Month: January 2011

Out of the Ivory Tower

Over the past couple of months, with the general busy-ness of Christmas, work at home and vile weather outside, I haven’t been out much. I used to go to playgroup, but since Daniel started nursery it’s been one of those things I’ve been meaning to do. I haven’t met up with friends much, for the same sort of reason.

I’ve had human contact, with family. I’ve had fairly constant contact with people around the world, on Twitter. But on the whole, I’ve been kind of shut away from the world in my little tower with my family. This is very much a double-edged sword.

For one thing, with Andrew being off work for Christmas we’ve had some much-needed time together. We’ve been able to help each other rest when nights have been bad; we’ve been able to back each other up. We’ve had peace and protection from the rude interruptions of the outside world. It’s been precious, wonderful time.

On the other hand, this time has warped our perception of some things. When the only three year old you really see is your own, the tantrums are unreasonable, his behaviour is unacceptable, no other mother is so put-upon. But then that’s not so bad, because your three year old is also a genius, an artist, a prodigy. Your baby is streets ahead of everyone else’s, which is quite astonishing since no other baby in the world sleeps as little as she does.  Your home is probably the messiest place on the face of the earth, the ironing is an insurmountable mountain that is probably hiding the Marie Celeste in there somewhere.

This week I came out of the Ivory Tower. I finally took Emily to playgroup, and she took off. Her face was breathtakingly beautiful in its reactions – the world was her oyster. But she was one of many, just another baby crawling around, taking life at their own pace. Today I had lunch with a friend, then went round to her house and spent a couple of hours chatting. Talking about the children’s behaviour (her daughter’s the same sort of age as Daniel), talking about our church (we’re in the same house group), talking about nurseries and holidays and husbands. And what did I get reminded about? Daniel is not the most unreasonable child in the world, nor the cleverest – he’s just a three year old. A house with two children in it has stuff lying around – that’s the way it is. Laundry dries on radiators – it doesn’t get sorted by the Magical Laundry Fairy. My life is average – no better, no worse than anyone else’s.

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in what’s going on in the Ivory Tower. Of course your own home, children, family are absorbing, it would be worrying if they weren’t. But I need perspective. And for that I need actual, face-to-face human contact. It’s hard when you’re shy; you don’t want to impose, you get stressed about social situations, you worry about what you’re going to say, if you manage to say anything. The Ivory Tower is so much safer. Unfortunately, it’s not all that healthy. It’s not good for writing – what kind of material can I generate when the person I spend most of the day with can’t even talk yet? It’s not good for my grip on reality. Give it much longer and I’ll be sitting in the cot sucking on a rusk. So I am going to try coming out of the Ivory Tower, in tiny baby steps, and squinting at the sunshine of the real world.

I give it two weeks. 😉

Invasion

Being the thoughts and opinions of an unfinished character; Miss Emma Flint, aged 16.

I must introduce myself. I am the protagoniste of Mrs Brown’s novel, which, being as yet unfinished, leaves me in a kind of limbo. Unable to keep silent yet without my own means of communication, I have taken advantage of what I am told is “Blog Takeover Day” to make myself heard. My mother, indeed, would have you believe that I generally have no difficulty in this regard, but do not believe her! I am, as is the way with all young ladies with something to say, by no means attended to as I deserve.

I have sworn, however, that with the dawn of the New Year (my goodness, 2011; the last New Year I celebrated was 1816) I shall be silent and ignored no longer. I shall give my Authoress no peace until she has completed my story and allowed me to give free rein to my expressions. And then she will find, having once finished my book and edited my words much more ruthlessly than I should like, that she is deceived in writing “The End”; I believe that I and my companions intend to allow her no respite.

You do not understand, I believe, what life is like for us mere characters, to whom you capriciously give birth then allow to languish in files and drawers, notebooks and imaginations. We had no voice, no thought of anything until you brought us into a semi-existence, then we come alive! I am young, I am full of things to say (and I do believe, more sensible than many of my peers if I do say so myself) and I burn to say them. Yet you allow petty considerations such as children and homes and busyness to interfere, to stop you picking up your pens and giving us life. We control you, we seek to creep into your minds and dreams until you stop the sillyness which prevents you from paying us due attention, but what a pitiful kind of control it is! At some point you will grow weary, shut us away for the night and we must start our insidious process of invasion all over again.

At least we can allow ourselves the satisfaction of straying from the paths you had imagined for us. I am never happier than when Mrs Brown has said that I shall go down such-and-such a path but as soon as she begins to write I wander in another direction entirely. I do flatter myself that my way is better, but I do not know that she has entirely admitted to it yet. We shall see, and I know that I shall be proved right yet again.

Do, pray, if you have any compassion, campaign on my behalf. Mrs Brown is a sad, frippery thing and needs constant prodding to complete the most important tasks (such as my story). She has, indeed, pledged herself to give me much more consideration but I beg you will be my best and dearest friends and give her no rest until I am finished. And then I can allow my successors to take up my task and hound her until their stories are also written. There is also the matter of your own characters – do not neglect them as I am neglected! Do not allow my sad situation to be repeated – show them the attention I am denied by my Authoress.

Thank you for your kind attentiveness. I feel sure we are to be the best of friends, and I look forward to meeting you again, in a more respectable state.

Your friend, E Flint.

Emma can be found pestering me on Twitter, as MissEmmaFlint. Don’t listen to her though, she’s a demanding thing. Thanks to Sally Quilford, whose idea the Blog Takeover was; her blog can be found here.