waterstone’s for hosting a queer event in a mainstream bookstore. And especially to the readers, the ones who came, and the ones who couldn’t but wanted to. To everyone who has supported me personally. For every hug and every reminder to breathe. Thank you.

Onwards and upwards. Next year’s going to be amazing!

Discussing the publishing process...

Making a mark…

Tomorrow is the first part of the 2nd Annual Bold Strokes Books Author Event, at Waterstones, in Nottingham. A veritable festival of writers, books and friends, with a distinctly rainbow hue. Brilliant. I can’t wait. I can’t quite believe it’s happening for that matter. I’m going to be a real writer, reading my book to a–hopefully friendly–audience, with a group of other fabulous writers. And it all started with a little e-mail I sent tentatively to Waterstone’s a couple of years ago, asking if they would even consider some sort of event… From small acorns…

To add to my authorly joy, Ghosts of Winter just recieved an amazing review, from Lambda Literary, containing the line “Buck’s novel will undoubtedly be in the small handful of the best books written in this genre in 2011.” Wow. I’m wondering who this “Buck” is. They surely don’t me mean and my little book?

Ghosts of Winter

Thing is, they do. I’ll be the one up there on those author panels tomorrow and Sunday. I’m the one with two books on Waterstone’s’ shelves. I’m the one who wrote the book that got that awesome review. I once had a quotation on my wall that said something about the urge to write also being the fear of death, of wanting to say “I was here, I saw it too.” (Forgive me, the orginiator of those words escapes me, if anyone knows do let me know!) I feel the truth of that. I was terrified of going through the world without leaving a trace. And I believe that a huge driving force in writing my first novel was that urge to make a mark. Since its publication, I am less afraid of death. I’ve made a mark.

This struck me again, in a new light, today, when I toured the Galleries of Justice with a friend. The Galleries is a crucial place in my life. Working there was my first real adult experience, and it was also the setting for my first book, Truths. In the old red brick walls of the exercise yard are carved names, dates, tally marks and illegible lines and shapes. They’ve been there since the prisoners kept there scraped them into the brick and stone, most of them counting down the days of their imprisonment, some of them recording their sentence. “Condemned for house-braking” wrote one S. Clarke. Who knows the circumstances? Maybe some of them deserved their punishment. It’s hard to conclude they all did though, knowing the terrible poverty of the times in which they lived, and the severity of the justice system at the time…I tend to believe some of them were basically good men. And they wanted to make their mark. They didn’t want to be forgotten by history. And the wonderful thing is, they’re not forgotten. Today, I ran my fingertips over those carvings, I wondered for a moment about the people who carved them, and I remembered. They made their mark, managed to make themselves a rock that breaks the surface in the flows and currents of history…Exactly what I wanted to to do with my books. Not to be famous, but to be remembered. Just by a few people, for a while.

Carved into the walls of the old County Gaol

But y’know, it’s funny how things go. Recognition and being remembered is nice wonderful. Making a mark is a very great thing and I feel honoured to be able to. But the best thing about the coming weekend is that it’s a time of connections. Very old friends and ones I have yet to meet. There’s a whole group of people coming to see me. Friends who aren’t big readers and who aren’t lesbians…but who want to support me. Knowing I’m a part of their lives, I find, is actually more important than whether I’ll ever make a mark on history or not. I want to be cared about, important to the people who know me. And I want them to know how important they are to me, how they all touch me in different ways.

And those unfortunate prisoners probably would have cared very little whether or not I remembered them, today. What would have been important, I think, is whether their immediate friends and family thought about them, loved them, cared about them.

In the great scheme of things, it’s sometimes the small scale, personal things that are most important, not the big ones. I’m a writer, I have an author event and a fabulous review. But I also have people who care about me, and to whom I am important. We’re all part of each others’ lives…

Sometimes it’s not the great review or the recognition that makes the difference. Sometimes it’s just the hugs.

Bold Strokes Books Author Event, Saturday 23rd July, 3pm and Sunday 24th July 11.30am, Waterstones, Bridlesmith Gate, Nottingham. Come along and say hi!