Three Months

It’s a change for me to write something personal here. I’ve had a varied and long career in education. When I happily retired in April, I was so looking forward to having the luxury of getting on with my writing. Alas, fate decreed that was not to be. My three best friends, one after the other, fell by the wayside to surgery. One had a mastectomy for breast cancer at the end of March. I’m pleased to say, she is now doing very well. In May, another had knee replacement surgery, and that was successful. Then the third also had knee replacement surgery in June. Again successful, however, her recovery is taking a tad longer. I did what any good friend would do. I set to in practical ways to help each one of my long standing, much loved friends. They would do the same for me. I’m so glad I was free to be with them and not working. Three months have flown, and I’m only now thinking about my writing again. I have though had some super reading binges in those months.

One of the novels that kept me awake reading all night: Candy’s Children by Sylvia Murphy. An enthralling, wonderfully paced, exciting story by a superb writer. Much thanks Sylvia, your book made me say, “If only I could write like that.”

One other book which kept me awake reading until I heard the dawn chorus. That was Eva Ibbotson’s children’s novel, Journey to the River Sea. I had actually bought that one for a friend’s twelve year old daughter. They live on Prince Edward Island, Canada. Chloe is an avid reader, their local library, which is small, can’t keep up with her appetite for reading. The book has since winged its way to her with others.

My childhood in Scotland was after the war years. My sister and I raided our local library every week. Reading has been a lifetime habit, and that took us both into careers in education. We were fortunate as children. Our mother encouraged us to read. We also had the joy of camping and walking in the Western Highlands. We had no television then, in the freezing winter months we listened to the wireless when not reading. The adults around us were storytellers, especially our grandmother. She would tell us stories every night before we went to sleep. Those were not from books, they were stories passed on from one generation to another. That combination of reading, listening to the wireless, and grandmother’s stories, was so enriching. I'm certain my imagination developed through those influences in childhood.