More than Writers

 Learning to sing my story - Christine Cleave I need a stroll around the garden to wake me up in the morning and a few days ago there was a treat in store - a small robin singing its heart out on the summit of a neighbouring tree. The musical twirls and flourishes stopped me dead in my tracks, as I wondered what the bird was saying - “This is my territory”?  Or was he broadcasting his search for a mate: “Come to my tree, lovely lady robins, and see what a very fine fellow I am!” Apparently, early humans sang before they learned to speak. I imagine a skin-clad man loudly carolling (but not verbalizing) the message, ‘I’m off to the forest to hunt deer.’ This might be accompanied by chest-pummelling and gestures in the correct direction. Maybe Stone Age man and the robin have something in common?   There are still tribes living in the Amazon basin that communicate in song. . . However, I must not let myself get diverted from the main purpose, which is to share my writing jou...

I grew up in Whitstable, Kent, about a three-minute bike ride from the sea. For some indigenous folk, Whitstable is a proud member of the Norf Kenn Cose where the unspoken rule of leevin’ ou’ ‘ard consonance is a way of life, innit? My mother, an elocution and speech therapist, often despaired as I absorbed the Whitstable ‘Oi’ mixing as I did with all and sundry, from the posh end of Chestfield - pronounced with a definite t, f and d - to Whitstable town centre, where such luxuries were deemed unnecessary. That, and an American father with his soft Kentuckian accent, left me, vocally, closer to Greenland (!) than Washington DC or London.  We absorb our environments, and if we’re not exactly chameleons or shape-shifters, their deposits in us are long-lasting and emerge in our writing, in the content and characters we invent for poetry or novels.  Low tide in Whitstable is a thing of beauty. The mudflats clear the sea back about half a mile from shore every six hours, exposin...

Image by Josch13 from Pixabay Last Sunday at church, a friend asked me how I planned to celebrate St Valentine’s Day. I sighed, winced, laughed and said – as nicely as I could – “Don’t ever ask a single person about Valentine’s Day.” This person is someone I greatly like and respect, and I knew they hadn’t intended any offence, it was just a light-hearted comment. All the same, let the message land: I am delighted to ignore St Valentine’s Day every year. Except at church, where we emphasise that St Valentine’s is really about celebrating God’s love for each one of us, whatever our marital or non-marital status is. St Valentine was a martyr: there was nothing fluffy about him. Which leads me onto the recent hype about the Greatest Love Story Ever Told (not), the new film of Wuthering Heights directed by Emerald Fennell, starring Margot Robbie as Cathy and Jacob Elordi as Heathcliff. I have no intention of seeing it, or at least I don’t intend to pay to see it. That’s because I re...

Picture Credit: AI Last week I had a great time working with a terrific bunch of folk from the NHS hoping to become accredited workplace mediators. To deeply embed the learning, the six-day course ended with three days of assessed role-play where they could practice their skills before being let loose on proper cases. It’s an excellent way to learn, and despite initial nerves, it wasn’t long before they embodied whatever part they’d taken on. I saw some Oscar-winning performances! One of the essential parts was the aggrieved employee, and it was fascinating to observe the real-life learning they got from mock scenarios. A particular learning point was how important it is to remember people’s names. When a mediator got the name of the aggrieved party wrong several times, they got the full force of their feelings.. . ‘you don’t care about me... you don’t even know my name.’ Names are important, and it’s a thread I follow in ‘A Sense of Identity’, the recent novel I’ve started writing. ...

 In the world of professional sport in particular, much is made of the effort needed to achieve even a moderate amount of success. An old adage goes that when the records are examined in future years, very rarely does anybody remember who came second. In some ways this is a reflection on life itself. In 1 Corinthians 9: 24,  St Paul who knew a thing or two about outcome and effort wrote the following,  "Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win it."   Image Credit: Pinterest.com  In verses 25-26 he goes further,  "Athletes exercise self-control in all things: they do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one. So I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air." As writers we all have our own way of doing things regardless of the genre with which we choose to express ourselves and to our intended audiences. Are we the disciplined kind lik...

  As a writer, it’s easy to become discouraged.       Maybe the book sales or blog views aren’t what we hoped for. Maybe negative feedback has knocked our confidence. Or maybe we’re simply tired.       It can be just as easy to feel discouraged as a Christian.       We face difficult circumstances, prayers seem to go unanswered, and the joy or peace we once knew feels distant. Pressure and opposition creep in, and we start to question everything.       In both writing and faith, discouragement whispers the same question: Is this still worth it?        I’ve asked myself that many times, and I’ve learned that moments like these invite us to pause and remember our “why”:       Why did we start, and what were we hoping to achieve?        Why did we begin writing, and why did we choose to follow Jesus? Both were intentional decisions. ...