The shoe lay on the ground, half hidden in a clump of sprawling blue periwinkle. It looked like a Cinderella slipper, a high-heeled fantasy, sparkling like a wish or a promise.  For a moment, I forgot my advanced age and dreamed of the girl I used to be.  Of a time when everything lay before me and anything seemed possible.  Time telescoped, the decades seeming no more than minutes of my life.  Where had that girl gone?

Then reality clamoured, releasing me from the spell of yesteryear.  Why was the shoe here, incongruously nestled in the undergrowth?  I looked around for some kid with a hidden camera, lying in wait to see what I would do.  There was no sign of anyone nearby, no tell-tale rustling in the wood, no hurried breathing or smothered giggle.  Even the birds had stilled their song.  As far as I could tell, I was alone.

I hesitated a moment longer then bent down, using my stick as support.  My knees ached, protesting the unaccustomed action, but I ignored the pain and reached for the abandoned shoe.  It felt light in my hand, a cobweb of silk and sequins, insubstantial as a dream.  The contrast of the smooth silk against my withered hand caught me unawares.  I felt a sudden acid stab of anguish beneath my ribs.  So many years gone by since I had danced in shoes like this.  So many dreams destroyed by careless promises, leaving me alone and disappointed.  And old.

I knelt in the leaf litter with the shoe in my hand and wished, with all my heart, for a chance to go back, make different choices.  Above me, a robin sang and in my head I heard other music, the band striking up that final waltz, the last dance, last chance before all hopes were broken.  I saw his hand reach towards me and stretched out my own, not realising that it was not to me that he reached but to my friend who did not care for him but, flushed with triumph, left me alone and unpartnered as the waltz began.

Tears ran unheeded down the furrows of my face before a second, sharper pain took my breath and huddled me closer to the ground, the shoe falling from my grasp.  Now the robin’s song sounded a shrill trill of warning as pain clenched my heart.  I knew then, that my time was done.  There was nothing left to me but this final pain and the sight of the silver shoe, a sparkle like dewdrops on the grass, misty and insubstantial like all my dreams.

Ellie bent over, hands on knees, head bowed and fought the trembling in her legs.    Her ankle ached savagely from the punishing climb to the open moorland on the edge of the Dark Peak.  The joint still did not have a full range of movement.  Ellie rubbed it, impatient with the weakness.  Still trying to catch her breath, she was hit by a vivid flashback.  The man’s eyes, crazy on drugs, signalling his desire to maim.  To kill.  She pushed the vision back into the deepest recesses of her mind.  The injuries she had suffered in the attack had damaged her physically but, buried deep inside, admissible to no-one, Ellie knew there had been a greater psychological cost.  Because of that night, she would always be afraid.

She straightened and looked around.  Winter had bleached the hills, stripping the landscape of colour.   One stunted hawthorn tree, sculpted into an angular shape by the dominating wind, had managed to gain a foothold in the barren landscape .  Beyond it, two small fields, barely sheltered in the lee of the tor, provided poor pasture for hardy sheep.  A line of pylons, marched across the bleak landscape, skeletal giants,  a reminder of man’s desire to dominate the land and force nature to his needs.  Ellie grimaced.  Come the next bad winter, the electricity wires would be burdened with ice many inches thick, sagging until they broke.  Up here nature would always win.

She was about to turn back when a flash of scarlet caught her eye.   There, at the base of the nearest pylon, she could see something fluttering.  Ellie scowled.  Some careless hiker who had left litter, not bothering to clear up his mess.  A townie, probably, oblivious of the risk to animals from a discarded plastic bag.

She hesitated.  A barbed wire fence blocked her access and the ground beyond looked boggy and uneven.   The object fluttered again, as though beckoning her across the damp, peaty ground.  It was madness to push herself further she knew but the thought challenged her.  Ellie looked around.  There was no living soul in sight, not even one of the hardy hill sheep.  There was no-one to see her fail.

Making up her mind, she took a few steps back and launched herself at the fence like a hurdler, relishing the moment of exhilaration as her body responded, flying free from the pull of gravity.  The landing jarred her ankle and she feared she would go down but her feet picked up the rhythm of the run and she flew onwards, only stumbling as she neared the pylon.  Now she could see that the scarlet flutter was a scarf.  Walking forward, Ellie saw the scarf lay around a girl’s body, her sightless eyes staring at the looming pylon which stood, like a gaunt sentinel, above her.

Every writer writes, in the first instance, for themselves.  We write what we want to write.  What we MUST write.  Because the voices in our head won’t leave us alone.  So, we begin to write.  Sometimes the words pour out.  Sometimes the writer has to hammer out the prose word by painful word.  But it is happening.  We are writing.  We are writers.

The luckiest and most persistent eventually get to a point where we are happy(ish) with what we’ve written.  It is finished.  Done.  Out of our heads and onto the page.  And this point marks a watershed in the writer’s life.  For now the text we have produced exists in its own right.  We have written.  What next?

Next we want to show our work to someone.  It is no longer an idea, trapped in our heads, vague, inchoate... It is there, fully formed, and on the page.  An entity into which we have poured everything we can to bring it to life.  Now we seek recognition for that stupendous act of creation.  We want the child of our imagination to be acknowledged.  Loved.

We want our first readers to like our creation.  We want readers to be kind.  We hand over our manuscript with trepidation, with fear in case they don’t like it.  At heart, we want our readers to say how wonderful the story is, how brilliant we were to have written it.  We seek praise.

Which presents us with our dilemma.  For praise is of no use to us, as writers.  Praise, at first delightful, soon sours because praise is easy to give and means nothing without insight.  Praise is like poisoned ice cream, delicious but deadly to our development as writers.  What we really need is feedback.

Feedback hurts.  Oh, yes, positive feedback is a wonderful thing but the feedback we need most is the negative stuff.  We need to know what didn’t work for the reader.  Where they lost the plot (quite literally) and got confused.  Or bored.  We have got too close to our literary baby, in the long months of its gestation, to see it clearly. We need help.

Maybe there is too much repetition.  Or not enough clarification.  The carefully developed plot which we are so thrilled with may have the pace of an arthritic tortoise.  The characters are as wooden as Pinocchio before that wish upon a star. And we CAN’T TELL!

A reader who can give us this necessary feedback is worth his or her weight in diamonds.  They must steer a difficult course.  We need an honest analysis of our work and honesty can be hard to hear.  But self-delusion is not the writer’s friend.  We are overly biased to think our work is good simply because we know how many hours of solid work, sweat and agony, went into its creation.  Now, though, we need perspective.

We need to hear which parts are good, what worked.  But also, we need to know where we failed.  Where the story lagged.  Because then we have the information we need to start to fix it.  No work of creation is born painlessly.  And, however much a writer may hate to hear criticism of their work, only by opening up to that process and seeking honest opinions can we hope to grow and develop in our writing craft.

The white heat of creation is an essential part of our writer’s process but so, too, is the detachment necessary to see our work through the eyes of others.  For, it is that step which moves us on from merely writing to becoming an author.  So be brave and ask your beta readers what they DON'T like about your book!

I’ve always liked country funerals.  There’s something so comforting about the old lichened headstones with their weathered inscriptions, blurred by time.  The sense of continuity in a country churchyard is a real comfort to the bereaved.  Time and again I’ve seen it, that sense of peace and acceptance with what must be…
 
Of course, it’s always easier when the deceased is old and has had a good life.  It must be dreadful to bury a child.  That’s not the natural order of things; the young shouldn’t die before the old.  I don’t think that’s right, at all.  But when the person is old and has suffered, well, I think it’s a blessing really, when they go.  I don’t think anybody would argue with that; no one with an ounce of humanity in their veins, at any rate.  I always tell the family it’s a blessed release.  I think it gives them comfort and helps them to cope.
 
This vicar’s got a lovely voice, very mellow and reassuring.  I wonder what an Irish priest is doing in this corner of Sussex?  It’s funny how people travel about nowadays.  It’s not like it was when I was younger.  People stayed put then.  Of course, I’ve moved around a lot, myself, but that’s understandable.  I have to go where my job takes me.  I suppose I’ve made it my life, my job.  I didn’t really choose to but that’s the way it’s turned out.  And you have to do what is necessary, make the sacrifices that others, maybe, wouldn’t make.  I think it’s turned out for the best.
 
That dratted magpie startled me.  It flew right over my head with that funny chuntering cry they make.  I don’t like them.  Stealing other birds’ eggs and such.  Nasty things.  And it’s unlucky to see only one.  What is that rhyme I learned when I was a girl?  “One for sorrow, two for joy” or something like that.  There’s only one here but I suppose that’s appropriate for a funeral.  One for sorrow.  Yes, I think it must be meant, somehow.  I believe everything is as it is meant to be.  Even magpies.
 
It’s a good job it’s such a nice Spring day.  The sun helps lift everyone’s spirits and those primroses look a picture over on the bank.  I do like that pale yellow.  I think I might use that when I redecorate my lounge.  It would look really fresh and pretty.  I suppose I’ll have to wait for a bit, until probate’s sorted out.  A funny word that – probate.  I wonder what it means?  One of those legal terms that everyone uses but no-one really understands.  I wouldn’t have liked to go in for the law. It’s too dry.  I like the human contact in my job though I suppose a solicitor has quite a few clients.  It’s not the same though.  People don’t rely on a solicitor the way my patients rely on me.  They know I won’t let them down.
 
Another magpie.  That’s “Two for joy” after all.  They do look handsome in their black and white coats, very glossy and sleek.  But I don’t like them – nasty, smug creatures.  They always look so sure of themselves, so complacent.  They are smart, I’ll grant you that, but they should all be exterminated, like vermin.  That’s all they are.  Vermin.
 
Still, it’s what I call a proper funeral.  A lovely setting, this.  And people have made an effort and dressed up a bit, in black and dark grey.  I don’t like this modern trend for coming in your normal, everyday clothes.  I think it lacks respect.  People ought to make more effort.  Of course, I usually wear my nurse’s uniform with a nice black coat over it.  I think that strikes a nice balance, shows I’m here in a kind of official capacity as well as just a mourner.  It’s important to keep that distinction, I think.  And I’m pleased with the coat.  It’s very good quality wool and it was really quite a bargain.  I like to get value for money and, after all, I’ll get some wear out of it.
 
Another magpie.  That’s three.  I’ve read somewhere they’re considered unlucky.  Three, that’s for a girl, isn’t it?  I wonder if it means Megan?  She looks very pale, almost stern, somehow.  I haven’t seen her cry once since the death.  That doesn’t seem right to me, I have to admit.  You should cry when your mother dies, I think.  Well, that’s my opinion.  But she’s always seemed cold.  Not heartless but held-in somehow as though there’s a lot going on beneath the surface.  I hope I haven’t made a mistake about her.  People can be funny, sometimes.
 
It’s getting chilly, now.  Funny how all the warmth goes out of the day when the sun goes in.  I shall be glad to have a cup of tea when this is over and get a bit of warmth back into my bones.  I hope Megan’s organised a proper funeral tea.  Sometimes people skimp on that, which is a real shame.  I always think it’s the best part of a funeral, the tea.  It gives people a chance to talk and that helps the family.  Someone usually thanks me, as well.  I know I am only doing my job but still, it’s nice to be appreciated.  And it can be hard, watching someone die, especially when you’ve got to know them so well.  The families don’t always appreciate that.  They just think of their own grief but it’s hard for me, too.  I'm the one who's been there, every step of that final struggle.
 
It seems a long service today.  It’s not really kind to keep everybody standing out here for so long.  One or two of them look pretty frail anyway.  It won’t do them any good if they get cold.  I shouldn’t be surprised if somebody picks up a chill and then there will be another funeral before you know it.  I’ve seen that happen before.  Sometimes there can be a run of two or three funerals in a row.  Of course, people don’t think when they organise these things.  An indoor service at the crematorium might have been better, though I suppose the deceased wanted to be buried.  Some people do, I know.  Funny that.  I don’t know why people bother about what’s going to happen once they’re dead.  I mean, once you’re dead that’s it.  You’re not going to care what happens to you.  I suppose people are just very sentimental about it.  They don’t see things clearly.  Well, there’s one thing I know: there’s no room for sentimentality in nursing.
 
Oh, finally, it looks as if things are drawing to a close.   That’s good, I’m parched.  I really fancy a nice cuppa.  I just better go over to Megan and express my sympathy.  I think that would be the best thing.  It shows I really cared for her mother; that she wasn’t just a nameless patient to me.  It’s all part of it, isn’t it?  Things have to be done properly.  I thought I might be in one of the funeral cars but I had to make my own way here.  Most families have included me in but I don’t think Megan has ever really taken to me.  Well, if she had spent the time with her mother that I did in those last few weeks, maybe she’d have some room to talk.  But I won’t say anything.  Just my usual sympathy speech.  There’s no point in making things difficult.  I know what to say to the bereaved.  I think I can bring her some comfort.

                                                                                                                     ****************************
 
Well!  I must say, I didn’t expect that.  She was really quite unpleasant.  Almost ignored what I said and such a look in her eyes.  As if she resented my being here.  I suppose she knows about the will and it’s upset her.  Maybe she’s one of the grasping, greedy kind who can’t bear any of the money being willed away from them.  But, after all, it’s only fair.  If her mother wanted to thank me for what I did for her then she had a perfect right to do so.  It's all legal and everything.  There’s nothing Megan can do.
 
Look at that!  Another magpie.  On my car, as well.  Shoo!  I hope it’s not made a mess or scratched the paint.  “Four for a boy.”  Well, there’s no rhyme or reason to that.  It’s just a silly superstition.  I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it.  It’s not like me to be fanciful.  I wonder who Megan’s talking to, over there?  He doesn’t look like family, somehow.  At least, I didn’t see him at the graveside.  I suppose he’s one of the undertaker’s men.  Now, that’s not a job I would like, having to be pretend you care about people’s grief.  I mean, you can’t build up a relationship with a corpse.  I've always enjoyed the time I spend with my patients, even if they are fighting a losing battle with their illnesses.  We’ve all got to die of something and I like to think I can make things a little bit easier for them.  We have some good laughs and I know they’re grateful to me.
 
No-one has told me where the funeral tea is.  I suppose I’ll just have to follow everyone else.  It’s left a bit of a nasty taste, to tell you the truth.  I’m not used to being shut out like this.  Most families recognise my contribution and even if they don’t like it, there’s no point in being unpleasant.  The patient has a perfect right to leave a bequest to their nurse, especially one who is so supportive and who makes their last days more bearable.
 
Bless me!  Those magpies are like a plague.  There must be a flock of five or six there. Flying so low, as well.  I suppose they’re nesting somewhere in the church grounds. “Five for silver, six for gold.”  It’s funny how that rhyme comes back after all these years.  I must have learnt it when I was a little girl, more years ago than I care to remember.  But it’s very apt:  “six for gold.”   Because this latest bequest will really set me up.  Who knows, I may even retire.  It’s about time I had some fun in my life, bought nice things and got what was due to me.  I’ve worked my fingers to the bone for other people for so long.  Now, it’s my turn to live and order people about and get what I want.  After all, my National Health pension isn’t going to provide me with many luxuries.  Private nursing pays better and is much easier on the back and feet than a hospital job but it’s still work.  And I reckon I’ve done enough, really.  It’s time to put my feet up and enjoy what’s left of my life.
 
They’re taking their time.  It’s not very well organised if you ask me, everybody milling around and not knowing what to do; someone needs to sort them out.  I suppose not everyone has had as much experience as I have with funerals.  But, if you go in for geriatric nursing, there’s going to be quite a few deaths along the way.  It’s a fact of life, really.  Of course, you can’t afford to get too close to them; that’s where the professionalism comes in.  You have to make them feel special, as though you really care about their every ache and pain, but you keep a detachment.  A kind of professional reserve.  Most good doctors have it.  Well, they need to, really, because otherwise they couldn’t function.  I mean, you can’t take everybody’s cares onto your shoulders, can you?  It wouldn’t be reasonable.
 
Come on!  I can’t see what the hold-up is.  If the funeral cortege would just pull off we could all follow and get some tea.  You would think a family with all that money would know how to do things properly.  I hope Megan’s not going to be difficult.  I suppose it is rather a lot of money.  No-one’s ever left me that much before but I don’t see why it should cause any problems.  After all, she was rolling in it and this will set me up nicely.  And I earned it.  They’ve got to admit I did.  I did everything for that woman and that’s no joke when you’re talking about total bedcare for someone who can’t even get to the bathroom.  It’s not pleasant and a lot of people wouldn’t want to do what I’ve had to do.
 
More magpies.  That must be seven by now.  “Seven for a secret, never to be told”.  Well, that’s appropriate.  I know a lot of secrets.  I suppose any nurse does.  When you’re constantly with someone who is old and ill and vulnerable, well, you’re bound to get to know things.  And I’ve always been a sympathetic ear.  It’s a skill, really, and one that I’m proud of.    Patients tell me things that they wouldn’t, maybe, tell their families.  It creates a bond.  And it’s a relief for them, getting rid of some of the things they’ve been bottling up over the years.  I must admit, it helps me to help them if I know what it is that’s bothering them.
 
Of course, people are afraid.  Well, it’s only natural.  I sometimes think it’s not the dying that bothers people but the waiting to die.  That’s the hard part.  So really I’m doing them a favour.  I think most people, at the bottom of their hearts, they want to be helped over those last few days.  I mean, why just go on suffering unnecessarily.  You know how it’s going to end.  I know.  I’ve seen enough patients to recognise when the end is near.  It’s really a kindness to help them through it.  Speed things up, like.
 
You have to be careful, though.  Doctors can be very touchy about patients dying “too soon”.  As if they know better than the nurse.  They don’t sit with the patient, hour in, hour out, watching them take every breath.  Don’t tell me about doctors.  It’s easy for them.  They get good pay for what they do, but what about me?  I’ve had to make provision for my old age.  And what real harm does it do?  She had so much money and it wasn’t  going to do her any good.  I just needed to play my cards right and get her to sign the, what do you call it?  The codicil.  That’s it.  It had to be all legal and above board before I let her go.  I had to make sure of that.  But now it’s properly signed and witnessed and all, I don’t see what Megan or anyone can do about it.
 
Ninety thousand pounds.  It will be a nice little nest egg for me and give me a chance to enjoy myself, before it’s too late.  I’ve always been the one looking after others; time to look after myself, for a change.  Is that Megan walking towards me?  Why isn’t she in the funeral car?  What’s going on?  And that man I saw earlier.  He’s looking at me as if…  But they can’t know.  They can’t.  How could they?  He’s bending to speak to me.  Should I get out or just sit here?  I could wind the window down.
 
“Miss Johnstone?”
“Yes?”
“I’m Inspector Pike.  Would you please get out of the vehicle.”
 
He can’t really be going to arrest me.  Surely this is all a mistake.  They can’t know.  I was careful, really careful.  She didn’t even die when I was there.  There’s no way they can pin anything on me.  Those bloody magpies screeching.  They sound as though they’re laughing.  Horrible, cackling laughter.  This can’t be happening.  I’ve always got away with it before.  Always.  Old people die.  There’s no way they can know what I did.  No way.  And it was a kindness anyway.  She was suffering and I helped her find peace.

​I can see police cars, behind the church, black and white like the magpies. But they can’t prove anything, surely they can’t.  I was careful.  I always am.  I can hear those magpies cackling, such a horrible noise.  Pecking at the freshly turned earth.  They don't even respect death.  I knew they were bad luck.

​Gossamer threads
Glisten in the air.
Grass, silvered with dew,
Shimmers dreamlike.
 
Hedgerows, laden
With hips and haws,
Gleam with polished
Scarlet berries.
.
Oak and chestnut
Shed glossy fruit
Gifts for squirrels
And errant children.
 
Summer blue sky
Belies the chill
As summer trees begin to don
The fiery hues of Autumn.

One chilly May morning in 1963 my grandfather walked up to our farmhouse at the edge of the Peak District National Park to take our dog, Chip, for a walk.  He didn’t return.
 
At first, the family assumed he’d chosen a longer route than usual.  Although cold, the day was fine and the views across the moors were spectacular.  Grandad enjoyed walking.  In middle age he regularly walked seven or eight miles to work each day in every kind of weather.   Now, at eighty-three, he walked for pleasure, a few miles on most days.  The dog, too, enjoyed a good long ramble.  In those days traffic was a rarity along the country roads and Chip was obedient, walking to heel when needed.  No need for a lead.
 
After three or four hours Mum became worried.  She called Dad in from the fields to tell him his father had gone out with the dog and not come back.  Dad went for a tour round, expecting to see his father at every crossroads.  But there was no sign of him or the dog.  My uncle was called in.  He had a van, the only vehicle in the family.  Dad and he drove along every road leading from our house without success.  They cast wider, returning only to check if Grandad had returned.  We had no phone and no way to contact the searchers.  But there was nothing to report.  The old man and the dog were missing.
 
A family conference was held.  Grandma was consulted.  As the family matriarch, she had the final say in every situation.  She decided the police needed to be informed.  They came.  Two kindly coppers, taking details.  What was Grandad wearing?  What did the dog look like?  Had Grandad done anything like this before?  Was he likely to run away from home?  Could he be confused?  Disorientated?
 
My parents answered, every question making the unthinkable seem more possible.  Something had happened.  Something which prevented Grandad from coming home.  Visions of him lying ill loomed.  Fears, thrust away, that he might be injured or dead.  My father’s face aged, looking drawn and haggard.  We children, too young to understand, knew only that the atmosphere in the house had changed.  A feeling of dread permeated the air.

Farmers around the Peak District were contacted, asked to search barns and check little used lanes.  Dad scoured the miles of black dry-stone walls which threaded the hillsides, dreading and hoping to find his father huddled in the lee of a bleak stone wall.  It seemed impossible that an elderly man and a large dog could disappear so completely.  But when we looked out at the endless miles of barren moors, the knowledge that he could be anywhere in that limitless space seeped in.  He might never be found.
 
My other uncle was alerted, came steaming up from his farm in Warwickshire.  Many long miles, in the days before the motorways were built.  The local paper reported that James Pepper, an elderly farmer, was missing.  Some of them misreported his name as John. Police scoured the moors.  Search parties of friends, neighbours, even strangers joined in.  No sign.  The days were cold, the nights chillier.  After two days, my father was interviewed on TV about his missing father.  He begged anyone who might have information to get in touch.  He looked a decade older.  A police helicopter was called in and scanned acres of moor, to no effect.  National newspapers took up the story and a few intrepid reporters turned up at our door, miles from nowhere, many miles from their usual haunts.
 
Over twelve miles away, children playing saw a large brown and white dog, near the banks of a canal.  Later a lad, on his way to work, saw the dog, a collie cross.  The dog came near and seemed anxious.  He shooed it away and continued his walk to work. The next day, the dog was there again, in the same place.  It came close, tail wagging and friendly.  He looked around but could see no sign of the owner.  That was not unusual at a time when dogs were allowed to roam freely.  But something about this dog drew his attention.   It moved away then looked back as if asking him to follow.
 
Feeling foolish, the lad followed.  The area was run down.  An industrial wasteland near a railway track, rough grass running down to the towpath alongside the canal.  The lad followed the dog, half inclined to turn back but curious.  It seemed as if the dog wanted to show him something.  When he saw the crumpled form he stood for a moment, in shock, then ran to help.  An old man in a tweed jacket was lying by the canal.  Nearby a sturdy walking stick and the man’s flat cap.  The dog licked the man’s face and he stirred.
 
For three nights, Chip had curled up around Grandad’s body, using his warmth to keep the old man alive.  Grandad was taken to hospital and checked for hypothermia.  The staff were amazed he was in such good shape after three lonely nights in the open.  The dog was taken to a local shelter and given a good meal.  And, finally, Dad was given the news he had started to believe he would never hear.  His father was found.  Alive.
 
Grandad had walked back to an area where he used to live as a boy, crossing hills, roads, by-passing towns, to the far side of Sheffield.  And our dog had gone with him, step for step.  Uncomplaining.  A deep instinct making him shelter his master’s body from the cold.  Despite his hunger, he had stayed with Grandad for three days and three nights, only leaving him during the day to look for help.  To find someone who could do what a dog cannot.  To let us know where they were.
 
I don’t remember much about the aftermath.  Only that my father looked like himself again.  And we had to go on walks with Grandad when he came to take the dog out.  Grandad didn’t remember much about those three days and nights.  The only thing he could say about the whole episode was: ‘Eeeh!  The dog.  He was warm.’
 
Chip became, for a few short days, a story in the National Press.  A hero.  But we didn’t need telling.  We knew.

I recently traded in my old mobile phone and discovered the brave new world of interconnectivity which the rest of you have inhabited for ages.  The new phone sits in my pocket, with more computing power than the Apollo Space Mission needed to get to the moon.  Naturally, one of the main uses I have found for such an awesome machine is to download apps and waste many hours on it playing childish games.

One of my new discoveries is the ‘Candy Crush’ series.  I am now in a position to state authoritatively that, of the three I’ve tried, ‘Candy Crush Soda’ is by far my favourite.  Mainly because it allows me to ‘Save the bears’ on a regular basis, something which leaves me feeling absurdly pleased with myself.  But regular sessions of ‘Candy Crush’ between writing stints has revealed a deeper truth.  Playing ‘Candy Crush’ and writing have a lot in common.

One of the main requirements to progress through the levels of ‘Candy Crush’ and similar games is persistence.  Some days, no matter what I do, I simply cannot complete the level.  Time and time again I try and fail to flush those pesky bears from beneath their sugar frosting.  But, and this is the key, I keep trying.  And, eventually, through a combination of good luck and skill, I succeed.  This is a lesson that any writer should take to heart.

Writing requires persistence.  There will be days when you turn up to the keyboard and try to write but nothing gels and writing seems like the hardest thing in the world.  Don’t despair!  Accept that there will be days like that and keep on trying.  One day, the writing will flow and the struggle will seem worthwhile.  The only way for this to happen is if you keep on turning up and giving it a go.  Day after day.  There are no shortcuts to success.

Another thing I discovered when playing ‘Candy Crush’ is that I slowly (sometimes laboriously) learn ways to improve my chance of completing the level by maximising the impact of special candies.  Not much help with writing, you might think but I’m not so sure.
Good writing needs a combination of factors to take flight.  Interesting characters become lame without sparkling dialogue.  A gripping plot loses intensity if the stakes are too low.  Dull exposition can bury the most fascinating story.  The writer, like the game player, must learn to employ these special ingredients in his/her story to maximum advantage.  Only then will the words set light to the reader’s imagination.

The final element of success at ‘Candy Crush’ has to be luck.  Some days, the candies just won’t fall right, no matter what I try.  Then, a lucky combination of actions unlocks the level.  This holds true for writing, too.  Some days are just plain uninspired.  The writing has no spark.  Then, a random event, a newspaper article, a throwaway line in a conversation can trigger a new train of thought and propel your story in an unexpected direction.  Grasp those opportunities and run with them.
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And, remember, if the writing doesn’t work out, there’s always another level of ‘Candy Crush’...

​The paving stone is hollowed with centuries of use.  Feet unnumbered have passed here, each impression carving molecules of rock from the surface of the stone, wearing it down with the grim persistence of repeated motion over time.
 
I stood here twice before. The first time was the summer I turned twenty.  I was travelling through Europe on my student Interrail card.  I’d ‘done’ France and Austria, moved on to Italy and to Rome.  I stood here, mesmerised by the sight of the Coliseum and by the ancient pavement which ran alongside, stones which had borne the feet of emperors.   I felt connected to lives long past and invincible with the surety of youth.
 
Years later I watched my seventeen year old son hop from slab to ancient slab on our last family holiday before he turned eighteen and travelling with parents stopped being cool.  He stood here, on this exact spot, carefree and laughing, his face alight
with the joy of life.  He was tall and tanned and handsome.  I watched and saw an invisible thread connecting him to my twenty year old self, linked by this same stone.  In that moment, he stood, invincible.
 
Now I stand here alone.  My son is gone.  Lost in the  mundane tragedy of a car crash.  He was nineteen.  He has no future.  And I reflect on the deceitful past, promising a life which was not to be. 

Every writer who admits to friends or strangers that they write soon learns to expect the question:
“What are you writing now?”

We writers have an answer, prepared for this moment.  In my case, my answer is either “A comedy thriller, very silly but great fun” or “A murder mystery, set in the Peak District” depending which of my current works in progress I’ve been battling with most recently.  And, for most people, this is enough.  They don’t really care that much.  They’re being polite and are now free to talk about subjects which interest them (almost never anything to do with the proud writer’s output!)  I know, I have these conversations and I hear other writers have them too.

But, sometimes, I am thrown by a further question.
“Why do you write?”

This one is unexpected.  For one thing, it usually comes from someone who evidently thinks I’m not up to the task of writing a novel and the underlying subtext is:
Why waste your time ‘writing’?

But it is a good question.  Why do I write?  I could do other things.  I have a small business to run, a house and garden needing my attention, pets to walk, feed and care for.  I have family duties and mortgages to pay.  Why waste hours of my time writing?  I may never get paid for it and, let’s face it, in our society worth is usually measured in hard currency.  Isn’t writing speculative fiction merely a peculiar form of OCD? 

I’ve puzzled over this for some time and here is the answer, my answer, to why I write.

I write to free myself from the constraints of ‘real life’.  In my imagination, I can go anywhere, be anyone, do anything.  Life, alas, is more constraining.

I write because I crave drama but am also a realist.  Adventures are great to write and read about - but to live them, not so much.  I have no desire to scale Everest or plunge the abyss of the deepest ocean.  Too cold, too dangerous.  But I can write about them and experience the thrill of danger - safely.

I write because I love answers and reality rarely gives me satisfactory ones.  In a story, things have to make sense.  There has to be cause and effect, a daisy chain of events which lead to the satisfying conclusion.  Where life is chaotic and random, fiction has order and purpose.

I write to find out what is going to happen next.  I start with a character and a situation and write to discover where that takes me.  My characters seem to have their own ideas about their stories, sometimes to such an extent that I feel I have no control over the plot.  Things happen.  Characters say things.  I just get pulled along in their wake.  It is exhilarating.  And frustrating.  And it is very hard to explain to anyone who has never written.

So, finally, I write to be honest.  To reveal something about the inner depths of my creative mind.  To put myself on the page for anyone to see.  Yes, I hide behind my characters (I am an introvert after all).  But I am there, on every page.  All those hidden facets of me - writing gives them the chance to sparkle.
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Which leaves one question:
“Why do you write?’

My uncle served in the Royal Engineers and was posted to Hong Kong in 1937.  He was prevented from returning by the outbreak of war.
He set sail on HMS Dunera, a passenger ship, repurposed as a troopship, and this letter details his last sighting of England.
He was captured after the fall of Hong Kong in 1941 and died aboard the Lisbon Maru in 1942.









                                                                                                           H.M.T. Dunera 
Dear Mother & all,
            It is now Wednesday morning.  The sea is fairly calm but the vessel is rolling a lot in a heavy swell.  I have been quite alright up to now but we enter the Bay of Biscay this afternoon.  I expect that I will feel sickish then, up to now though, apart from a slight touch this morning while getting breakfast I have felt fine.  We sailed at half past two.  It was not bad watching England grow dimmer [insert in margin: you liar, it was lousy, nobody spoke].  After we passed the Needles in the evening  we  soon lost sight of the land.  It is great fun sleeping in hammocks - we had to wait until one of the seapigs (sailors) showed us what to do.  I crawled in mine though & had a lovely sleep.

Another chap and myself volunteered to be Mess orderly.  We fetch the grub from the galley & wash up after meals, we have to scrub tables forms and floor & clean all the tins for capt’s inspection at 10 am but we do not go on parade nor do we have any guard or other duties.  I don’t mind the hard work, it keeps me occupied.  Half the other chaps are sick.  Weird to see them lean over the side & then nip into the galley for the messes food.

I hope to get ashore at Gib & get some snaps.  I will post this letter there.  At present we are edging towards the Bay, The seas are starting to run high but I packed a whopping big dinner away with bags of fruit so I am quite happy.  How you all getting on? I will write a big letter when I can but at present I have only seen the sea.  I will enclose a photo of the ship, it is white with a blue band.  Another ship, before we sailed ,all pressmen & movietone & universal newsreels were snapping us.  Perhaps you may see them but I doubt if you will spot me.  The fellows lining the deck are just a few - there were 3 troop decks.  I am on 3 lower, this is the most comfortable but one has to climb 2 flights of stairs to reach the galley & slop bins, wash houses, latrines, etc.

Just before we sailed Hore-Belisha* came round with about 20 officers & inspected us.  He came round nodding & smiling like a small boy on his first day at school.
 
Well, I must close for the present.  I wish you all the best & look forward to the furlough I will receive when next I come to England.
With my love to Mum & the rest
From Frank.
PS. I already roll about like a pukka seapig.

*Hore-Belisha was an MP who became Secretary of State for War in 1937.  As Minister of Transport (1934-7) he introduced the 30mph speed limit in built-up areas and the Belisha beacon was named after him).