Christmas, New Year and goodbye to 2016

Reflecting on our lives, on what has been happening in past months and planning ahead to future months is part of the mid-winter season.  Whether you think about it as making New Year resolutions or whether it is a deeper evaluation of life, your business, your career or what you plan to achieve as a writer in 2017, the short days, dark nights and the possibility of pausing over bank holiday breaks make this is a good time for thinking, learning from what has been, and looking ahead to doing things differently, living life better.

Thinking back on 2016, it has been a year of the unexpected.  In politics we have seen Brexit vote, the strengthening of the far right, the rejection of the establishment (not sure what that means, I'm still reflecting on that one), the triumph of Trump and the trumping of moderate policies, more women in positions of power than ever and yet power concentrated in fewer people with more and more communities disenfranchised, disenchanted and disengaged.  It feels as if society is teetering in a  precarious position.

Meanwhile, because the world seems keener to observe the lives of celebrities than to take an active role in society, we are reeling from the deaths of many famous and talented entertainers and artists.  As 2015 petered out we lost Lemmy, and each month seemed to bring a gasp of shock and countless RIP messages on Facebook.  Bowie, Rickman, Wogan, Prince, Reynolds, Fisher .....oh, the list is too long to go into them all.

There have been scandals in sport, notably football (a sport dealing with scandalous amounts of money I suppose will inevitably court foul play), and there have been many triumphs (go Andy Murray!).  I became quite engrossed in the Paralympics because I cannot but admire such talent and determination to overcome incredible physical obstacles.  The paralympians are an inspiration.

All of which adds up to incredible fuel for the writing engine.  If ever at a loss for an idea for a story, a character in a novel, a play or film or any writing, 2016 can supply themes, outlines, plots, characters, sub-plots, turns and twists which can be adapted to almost anything, and enough drama to fill bookshelves galore.

For my part, I am still in reflective mode rather than planning mode, and here is one of my Christmas poems, "I know it's Christmas", which was published last year in the Gibraltar Chronicle.  I can't help thinking that this time of year makes loneliness, old age, loss, more poignant than at any other time, especially given how busy we all seem to get leading up to Christmas.  When it comes to spreading cheer, why reserve it for Christmas? Why not make it a point of giving to charity, volunteering to help out the poor or the lonely or the needy every week instead of just once a year?  Or keeping in close touch with family and friends?

While this Gibraltar Writer reflects and plans for the year ahead, I wish all my followers a very happy New Year, and may 2017 be calmer and kinder to all of us.

I know it’s Christmas

Now, I know it’s Christmas time because I’m

Knitting toys with odds of wool left over

From years of saving scraps, mend and make do,

And candy cotton scarves with matching hats

For fashion-conscious girls with ironed-out curls,

And neatly cabled tops with Aran yarn

For outdoor lads who sail and fish and run;

All to be set aside on Boxing Day,

Then neatly parcelled for giving away.

And I know it’s Christmas time because I’m

Measuring jugs of sugar and milk

And breaking eggs into bowls of white flour;

I’m kneading and stirring, the mixer whirring;

Figs dried, dates stuffed, pudding spiced, topped with nuts,

Almonds are sugared and fruits are candied;

The fridge and the freezer are stuffed and crammed:

The ham is hung and all the spuds are peeled –

Shame that for this there’s only one mouth to feed.

Yet I know it’s Christmas time because I

Hum silly tunes to a radio’s strong beat,

Eat one choc a day as an advent treat,

And I shuffle about in reindeer socks

To dress the old tree in sparkling gold stars.

I hang tiny Christmas baubles from the

Wrinkled lobes of my ears, drooping slightly

From the weight of so many passing years.

 Well, I know it’s Christmas time because the

Chill black shadows in the streets have long been

Draped with brightly coloured lights that flash a

Welcome to over-burdened shops, where glint

The fangs of smiling salesmen as they mumble

“Sell, sell, sell!” under mince pie brandy breath

In time to chirpy tunes and piped out bells.

I really do know it’s Christmas because

My room is scented with orange peel

And cranberries cooked with cinnamon sticks,

And I peg red stockings on a string line

Re-read my three cards and turn on TV,

And set aside my coppers and mulled wine

In case carollers call to make it all real.

Oh, how I look forward to Christmas time:

The chestnuts have all been roasted and the

Turkey has been carved, a glass of sherry drunk,

The snow-white table has been laid for one,

The only Christmas cracker has been cracked

And on my head I place a paper hat,

And raise a flute or two of bubbly wine.

I stand to hear the Queen in ritual speech

Then wait for that nice girl from “Silverline”,

On this, another lonely day, to call

And wish us “Merry Christmas” one and all.

by Jackie Anderson

                                                    

Beating Blank Screen Syndrome

View from my window around noon!  Gibraltar in a thunderstorm

Gibraltar is soaked.  There's a deluge going on out there of almost biblical proportions.  Parts of the nearby Costa del Sol are under water, sides of hills seem to be disintegrating and the sea is reaching up hungrily towards the land to greet the torrent that approaches it.  The sky is so dark that mid-day seems to be early evening and early evening is dissolving in the clouds and becoming night.

I ought to be grateful really.  There's nowhere that I need to be and my home is reasonably dry - except for the bit by the living room window that still leaks when the wind is this strong.  Better still, the kids are quiet catching up with homework, the husband is engrossed in the snooker and even the dog is happy to curl up in his favourite corner and avoid the outdoors.

So suddenly I have time.  Now there's a luxury.  If there is one thing that impedes me from completing the fiction pieces I want to write, or from producing poetry more often, perhaps enough poems to put together into a slim volume, it is lack of time.

Like most writers, I have to earn a living, and I have not managed to earn enough from writing to keep the kids alive and a roof over our heads. Yet.  But I am working on it.  There are outlets for writing in the big wide world.  Probably more now by virtue of the Internet which relies on words as much as on visual material.  It is not easy to find outlets for written work, but with some persistence and a professional approach, it can pay.

In the meantime, I have to get on with the day job and the novel lurks in the recesses of the hard drive waiting to emerge to the light of day.

So, just as I have that precious pocket of time, lo and behold, I am beset by BSS - Blank Screen Syndrome, formerly known as BPA - Blank Page Affliction.  What is it about that white screen and blinking cursor that banishes all those ideas that normally clutter your brain making you forget what you went in the shop for and what time your daughter's dentist appointment was, or where you put the butter (yes, I have been known to find a melting puddle of butter at the bottom of a shopping bag having forgotten to unload it)?

What to do about it?  Well, if you leave it too long, BSS erodes that special bit of time  you have carved out for yourself.  The more you stare at the screen, the more you'll fret that you have nothing to write and even if an idea crops up, your confidence will have begun to wane and you won't see the value of it.  So my tip, for what it's worth is simply to start writing.

Some writers recommend just hitting the keys at random, writing any old rubbish which you can always delete once the words start to come.  Some advocate free writing where for ten minutes, to a timer, you write whatever comes into your head; disjointed thoughts, shopping lists, anything.  This seems to act like a mental unblocker, clearing the mind and leaving you free to write what you need to.  I've never tried free writing.  Instead I move away from the screen, but I write something, anything, in longhand.  A letter to an old friend, perhaps, or I'll organise my week in my diary (I still have an old-fashioned Filofax).  Sometimes I'll just write an entry into a journal.  I'm not a great diary keeper, my journal entries can be six months and more apart, but it does serve to unblock the words.

So, having burbled on my blog about Blank Screen Syndrome, the torrent of words is ready to emerge. The weather is still ghastly, the snooker is still on, the kids are still quiet and the dog is snoring.  Christmas short story on its way.