Let them drift and dream

My daughter and her friend 'fixing' a house with a toolkit - surely more useful than homework?

How do I feel about my six year old coming home each week from school with enough homework that, if done properly, would mean she spend every single day doing some? To be honest, pretty peeved. I've always felt that they do enough work at school during the day and home time should be just that: home time, to follow their own interests. The fact is that at the age of six, it is just as much about the parent as the child when it comes to homework. Essentially, when homework comes back there is an expectation that the parent sit down with the child and works out sums and assists in writing sentences etc. Do I want to be doing that with my daughter? No. I want my daughter to be playing. But playing is not useful, shock horror.

And get this: I watched a crazy you-tube vid last night called Did you know? and discovered that the top 10 in-demand jobs in 2010 did not EXIST in 2004. So what does that mean? It means that we are preparing our children for jobs that don't even exist, using technologies that haven't even been invented. Even more reason, I believe, for them to be embracing their own hobbies and interests, not being embroiled in homework when they already do six hours of formal learning at school. I know, I know it's not the fault of the teacher or the school, they are simply ticking boxes and this is part of the system that we have bought into but grrr, it does make me feel cross sometimes.

So flicking through the Guardian yesterday, my attention was unsurprisingly caught by an article entitled 'Down with homework.' A columnist called Tim Lott had a good old rant about his six year old and I was quite relieved, to be honest, that I'm not alone in my thoughts. Lott says of homework:

I reluctantly submitted to its inevitability as a child but as an adult I resent it, both on the part of myself and my own children. My six year old sitting down to homework at the weekend is merely academic tokenism.

Academic tokenism - ha, I like that - I might well nick that phrase Mr.Lott. He goes on to say:

Nothing is more precious that those islands of childhood that are left untouched by invading adults and their fund of schemes for the future when you finally make it as a 'worthy citizen.' Let children drift and dream....

Yes, yes, YES! I know things aren't going to change for my daughter - when I mentioned to her teacher last year I was unhappy about the amount of homework given, she looked at me aghast and said 'You're the only parent I've ever heard say that, most parents want more!' Ugh. What can I do? Right, rant over. Back to the homework ;)

Memoir

Lago Atitlan, Guatemala

I know I've mentioned Mslexia before, a women's writing magazine I subscribe to and have been reading for years. I very often try to send in a piece of new writing for their quarterly submissions, with new themes each time. A different guest writer decides which stories she wants each time but blimey, is it hard to get a piece in there. I have sent countless stories off and twice reached the shortlist but never actually been accepted. I shall persevere! 

Anyway, the reason I'm writing about this is because the upcoming theme is 'memoir'. I've been scratching my head, thinking what to write about. It can be anything, something that happened yesterday, an event of your childhood or anything in between. Anything that merits a story. A significant period of my life was four months I spent in Guatemala in 2004. Most people reading this need no explanation for that, but in case you don't know, this is where I met my husband on the banks of Lago Atitlan, surely the most beautiful lake in the world. I started trying to write our story down but it kept slipping through my fingers like sand and I realised that somehow, the details of this episode (although many people know them verbally)  don't want to be shared. Not now anyway.

I kept focussing though on Guatemala and then I remembered another event out there - not romantic, not profound, just pretty bloody hilarious if I'm being honest. Humour in writing is not something I've had much practice with, but I think it's about time I give it a go. The event? Getting my mother stoned, again on the banks of Lago Atitlan. It was a mistake, I promise! But stoned she undeniably was. I hope she doesn't mind being the unfortunate heroine of my story...I don't think she reads my blog so will probably be unaware of this, at least until after it's been written. Thankfully she still finds the story as amusing as I do, so I'm sure she'll take it in good humour. And now time to knuckle down and cast my mind back to that fateful night in 2004 when George W.Bush was being re-elected, Athens was hosting the Olympic games, Facebook was being launched and my mother was - ahem - getting stoned.

Autumn dreams

When slippers, cupboards and little corners of my house start filling up with conkers and huge plane tree leaves that my children have found, I know that autumn is well and truly here. This season always feels like a time for drawing in and reflection. Today for example,I've been making a list of writing related activities I want to do * at some point in the future *. There are no deadlines I have to do any of these things, no pressure, just a desire to embrace some of these activities as and when writing becomes more a part of my daily rhythm. My husband chuckles at my lists, as I seem to have a dozen of them floating around at any one time, but this one is a bit different as these dreams can be as unfettered as I want them to be. On my list, I have details for how to apply for a writer's residency in Bangalore (what bliss!), an link to an article about how to get started as a writer in the community (not so improbable) and a websites on which to find jobs in the arts. It's good to know what's out there because once all my little sprogs are at school, there'll be no stopping me.

And what of my novel? Well. Not much to say on that front. It's out there, it is quite possibly being read (and quite possibly not) and it's just a waiting game. In the meantime, I have decided to take the bull by the horns and put the first little chunk of it on to the website Authonomy, Harper Collins' online answer to a writing community for all those writing wannabees out there. If you feel like reading my entry, just type Rebecca Stonehill into the search box at the top right. But then again, you may want to save reading for it for when the real book comes out (ha ha).

Digging

Seamus Heaney

I discovered this wonderful poem recently by Seamus Heaney. I love the parallels between digging and writing; the unearthing and composting of ideas, new growth, creating, learning and connecting. And whilst Heaney knows he's not made of the mettle of his father and grandfather, he digs with his pen instead; the pen that has become his own weapon. Here it is:

Digging

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

Anger

Michael Morpurgo

The wonderful Michael Morpurgo was talking on Radio 4's film programme yesterday about his latest big screen adaptation from one of his books, Private Peaceful. Set in the trenches of WW1, the comment was made that the film comes across as being angry. And what Morpurgo said in reply had me racing to grab a pen and paper. Here it is:

'We have this (anger)…otherwise what is film? What is art unless it’s stirring us and opening our eyes and touching our hearts and I think a little bit of anger is grist to the mill.'

That really struck a chord with me. Looking back over my short stories, many of them are set in war zones or painful situations. Even my novel deals with civil war and life under a dictatorship. And it's not because I enjoy writing about war, it's because there is some of this anger Morpurgo talks about churning inside me about the injustice of it. And what do we do when we feel angry, we have to channel it somehow. It's drawing a map of myself and my place in the world, but it's also throwing a potion of anger and hope downriver. Because you never know when these words will be picked up, by whom or what kind chord it will strike with them.

Malala

Malala Yousafzai

If I ever feel as though I can't write or say what I want to, then here's a sobering thought: a few days ago, 14 year old Malala from Pakistan was shot in the head and neck by the Taliban whilst on her way to school. Her crime? For speaking out on rights for children, particularly that girls should be granted an education.  When Malala was just 11 years old, she wrote an anonymous blog documenting her experiences of life under the Taliban and just last year was nominated for the International Children's peace prize.

Malala knew that her life was in danger and the Taliban have issued a statement that if she survives this attack, there will be another assassination attempt. What child should have to fight for the right for an education? In cosy suburban London, my own children have every opportunity available to them and it's easy to sink into the comfortable notion that this is 'life'. But not so for far too many. Malala is in a stable but critical condition in hospital and if she pulls through, her voice and her courage are needed more than ever. 

Mountain air and little red letters

I have just returned from four days in Switzerland in France where we went for my brother in law's 50th birthday - lots of fresh air, memories, mountains, divine food and dancing. The Dents Du Midi, the mountains in the picture I took above, are the backdrop to my childhood and I couldn't get enough of gazing at them.

Seeing lots of people I haven't seen for some time, people naturally want to know what I've been up to and how my writing is going. When I tell them I'm working on getting my novel published, a few comment What, you still haven't got that one published? It's all in jest, ha ha, but even so, I did find myself stopping and scratching my head on a few occasions. I know there are some who think that all one has to do to publish a novel is just send it out there and sit and wait for the rest to happen. People are not trying to be unkind, they are just (blissfully) ignorant of the true nature of the beast that is the publishing industry.

It's hard at times like this not to have a minor crisis of confidence in my abilities. This is two-fold I think, firstly that yes, I am still working on the same novel so many years on and secondly, that no literary agent let alone publisher is sitting up and taking notice of me. It didn't help that just the day after I got back, I received another bog-standard rejection letter from one of the agents who was interested in my novel the first time round. Sigh. Another notch of red on my colour-coded literary agents chart - I have yet to highlight anything in green! It is very, very easy to occasionally ask myself the questions Can I really write at all? Am I wasting my time? Who wants to read a novel set in the Spanish Civil war anyway? Judging by the bestseller charts, all everyone wants to read about is sex (not mentioning any names Ms James), and no matter how hard I try, erotica is never going to be my genre.

HOWEVER....enough of giving myself a hard time. I happen to have three small children and that may just factor in a tad as to why it's taken me so long to complete my novel. I have a document in which I write down all the 'writing successes' I've had over the years, whether it's having a short story published  or an article in the Green Parent magazine. I think this is really important for me and this is why I keep writing and sending out stories to places, because sometimes they do get accepted and it's an affirmation for me that I can write. I am also really looking forward to a workshop I'm going to on saturday which is all about designing and evaluating effective creative writing workshops with Lapidus (Writing for health and wellbeing). The idea has danced around the back of my head for many years that at some point in the future, I'd love to do more writing in the community. Writing is something I am so passionate about that I want to learn how I can share this passion with others.

It's so important for me, particularly now with these little confidence knocks I'm receiving, to keep focussed on my love of writing; that it's not all about 'THE NOVEL', it's about getting pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard!) and how that makes me feel.

Joni Mitchell and Serendipity

Joni Mitchell

A couple of weeks ago, I experienced a lovely little twist of serendipity. I've been starting to think about the next novel I'm going to write -  it's inspired by the stint my mother spent in some caves on the island of Crete, back in the late sixties. I won't go in to details about it now (you never know who may read this and want to steal my idea - tee hee), but I'm feeling very excited as the plot and characters are starting to form in my head. 

Anyway, most people are probably familiar with the iconic voice of Joni Mitchell. I first heard her album 'Blue' from 1971 whilst I was at Uni and have been hooked ever since. I love many of her songs, but there is one in particular that I have played again and again over the years, quite literally to the death! Her song 'Carey'  has remained firmly in my spotify file of favourite songs and even my kids sometimes hum little parts of it. So imagine my surprise when I discovered that Joni Mitchell herself stayed in these very same caves as my mother around the same time and her song 'Carey' was inspired by her time there!!  It was so wonderful to find this out, and definitely felt like a serendipitous little nod in the direction that this is the novel I'm meant to be writing next.

Listening to the song now, the lyrics have taken on a whole new meaning, particularly as my mother remembers well the 'Mermaid cafe' she refers to.  I'm pasting some of the lyrics below, and if you want to hear the song and see the caves, watch this little video. Carey was apparently a cane-carrying chef that the young Joni had a relationship with whilst staying at the caves.

The wind is in from Africa
Last night I couldn't sleep
Oh, you know it sure is hard to leave here Carey
But it's really not my home
My fingernails are filthy, I got beach tar on my feet
And I miss my clean white linen and my fancy French cologne

Oh Carey get out your cane
And I'll put on some silver
Oh you're a mean old Daddy, but I like you fine

Come on down to the Mermaid Cafe and I will buy you a bottle of wine
And we'll laugh and toast to nothing and smash our empty glasses down
Let's have a round for these freaks and these soldiers
A round for these friends of mine
Let's have another round for the bright red devil
Who keeps me in this tourist town

Come on, Carey, get out your cane
I'll put on some silver
Oh you're a mean old Daddy, but I like you

Wishes on the wind

'I'm making wishes on the wind....'

Yesterday my middle child said to me, completely out of nowhere, I'm making wishes on the wind, mummy. I had to stop what I was doing and ask her to say it again, just to check I'd heard right. But yes, I had. She repeated it and then proceeded to make up a song about wishing on the wind while she danced around the sitting room. Oh, to have that wonderful, uninhibited imagination of a four year old. She's not trying to be creative - she just, like all children, IS.

In the words of Pablo Picasso, Every child is an artist, the problem is staying an artist when you go grow up.

Play

My eldest daughter, lost in the moment

I read a great article in Mslexia recently about play and how vital its role is in our creative endeavours. The writer, Sarah Salway, talks about how guilty we often feel if we allow ourselves the time to 'play' as we feel it's not a good use of our time. But actually, by giving ourselves the liberty to play and experiment, a whole realm of alter personalities can be given life and new doorways opened. And of course, play doesn't just mean being pushed back and forth on a swing or engaging in a game of hide and seek. It's doing something that makes you feel good, simply for the pleasure of the activity and the sensation it creates. Play has no fixed outcome or rules and no material interest. It could be reading, running, kneading dough, travelling...

Anyway, the reason I'm talking about all this is that Sarah Salways's article (and Stuart Brown's very interesting book - Play: How it shapes the brain, opens the imagination and invigorates the soul) got me thinking about two things: How playing relates to my writing, and how it relates to my perceived idea of the way my children play.

Firstly, with my writing, I know of course the importance of taking risks, but how often do I actually do it? It's very easy to sit at the laptop and write a scene of my novel or a short story and stick to those tried and tested default methods of writing I've built up over the years. But how often do I stretch myself out of those walls I've pencilled around myself? Not enough. As novelist Michelle Lovric states, if the writer takes themselves too seriously, they "rule out serendipitous writing discoveries." After reading the article, I saw a deadline for a short story submission and it was just two days away. I decided, crazy though it was in a way as it was such a short time, to try and write this story. But more importantly, be playful in my attitude to writing this story and see where it took me. I'm pleased to say I got the story done and sent it off and there was definitely a shift there; a small but subtle shift in the way I wrote it. A nutty female stalker jumped out of my imagination on to the page (where did she come from?) and it felt good; a little less safe, a little more from the gut. Who knows if they'll like it, but I felt good about it.

Secondly: my kids. Ok, I am going to quote Stuart Brown here because when I read this paragraph yesterday I literally wanted to hop up and down and shout 'yes! yes!' because it's something I've felt for a long time but not been able to put it into words very well.


'We may think that we are helping to prepare our kids for the future when we organise all their time, when we continually ferry them from one adult-organised, adult-regulated activity to another. And, of course, to some degree these activities do promote culturally approved behaviour as well as reinforce our role as "good" parents. But in fact we may be taking from them the time they need to discover for themselves their most vital talents and knowledge. We may be depriving them of access to an inner motivation to an activity that will later blossom into a motive force for life."


I believe he's really got something here. I want my children to have time and space for their ideas to grow. I am just as guilty of this as the next person, but this constant adult-led organisation of kids' time may be doing them more harm than good. The games that my children have utterly lost themselves in (and I mean games in terms of 'play' with no fixed outcomes, I'm not talking about snakes and ladders) are the ones they have created themselves. The imaginations of children are wild, unfettered and vast and what I've read has reinforced what I believe: provide a safe environment (but not so safe it's completely risk-free - ha!), be playful myself (because children learn more from what we do than say: my parenting blueprint) and let my kids do the rest. And while I'm at it, take a leaf out of their book. Play comes so naturally to children - not so to adults. Stuart Brown talks about adults taking their 'play histories' i.e. delving back into their memories of what you played with as a child and how you played. What did you get get excited about? It could be something as simple as collecting conkers or licking the bowl with your finger after making biscuits. And then reconnect with this play history. I haven't really sat down and thought about this yet, but I'm looking forward to doing this. Because if I can become more playful in my outlook on life, then hopefully this will show in my writing. And my children won't learn this from me, but I'll continue to learn from them, through their inherent joyfulness and playfulness.