Week 1 Creative Writing with WEA

Q; In 600 words or less tell me about a special occasion in your life.

A Special Occasion.

My most treasured occasion was the birth of my first child. Paige had been a surprise instalment to my plans for the future, for a start I had never planned on having any children at all. The closer the event came the more I began to realise Paige was going to be special. With only two months left we found ourselves in hospital under close monitoring and confined to the hospital bed.  Now a day I’d enjoy the rest and read a book, but at that time I was seventeen. I had never liked hospitals – the echo sounds down each bland corridor, that unmistakeable “I’m very clean” smell that even made our school changing rooms seem inviting in comparison. To me the worst thing was how lonely the hospitals make you feel. Rookwood hospital had those long wards like in the old black and white movies my dad watched, it was like looking down  two train carriages, the tall windows gave that broken light effect you get on the moving train only it was as still and silent as a photograph, I could barely see the nurses’ station at the end it. They insisted on me staying in the bed and I insisted on at least getting dressed and lying on top of the bed. They saw an annoying teenager and I saw condescending adults. It’s the tone in our voice not the words we ever said to each other that made our stand very clear – this was going to be the longest six weeks on record.

Nurse Arkhem was to be my arch-nemesis; she was as stern as she looked in her dark blue well pressed dress with classic flat white shoe. When she passed by your blood turn cold, her eyes did that scanning thing you imagine cyborgs do in sci-fi movies, and she moved as silently as a ghost. Our first battle was the make-up “you don’t need that on in here, go and wash it off” she said as I put the final touches to a perfectly mascaraed set of lashes. “The trick is not to blink, not to move at all” I responded as if she had actually asked the question I wanted her to ask me. As I regarded my left eye in my little bed side mirror a heavy smell of flowers suddenly assaulted my nose and I looked up to see that Nurse Arkhem had moved without actually moving at all, all the way from the end of my bed right up to my bedside table. “In an emergency the doctor will only wish to perform one procedure to remove something not two.”  Still stunned by the magic trick my response was slower than its normal teenage wit generally reserved for answering my dad. “well, when you feel like a hippo with a bad case of indigestion what are you to do but try to cheer yourself up with TLC” I shrugged and gave her my most honest looking face, “you will have years of Halloween face painting ahead of you I’m sure, now, please go and wash it off” she handed me my soap and face cloth out of the top draw as if she had been the one who had put them in there. Spooky!

I’m Now A Blogger

This is my first and only blog page, why have I decided that blogging is the right thing for us?

Well I am a writer who has been writing in secret for about 19 years. It all started with a birthday gift from my aunt Ve, I had never see a diary journal before, not a proper one. Its blue leather-bound cover, the newest smell, gold edge paper and its magnolia pages with caramel coloured lines were as if I were looking at a rare pice of art. to be honest I nearly cried when I wrote my name in the front, it’s what it told me to do, it said “this journal belongs to…” See I am very dyslexic and my hand witting appalling, especially at that time. 10 years old and I could barely read, less than a five-year old academically. Ashamed I wrote first my diary then my stories, and know one knew not even my parents. My dad told me some whopper about when he was a child, and I loved them. I could imagine for hour on my own, whole other worlds. I would try to write them down but often I could not write at the speed my mind would race, whole sentences would be missing. and if you can’t read what you have written you can not correct it. This went on for years until I met my high school teacher Mr Bill Young, he had a Welsh name I could never pronounce so he used Bill. He taught me to read, and read and read out loud, then read something else and read it some more. only then could we get to writing. Mr Young listen to me read painfully for an hour after school, he would talk to me about the class work, write my essay notes down as I worked out what the question was asking of me. “your not thick, lazy or slow minded, you have got this far because you’re so smart. you need to un-learn your bad habits and get some solid base knowledge. don’t let this obstacle stop you, get over it.” I’m still kind of slow at reading (have to read each page twice, once to get them words, second to read what the writer is saying) but reading means I can spell words, I can sound out bigger words, I can recognise high frequency words in a second not seconds and I have some vocabulary. most of all it means I can visit other people’s worlds and see my own come to life.

Am I still a bit scared when my children ask me to read to them, yes, but it doesn’t stop me.