Desirous of creating a larger network and gaining followers and clients, I offered a dear friend in Brisbane who established a women in business forum some time ago - "Babes in Business" - a "Blog from Abroad" - a Hello from London, if you will - for her members and subscribers. At the same time I hope to challenge my own creative energy and achieve a greater understanding of how to be and feel more "babelike".
A Brisbane girl originally, I moved to London in 1997. I joined Babes in 2009 while back in Australia for a time during the final stages of, and the months following, my mother's battle with leukaemia. I returned to London in January this year. As is so often the case, after the event, I began to look back fondly on the love and support offered while "home", such that in a flurry of "settling back in" optimism and energy I flirted (dizzily, as it happened) with the idea of establishing the London chapter of Babes in Business. You all know the saying about giving something to a busy woman...
Somehow, though, the flurry turned from fever paced and ferocious to occasional and seasonal as the months passed. Indeed, after all of the change and upheaval involved in moving to Australia and back within 9 months, contemplating and trying out a life in Ghana on the return leg, as well and changing career and starting my own business, some days it was all I could do to log into the email, buy groceries and make the bed. It became apparent that establishing anything other than my own gym routine and the every other day bath ritual for the kids (Winters in cold climates can have compensating benefits), was going to require more motivation and drive than I could muster. So while the idea of a London arm to Babes is a nice one, for now I am focussed on keeping in touch with the mothership via a "Blog from Abroad".
The truth is that while in Brisbane I did not sufficiently avail myself of the networking, socialising and learning opportunities that Babes affords. At the time I was writing my second book and marketing my coaching services while enjoying dust storms, life among close family and friends and adjusting to life without my dear mother. Now, the dust having settled and "business as usual" more or less resumed, I hope to offer to Babes members some insight into life in London for women in business, juggling career, family and home. So I wanted to share here at Spring to Mind some of my musings for the Babes back home.
........
But first, I need to clear the air. And so I want to put it out there that for some time I have struggled with the very notion of myself as a "Babe".
On my gloomier, or perhaps I should say, more honest days, I contemplate a sister organisation - "Non-Babes in Business", or "Wannabe Babes Struggling to Stay in Business" or perhaps even just "Anti-Babes Who Think They Have a Business". The truth is that despite an awful lot of passion and thought, energy and ideas, effort and enthusiasm, creating a successful business is not as easy as the moniker "Babes in Business" might have you believe.
Am I preaching to the converted, or a lone voice crying in the Wilderness? Probably the latter. You see, I often sense that I am cast adrift in a veritable wilderness of babes.
Everywhere I look, in fact, there is evidence that this is so.
First, I am the mother of three sons aged 4, 6 and 8. Ergo - Babes at home.
Second, I am an avid gym-goer. Babes all of over the place at every gym I try. There are young ones who should quit the gym, they are so gorgeous as to almost drive the likes of me away to some more fitting place - military boot camp, say. There are the older ones still sporting their long blonde hair who know the instructors by name (SJP wannabes), yet never crack a smile or a sweat. And there are the very, very fit and svelte old ones who are elegant and relaxed and very Catherine Deneuve-ish.
Third, I do the school run. Babes aplenty there. Now, don't take this the wrong way, but there is a certain type of mother here in Kensington, London that is not quite as common in suburban Brisbane, at least not where my boys went to school last year. If there was ever a situation that would leave one feeling distinctly un-babe-like it would have to be the school run in Kensington. Here, we are blessed to live in densely populated inner city terrain that ensures that many on the school run, high and mighty in their shiny eco-friendly 4x4s (German usually), are obliged to park their cars and and escort their gorgeous moppets into school, there being no drive-by drop off facility. The walk of shame, I call it, as I stroll in with my mismatched gymkit under shapeless trousers, floral bag over my shoulder and empty stroller to chain up to the fence (the kids no longer ride in it but it is a necessity for the groceries, school bags, blazers and other accoutrement that make their way home with us at 3.30pm). But the other mothers, hailing from France, Spain and Italy, petite to the point of gamine, elfin and pre-adolescent while boasting fine bones, skin and clothes, are chic, cool and ever so babe-like - if a continental woman can even be termed a "babe"!
One is naturally drawn to the other Aussies - never scared to wear their trainers to drop-off - the Americans who do jeans so well and the English (a small minority in this part of London), who can be understated in their nun-like uniforms of charcoal business suit or who tend to go all country stylish in mac and wellies. Then again, faced with the bare skin of said Brits (no one know how to get their kit off at the first sign of summer better), one tends to feel terribly Sun-Safe and geriatric cowering in the shade under one's hat (having spent too long in the Brisbane sun as a girl) throughout the heady days of June.
I won't even start on the fact that Elle McPherson drops her son at the school around the corner from mine.
Suffice to say - as I near a significant birthday milestone, heave my sorry aching body (too much exertion at Total Body Conditioning with Chrispin) around town and share pavements with women who make Giselle and Audrey Tatou look ordinary, I am sure of one thing - I am anything but a Babe.
I am well-versed in self-help lingo and notions (being a coach) and so I know that there must be a ploy I can use to rethink this whole babe concept. Perhaps something about skin deep, eyes of beholders and thinking it making it so...
Nevertheless, if no one minds, I suspect there is room in Babes in Business for the likes of me; provided I don's spoil anyone else's fun, right?
Which only leaves the Business...
And that is another story.
Until then I leave you with the question: What is a Babe, anyway?
For more musings in a similar vein see: Are you a domestic goddess?
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
Thursday, 2 September 2010
A case for Home Schooling
September has always been my favourite month. In Australia it is Spring and as the days grow longer and warmer and the air fills with the sweet and sometimes overwhelming scent of jasmine in bloom the anticipation of a long and sultry summer has not yet robbed one of the expectant joy that comes with breaking out the shorts and sunhats.
In England September holds still longish evenings of fading light, crisp mornings and balmy days. The summer may have been oppressively hot or perhaps as is more often the case, leaden and grey, or even, let's be honest, wet and cold, but a mild and sunny September is almost a guarantee. The sky is blue and cloudless, the air clean and pollen-free, the grass lush and green. The city is full of relaxed, tanned people returning with smiley faces from their long vacations in warmer climes, clad in crisp, white trousers and strappy sandals, sporting fresh haircuts, as if it they were still in Sardinia or Majorca.
September is also the beginning of the new academic year with all the attendant excitement and flurry of activity that it involves. Everyone seems hopeful and optimistic. The sleep-ins and the long days without obligation have worked their magic and the eager feet skip happily back to the school yard, faces glowing and fresh and rested.
And the children don't seem to mind turning up either.
The youngest of the Off-Spring joined his brothers in big-boy real school today. The uniform of tie, cap, long trousers and blazer suited him very well. Like a business man though, after a rough day at the office, he was quick to remove the tie once the school gate was out of sight this afternoon, his cap and blazer flung into my waiting arms. I almost expected him to ask for a beer, so like a mini-man did he look.
When I was a child I recall my elder brother lamenting the long years of education that children face. I did not really understand his regret about the situation. I always loved school and never imagined being anywhere else between the ages of 5 and 17 - or indeed 22. Yet, my middle son proposed that he stay home for the rest of the year, despite a good first day back, on the grounds that I could teach him all he would need to know. I knew better than to answer him at any length...
Nevertheless, as one gears up for the early wake ups, the routine, the homework, the extra-curricular activities and the endless round of party invitations, one does feel a pang for the heady freedom of those long summer days in the garden with nowhere to go and nothing to do but explore, play, read and be free. Yet we would hardly appreciate it if it were always summer.
Our communal garden is seeing the summer out with a talent show this weekend.
In theory a talent show is a wonderful idea. We all beamed with joy and eagerness at the thought.
But as the day looms the prospect is now more akin to a fancy dress party with an exam at the end which one is not prepared for culminating in one of those recurring dreams when one has to go on stage not knowing the act one is about to perform, naked. The issue is not that I am scared of performing - indeed - followers will be well aware by now that I love the spotlight. No, the problem is my parlous lack of talent in all areas capable of lending themselves to public performance.
Which is not to say I cannot hold a tune. And I am a rather dab hand at all things Wilde and Shaw, but the wide age ranges of the audience, the wide parameters of what talent may mean for 3 year olds, together with a self-imposed standard that at all costs I must be funny, leaves me in a veritable quandary.
So while the Off-Spring rehearse the Macarena, turning cartwheels and telling knock-knock jokes interspersed with a tuneful medley of top 40 pop tunes featuring Beyonce, Black Eyed Pees and Justin Bieber, I am racking my brains for an original take on my many talents.
A debate perhaps? Topic - That a communal garden brings out the best in everyone! I could prevail on Mr Springgirl to argue the affirmative.
A brief demo of Master Chef as interpreted in my kitchen when feeding a lacto-vegan, a carnivore, a picky rabbit and a lover of all things spicy and fiery?
A rendition of our favourite hymns? The soundtrack to a "Sound of Music" or the "King and I" performed in my trumpet imitating voice?
A reading from one of my favourite books - starring Winnie the Pooh of course!
An expose of my push-ups, warrior 2 pose and plank?
An impression of someone in the garden?
Hamlet's To Be or Not To Be - reworked of course, for the modern multi-age audience - perhaps a "To Perform or not to Perform" - or an "Ode to Talent"...
The mind boggles at the options.
I will be buying wine, a soft cushion, a warm shawl and a waterproof jacket to prepare for my time in the audience. If one thing is clear, from my subtle questions in the garden this week, it is that everyone has a talent to showcase. From dancing to acting, magic tricks to belching, gymnastics and potty juggling, public speaking and bubble blowing, heckling and feats of tree climbing, tennis serving and tennis net hurdling.
I woke last night with a the kernal of an idea evaporating from my unconscious dream like thoughts. It eludes me still; a glimmer of a spark of inspiration, not quite in my peripheral vision. More like a long forgotten punch line suggesting itself in a moment of deja-vu.
All of which is to say this:
First class honours in law, a history degree, a long career as a debater, a masters degree, a long track record in professional services and a business and a book to my name and I still have less discernible talent than the black cat from Number 2. So the idea of skipping a formal education starts to resonate with me now.
Most of the skills the Off-Spring use and take the most pleasure and pride in are those developed at home or away from the school house - tennis, swimming, dancing, singing, running, arguing, negotiating, manipulating...
Where did all my book-learning really take me?
Hold on - I just had a thought. Would Mr Springgirl play the part of the host of Mastermind and quiz me on my pet topic? Parenting while dealing with crazy women, high-spirited kids, absent (working abroad) husbands and thwarted aspirations to write best-selling novels?
For example - name the four biggest impediments to a good night's sleep?
Feeding babies, watching too much tv, vomiting kids and pregnancy.
Is it boring? Obvious? Unfunny?
Maybe I could do an impression of a famous actress being interviewed for her views of juggling career and family, shedding light on how to choose really weird and unkind babynames, how to eat only superfoods shipped in from the Equator after discovering lovably cute orphans from similar climes to adopt, while grappling with the potency of fame and recognition during those trying months of trying to lose the baby pounds with only three personal trainers and a private chef to help. All the while extolling the virtues of home schooling.
Now I am on to something. Best of all it is good clean family fun and may break up the juggling and magic tricks nicely.
Which leads me to reconsider the whole home schooling question from a new angle.
Depending on the calibre of resident, the quality of interaction and the preparedness to throw oneself into things, together with access to the internet, living on a communal garden can conceivably offer all one needs in terms of education.
Enough of the school fees and schedules. Live on a garden square with lots of children and nice friendly families!
All of the ancient disciplines are on offer in our garden.
Rhetoric, logic, grammar, citizenship, arithmetic, philosophy, gymnastics, wrestling.
Fine arts and sports are a speciality - sand sculpting, harmony and tune holding, gate swinging, gravel kicking, bike and scooter riding, football (if the anti-football lady is not home), basic toileting - of the behind a tree and potty variety, gardening and tennis court marking, ball throwing, cricket, skipping, hopping and following the leader, freezing, catching, hiding and seeking and tree climbing, bug catching and identifying, animal husbandry (at least cat, snail, bird, fox and squirrel), airplane identification and jumping from benches, to name but a few.
And social skills get plenty of attention as well - sharing, negotiating, appropriate use of swear words, manners and diction, getting along with all sorts, mucking in and tidying up after oneself.
Safety is not neglected either. Strangers are still strangers even if they share the space. A stray cigarette lighter is not a toy. Gravel rash hurts. Put down the stick. Get out of the shrubbery unless you want to be covered in insect bites tomorrow.
I do think that the Off-Spring have learnt more in the past 6 weeks in the garden than in the whole previous year at school.
But alas, the real world does exist outside the little commune and no one stays under 10 forever...
Still, it puts the whole holiday camp industry into perspective. And - I think I may have an act for the Show after all!
In England September holds still longish evenings of fading light, crisp mornings and balmy days. The summer may have been oppressively hot or perhaps as is more often the case, leaden and grey, or even, let's be honest, wet and cold, but a mild and sunny September is almost a guarantee. The sky is blue and cloudless, the air clean and pollen-free, the grass lush and green. The city is full of relaxed, tanned people returning with smiley faces from their long vacations in warmer climes, clad in crisp, white trousers and strappy sandals, sporting fresh haircuts, as if it they were still in Sardinia or Majorca.
September is also the beginning of the new academic year with all the attendant excitement and flurry of activity that it involves. Everyone seems hopeful and optimistic. The sleep-ins and the long days without obligation have worked their magic and the eager feet skip happily back to the school yard, faces glowing and fresh and rested.
And the children don't seem to mind turning up either.
The youngest of the Off-Spring joined his brothers in big-boy real school today. The uniform of tie, cap, long trousers and blazer suited him very well. Like a business man though, after a rough day at the office, he was quick to remove the tie once the school gate was out of sight this afternoon, his cap and blazer flung into my waiting arms. I almost expected him to ask for a beer, so like a mini-man did he look.
When I was a child I recall my elder brother lamenting the long years of education that children face. I did not really understand his regret about the situation. I always loved school and never imagined being anywhere else between the ages of 5 and 17 - or indeed 22. Yet, my middle son proposed that he stay home for the rest of the year, despite a good first day back, on the grounds that I could teach him all he would need to know. I knew better than to answer him at any length...
Nevertheless, as one gears up for the early wake ups, the routine, the homework, the extra-curricular activities and the endless round of party invitations, one does feel a pang for the heady freedom of those long summer days in the garden with nowhere to go and nothing to do but explore, play, read and be free. Yet we would hardly appreciate it if it were always summer.
Our communal garden is seeing the summer out with a talent show this weekend.
In theory a talent show is a wonderful idea. We all beamed with joy and eagerness at the thought.
But as the day looms the prospect is now more akin to a fancy dress party with an exam at the end which one is not prepared for culminating in one of those recurring dreams when one has to go on stage not knowing the act one is about to perform, naked. The issue is not that I am scared of performing - indeed - followers will be well aware by now that I love the spotlight. No, the problem is my parlous lack of talent in all areas capable of lending themselves to public performance.
Which is not to say I cannot hold a tune. And I am a rather dab hand at all things Wilde and Shaw, but the wide age ranges of the audience, the wide parameters of what talent may mean for 3 year olds, together with a self-imposed standard that at all costs I must be funny, leaves me in a veritable quandary.
So while the Off-Spring rehearse the Macarena, turning cartwheels and telling knock-knock jokes interspersed with a tuneful medley of top 40 pop tunes featuring Beyonce, Black Eyed Pees and Justin Bieber, I am racking my brains for an original take on my many talents.
A debate perhaps? Topic - That a communal garden brings out the best in everyone! I could prevail on Mr Springgirl to argue the affirmative.
A brief demo of Master Chef as interpreted in my kitchen when feeding a lacto-vegan, a carnivore, a picky rabbit and a lover of all things spicy and fiery?
A rendition of our favourite hymns? The soundtrack to a "Sound of Music" or the "King and I" performed in my trumpet imitating voice?
A reading from one of my favourite books - starring Winnie the Pooh of course!
An expose of my push-ups, warrior 2 pose and plank?
An impression of someone in the garden?
Hamlet's To Be or Not To Be - reworked of course, for the modern multi-age audience - perhaps a "To Perform or not to Perform" - or an "Ode to Talent"...
The mind boggles at the options.
I will be buying wine, a soft cushion, a warm shawl and a waterproof jacket to prepare for my time in the audience. If one thing is clear, from my subtle questions in the garden this week, it is that everyone has a talent to showcase. From dancing to acting, magic tricks to belching, gymnastics and potty juggling, public speaking and bubble blowing, heckling and feats of tree climbing, tennis serving and tennis net hurdling.
I woke last night with a the kernal of an idea evaporating from my unconscious dream like thoughts. It eludes me still; a glimmer of a spark of inspiration, not quite in my peripheral vision. More like a long forgotten punch line suggesting itself in a moment of deja-vu.
All of which is to say this:
First class honours in law, a history degree, a long career as a debater, a masters degree, a long track record in professional services and a business and a book to my name and I still have less discernible talent than the black cat from Number 2. So the idea of skipping a formal education starts to resonate with me now.
Most of the skills the Off-Spring use and take the most pleasure and pride in are those developed at home or away from the school house - tennis, swimming, dancing, singing, running, arguing, negotiating, manipulating...
Where did all my book-learning really take me?
Hold on - I just had a thought. Would Mr Springgirl play the part of the host of Mastermind and quiz me on my pet topic? Parenting while dealing with crazy women, high-spirited kids, absent (working abroad) husbands and thwarted aspirations to write best-selling novels?
For example - name the four biggest impediments to a good night's sleep?
Feeding babies, watching too much tv, vomiting kids and pregnancy.
Is it boring? Obvious? Unfunny?
Maybe I could do an impression of a famous actress being interviewed for her views of juggling career and family, shedding light on how to choose really weird and unkind babynames, how to eat only superfoods shipped in from the Equator after discovering lovably cute orphans from similar climes to adopt, while grappling with the potency of fame and recognition during those trying months of trying to lose the baby pounds with only three personal trainers and a private chef to help. All the while extolling the virtues of home schooling.
Now I am on to something. Best of all it is good clean family fun and may break up the juggling and magic tricks nicely.
Which leads me to reconsider the whole home schooling question from a new angle.
Depending on the calibre of resident, the quality of interaction and the preparedness to throw oneself into things, together with access to the internet, living on a communal garden can conceivably offer all one needs in terms of education.
Enough of the school fees and schedules. Live on a garden square with lots of children and nice friendly families!
All of the ancient disciplines are on offer in our garden.
Rhetoric, logic, grammar, citizenship, arithmetic, philosophy, gymnastics, wrestling.
Fine arts and sports are a speciality - sand sculpting, harmony and tune holding, gate swinging, gravel kicking, bike and scooter riding, football (if the anti-football lady is not home), basic toileting - of the behind a tree and potty variety, gardening and tennis court marking, ball throwing, cricket, skipping, hopping and following the leader, freezing, catching, hiding and seeking and tree climbing, bug catching and identifying, animal husbandry (at least cat, snail, bird, fox and squirrel), airplane identification and jumping from benches, to name but a few.
And social skills get plenty of attention as well - sharing, negotiating, appropriate use of swear words, manners and diction, getting along with all sorts, mucking in and tidying up after oneself.
Safety is not neglected either. Strangers are still strangers even if they share the space. A stray cigarette lighter is not a toy. Gravel rash hurts. Put down the stick. Get out of the shrubbery unless you want to be covered in insect bites tomorrow.
I do think that the Off-Spring have learnt more in the past 6 weeks in the garden than in the whole previous year at school.
But alas, the real world does exist outside the little commune and no one stays under 10 forever...
Still, it puts the whole holiday camp industry into perspective. And - I think I may have an act for the Show after all!
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Beware the "unsub"
If you have watched any American crime dramas or movies involving a police or "federal agency" investigation you will be familiar with the term "unsub" - the unknown subject.
In my line of work - almost as gripping and usually as suspenseful as criminal investigations and manhunts -writing, blogging, spreading the good news about ways to enhance your sense of wellbeing and meet your potential - there are a range of Unsubs to deal with.
The first is the Unknown Subject in the coaching session. A client comes to me. We engage about the topic of concern to the client and we agree to explore it in more depth and work towards the client's stated goals and outcomes. Some way into the session there appears another issue or concern. Sometimes, the client see this issue as it arrives and plonks itself down in our midst, craving attention and preventing any further discussion until it is addressed, head on. It may be the Real Issue, it may be just a Big Distraction. But usually we give it lots of attention and treat it like a grown up, take it seriously. Address it head on.
But sometimes the issue is not so open and amenable to our focus. Sometimes the issue creeps into the room and lurks around in the shadows and dust balls in the corners and under the side tables. Sometimes it is a murky form hovering in the corridor beyond, a presence more felt than seen.
This is the Unknown Subject. I can usually tell when it is around. The client can too, if they are honest. But knowing it is there is not really the challenge. The Unsub in this case is elusive and evades our attention. We need to be wily and patient and generous with this timid interloper. Ironically, its timidity is inversely proportional to its importance. Addressing this Unsub can be key to unlocking blockages, shifting perspectives and galvanising energy. This Unsub is powerful and potentially vindictive. We have to outsmart it in many ways, while all the time appearing non-threatening and responsive.
There are other types of Unsub. In my new novel (still in draft) which charts a year in the life of the main protagonist as she confronts a loss of all that she had held dear while embarking on a journey towards that which will sustain and nourish her long into her future, (don't worry - it is hilarious) there are myriad Unsubs. Some of these do not need to become known or identified. They are but niggles, distractions from the real drama and journey; the friend at yoga who collapses, the unsightly blemish on the chin, the flirtatious builder. But some are more central to the characters' progress and development. They cannot be avoided; nor can they be openly exposed. Their impact can be immense though. They can derail the story, becoming unhelpful subplots, annoying red herrings. As in real life some of them will become obstacles if left to their own devices.
Since I am in control of the whole thing - I have ultimate power over these Unsubs. It is a wonderful feeling - to play puppeteer and ring master and supreme being. Sometimes. But mostly, I wait it out; ever watchful to see what the characters are up to, how they want to resolve their conflicts and how they wish to deal with the Unsubs. The challenge and opportunity for me is to give the Unsubs meaning for the reader.
There are, in real life, all manner of Unsubs as well. My personal favourites are so familiar, indeed so common, as to be truly passe. They barely deserve the moniker of "unknown". It would perhaps be better to call them "unspoken subjects" or "subtext". Sometimes they are our friends, keeping us company in a room full of strangers or warm on a cold night alone in those endless moments before dawn. But too often their main purpose is not one of support or comfort. Too often they smirk and cajole. Or they lie by our sides on their saggy old sunloungers, lazy little sunbathing good-for-nothings, interpreting our lives, souring our interactions. And when they hang around like teenagers at the mall, idle, looking for trouble, in small groups where their combinations and permutations are clearly a recipe for disaster, well, what did we think was going to happen...
You must know them too. Good old "childhood baggage", "fear of the unknown" and "expectations". And that is before we get to the real humdingers like "years of neglect", "spiritual poverty" and "narcissistic personality disorder". They get in the way of true meetings of minds and honest and authentic relationships. Instead of embracing opportunities to connect and engage, these saboteurs hold us back and malign our best endeavours to live a full and rich life.
Perhaps I overstate things. Perhaps they help us too. Those inner voices that warn us to run away, avoid getting sucked in to a labyrinth of negativity and self loathing. But then those voices are our friends. They have out best interests at heart, surely.
Anyway, this may all have gone off track - again.
The final category of Unsub to consider is the "Unsubscribe". You may be familiar with this one. It is the epitome of passive aggressive. And the suspense and mystery is there aplenty!
One wakes, makes some tea, attends to one's ablutions and children and then, stealing a moment before the school run, one checks one's emails and website activity. One has a sneaky look at who has opened that new message about the new venture/book/offer/what have you, and there right before your eyes is proof positive that you really do not strike a chord.
Because there on the screen is the big fat bold black number telling you that so-and-so has unsubscribed to your oh-so-annoying email announcing your new book/what have you. Mmm, you think, gazing into the middle distance. Some people are very important. Their in-boxes are stuffed full of incredibly vital matters. Somehow, the Unsub, like in all the best whodunnits, is never the person you think it will be, though. Not the executives or partners or high-powered entrepreneurs. Not the weird loner who no-one really knows. No, it is a different character altogether. Which makes sense. In the whodunnits the Unsub is the pretty, vacuous cheerleader that no one took seriously, or the studious old guy who was too eager to help the cops solve the crime. (I can say this here because, let's face it - would you read my rantings if you did not want to? All those who don't get me, follow me or like me should not be here to start with!)
So the Unsub can be irksome. And so too can the diminution of the already paltry fan base on those networking sites that encourage us to "fan" each other. All of a sudden, instead of three fans one has one (oneself). I know how Jason Donovan feels.
What does one do with that knowledge? How does one improve one's message, presence or style? And the risks? Another set of imponderables...
The fact is that one is better off not knowing who likes one or follows one, no? One is best to get a kick out of the intrinsic pleasure and value of having an idea and writing something vaguely amusing or distracting about it. And if one person enjoyed it or paused to consider it, then one's efforts were worthwhile.
After all, there may be some Unsub in the Unsub.
In my line of work - almost as gripping and usually as suspenseful as criminal investigations and manhunts -writing, blogging, spreading the good news about ways to enhance your sense of wellbeing and meet your potential - there are a range of Unsubs to deal with.
The first is the Unknown Subject in the coaching session. A client comes to me. We engage about the topic of concern to the client and we agree to explore it in more depth and work towards the client's stated goals and outcomes. Some way into the session there appears another issue or concern. Sometimes, the client see this issue as it arrives and plonks itself down in our midst, craving attention and preventing any further discussion until it is addressed, head on. It may be the Real Issue, it may be just a Big Distraction. But usually we give it lots of attention and treat it like a grown up, take it seriously. Address it head on.
But sometimes the issue is not so open and amenable to our focus. Sometimes the issue creeps into the room and lurks around in the shadows and dust balls in the corners and under the side tables. Sometimes it is a murky form hovering in the corridor beyond, a presence more felt than seen.
This is the Unknown Subject. I can usually tell when it is around. The client can too, if they are honest. But knowing it is there is not really the challenge. The Unsub in this case is elusive and evades our attention. We need to be wily and patient and generous with this timid interloper. Ironically, its timidity is inversely proportional to its importance. Addressing this Unsub can be key to unlocking blockages, shifting perspectives and galvanising energy. This Unsub is powerful and potentially vindictive. We have to outsmart it in many ways, while all the time appearing non-threatening and responsive.
There are other types of Unsub. In my new novel (still in draft) which charts a year in the life of the main protagonist as she confronts a loss of all that she had held dear while embarking on a journey towards that which will sustain and nourish her long into her future, (don't worry - it is hilarious) there are myriad Unsubs. Some of these do not need to become known or identified. They are but niggles, distractions from the real drama and journey; the friend at yoga who collapses, the unsightly blemish on the chin, the flirtatious builder. But some are more central to the characters' progress and development. They cannot be avoided; nor can they be openly exposed. Their impact can be immense though. They can derail the story, becoming unhelpful subplots, annoying red herrings. As in real life some of them will become obstacles if left to their own devices.
Since I am in control of the whole thing - I have ultimate power over these Unsubs. It is a wonderful feeling - to play puppeteer and ring master and supreme being. Sometimes. But mostly, I wait it out; ever watchful to see what the characters are up to, how they want to resolve their conflicts and how they wish to deal with the Unsubs. The challenge and opportunity for me is to give the Unsubs meaning for the reader.
There are, in real life, all manner of Unsubs as well. My personal favourites are so familiar, indeed so common, as to be truly passe. They barely deserve the moniker of "unknown". It would perhaps be better to call them "unspoken subjects" or "subtext". Sometimes they are our friends, keeping us company in a room full of strangers or warm on a cold night alone in those endless moments before dawn. But too often their main purpose is not one of support or comfort. Too often they smirk and cajole. Or they lie by our sides on their saggy old sunloungers, lazy little sunbathing good-for-nothings, interpreting our lives, souring our interactions. And when they hang around like teenagers at the mall, idle, looking for trouble, in small groups where their combinations and permutations are clearly a recipe for disaster, well, what did we think was going to happen...
You must know them too. Good old "childhood baggage", "fear of the unknown" and "expectations". And that is before we get to the real humdingers like "years of neglect", "spiritual poverty" and "narcissistic personality disorder". They get in the way of true meetings of minds and honest and authentic relationships. Instead of embracing opportunities to connect and engage, these saboteurs hold us back and malign our best endeavours to live a full and rich life.
Perhaps I overstate things. Perhaps they help us too. Those inner voices that warn us to run away, avoid getting sucked in to a labyrinth of negativity and self loathing. But then those voices are our friends. They have out best interests at heart, surely.
Anyway, this may all have gone off track - again.
The final category of Unsub to consider is the "Unsubscribe". You may be familiar with this one. It is the epitome of passive aggressive. And the suspense and mystery is there aplenty!
One wakes, makes some tea, attends to one's ablutions and children and then, stealing a moment before the school run, one checks one's emails and website activity. One has a sneaky look at who has opened that new message about the new venture/book/offer/what have you, and there right before your eyes is proof positive that you really do not strike a chord.
Because there on the screen is the big fat bold black number telling you that so-and-so has unsubscribed to your oh-so-annoying email announcing your new book/what have you. Mmm, you think, gazing into the middle distance. Some people are very important. Their in-boxes are stuffed full of incredibly vital matters. Somehow, the Unsub, like in all the best whodunnits, is never the person you think it will be, though. Not the executives or partners or high-powered entrepreneurs. Not the weird loner who no-one really knows. No, it is a different character altogether. Which makes sense. In the whodunnits the Unsub is the pretty, vacuous cheerleader that no one took seriously, or the studious old guy who was too eager to help the cops solve the crime. (I can say this here because, let's face it - would you read my rantings if you did not want to? All those who don't get me, follow me or like me should not be here to start with!)
So the Unsub can be irksome. And so too can the diminution of the already paltry fan base on those networking sites that encourage us to "fan" each other. All of a sudden, instead of three fans one has one (oneself). I know how Jason Donovan feels.
What does one do with that knowledge? How does one improve one's message, presence or style? And the risks? Another set of imponderables...
The fact is that one is better off not knowing who likes one or follows one, no? One is best to get a kick out of the intrinsic pleasure and value of having an idea and writing something vaguely amusing or distracting about it. And if one person enjoyed it or paused to consider it, then one's efforts were worthwhile.
After all, there may be some Unsub in the Unsub.
Tuesday, 10 August 2010
A friend for the summer...
Some time ago I posted here about a story I had written for children and my ambition to "get it out there" - as a result of which I illustrated it myself - despite my wanton lack of talent as an artist. Since then I have spent far too much time learning the subtleties of Microsoft Paint, Powerpoint, PDF creation and how to use HTML(?). Indeed.
The end result is "Tess and the Seaside Girl" - an e-book for 4-8 year olds, replete with nostalgic prose and pictures that will appeal to anyone who has longed for a friend for the holidays.
Tess' story is, I think, one with universal appeal. Timeless and ageless and culture crossing. While I risk sounding even more self-promoting than usual, I have realised that if I want to generate a following for my writing, ideas or work, then I have to tell you what is in it for you.
So I will tell you a story to make my point.
......
Do you ever consider what sort of story yours would be if you were telling it for the big screen? Or the little screen, for that matter?
Some time ago I worked in a very eccentric office. We were the lawyers who drafted the legislation that wound up becoming the laws of the Commonwealth of Australia, so you can imagine just how eclectic a group we might have been. Being young and fun and full of ideas, I (together with another lawyer/good friend) scripted some episodes of "OPC (Office of Parliamentary Counsel)" - you know the sort of thing - "Ally McBeal" meets "The Office" meets "Yes Minister". The scripts and the plots lines were nowhere near as amusing as the casting though. Naturally, someone bright, attractive and classy - out of the reach of all Hollywood slander and gossip - was to play me. I cannot remember who it was, to be frank...
Anyway, we had a huge (notional) budget for name actors and created a cast replete with Jeff Goldblum, Carrie Fisher, Danny De Vito and William Hurt. We had Meg Ryan, George from Seinfeld and Helen Hunt. We told some of our colleagues who had been cast to play them - it was a very effective way of keeping one's friends close and one's enemies closer. Obviously we did not tell the guy in question that Danny DV was to play him... But by and large our casting was either very apt or very flattering because it really captured the imagination of the office for a few weeks back in the summer of '96. Indeed, some of the staff emailed me asking who was cast as them - I was put on the spot more than once. It all seemed real and magical, at the same time. As if somehow, by saying it, we could create a fantasy land where the silver screen could come alive all around us. Where tedious concerns like proof checking and remembering to bring cakes to Friday morning tea were put aside for more urgent and glamorous calls on our time.
A year or two ago I posed the question at my then workplace - open plan professional services - quite a different kettle of fish, really, from my first real job at OPC. My neighbour - a 28 year old, bright and upcoming structured tax financier - told me without a moment's hesitation that Matthew McConnaughey might manage to play him. A range of dashing, well toned and tanned, albeit somewhat empty headed, leading men were proposed by the rest of the "bay" (area of desks) to play them. It was inspiring just how well the Gen Y chaps thought of themselves.
Now, in another world again - self-employed author, blogger, chair of the PTA, coach and often-home-alone-with-husband-abroad-mother-of-three - the story is more gripping than the cast. It is a story that we all know and relate to, after all.
This is not to say that the cast is superlative. No, the mother would be played by someone like Cate Blanchett (capable of looking like death warmed up but also gorgeous when need be). The father would be someone we all like - he would not be in much of the film so it is not that important - maybe Hugh Jackman, maybe Denzel Washington...
But the really important thing is the story itself. It will be told in the mocumentary style. It will seem real but it will in fact be actors playing the parts of these ordinary and simple folk in west London in summer.
The plot is not extraordinary. The tale of a mundane and humdrum urban life as seen through the eyes of the mother. Voice over, naturally.
The backdrop of London is always a seat filler - think Four Weddings, Notting Hill, Love Actually, myriad crime dramas, Spooks. Against this backdrop we then have the interplay of social comedy and high emotion. As a summer tale - London is half empty as all of the school children and their families have cleared out for warm and sunny climes - it is a sure-fire box office hit.
The story will revolve around the joy and pathos of family life in the city. The antics of the little family as they embark on "summer at home". The action packed scenarios of holidaying in the city. Boarding the buses with overflowing gym, grocery, craft and lunch bags. The missed calls on the mobile, promising an elusive play-date, client meeting or call-back from the builder. The romps in the park. The bickering over the last brioche, last bath and later bedtime.
There is plenty of humour and drama.
And tension. Imagine the camera panning down the aisles at Waitrose - will she buy Frosties or Rice Crispies? Full-fat or semi-skimmed milk? White bread or wholemeal? Which washing detergent? Come on Mum, it's holiday time. Give the kids a treat, we urge. Yes, Frosties win!
Will Mum get the sleep-in she begs for? Will Grandad muddle the time difference and call before dawn on a Sunday - again? Will the reduced price Pinot Grigio taste like reduced price Pinot Grigio? Which priest will say mass? Will it rain all day? Will the children enjoy making faux stained glass windows at the museum and if they do, will Mum meet anyone interesting there? Will there be any leather school shoes in the sale? Will the littlest one be able to sit through a 90 minute session at the cinema? Will the strange lady who lives on the communal garden become more friendly? Would the living room seem bigger if the sofa was by the other wall? Will the children be persuaded that pasta with pesto is still their favourite meal? Is take away dinner really worth it? Can people really live without a tv?
Then there is the bit where the family is due to meet for a longed-for play-date with old friends soon to embark on their summer vacation. Suddenly, at the last moment as the family steps out the door to journey to the park for the picnic, the phone rings. The other mother is calling to check on the weather across town. Lo and behold, she hears the sounds of a sniffle, a blocked nose, in the voice and inflection of Mum/Cate. Without warning, the date is cancelled.Why? "We do not play with germs". Fearing the worst sort of infectious disease to ruin their trip away, the friends beg off. "We shall catch up another time." The family is left alone and bereft in the street. Nothing to do, no one to see. Friendless and feckless.
And so the audience is exposed, fleetingly, to the vagaries of women, socialising and germs, topics so immense and serious as to be beyond the scope of this trite little play. Themes not lightly touched upon in an unambitious comedy of errors such as this. And yet, the story takes a turn. The great themes of love and friendship, loyalty and self-preservation seep in. The background music becomes melancholy. Cate is faced with bigger issues now. Who can she turn to in her loneliness? Facebook? Twitter? Marie Claire? Netmums? Is it wrong that she feels so let down?
Dammit, they kept the whole day free!
And here come the twist!
Confronted with 6 spare hours they had not expected to have, Cate and the children make hay! Their creative juices fired up with the indignation of being cast aside so coldly - they begin writing and painting and drawing, baking and cleaning and sorting.
What a blessing it is to have a long lazy summer at home with no one to see, nothing to do, nowhere to be and no one to have to spend any of it with!
The freedom, the scope for uninhibited self-expression, the unstructured joy of a day left empty and unplanned...
......
So anyhoo. Where was I? Oh yes, the casting couch.
No - before that.
Yes, Tess, and the timeless quest for a kindred spirit with whom to share the lazy, relaxing, joyful and sunsoaked (or cloudy, as the case may be) freedom, of summer time.
Her story really does resonate.
I hope that Tess' other adventures will also find their way into an e-book shop near you before too long.
And perhaps a range for grown up readers:
Tess and the longest night.
Tess and the running away from home.
Tess and the ripped wallpaper.
Tess and the horrible sink blockage.
Tess and the strange man.
Tess and the big fat person's shirt.
Tess and how she ceased to be invisible at the gym (when other ladies kept taking the equipment she was using).
The end result is "Tess and the Seaside Girl" - an e-book for 4-8 year olds, replete with nostalgic prose and pictures that will appeal to anyone who has longed for a friend for the holidays.
Tess' story is, I think, one with universal appeal. Timeless and ageless and culture crossing. While I risk sounding even more self-promoting than usual, I have realised that if I want to generate a following for my writing, ideas or work, then I have to tell you what is in it for you.
So I will tell you a story to make my point.
......
Do you ever consider what sort of story yours would be if you were telling it for the big screen? Or the little screen, for that matter?
Some time ago I worked in a very eccentric office. We were the lawyers who drafted the legislation that wound up becoming the laws of the Commonwealth of Australia, so you can imagine just how eclectic a group we might have been. Being young and fun and full of ideas, I (together with another lawyer/good friend) scripted some episodes of "OPC (Office of Parliamentary Counsel)" - you know the sort of thing - "Ally McBeal" meets "The Office" meets "Yes Minister". The scripts and the plots lines were nowhere near as amusing as the casting though. Naturally, someone bright, attractive and classy - out of the reach of all Hollywood slander and gossip - was to play me. I cannot remember who it was, to be frank...
Anyway, we had a huge (notional) budget for name actors and created a cast replete with Jeff Goldblum, Carrie Fisher, Danny De Vito and William Hurt. We had Meg Ryan, George from Seinfeld and Helen Hunt. We told some of our colleagues who had been cast to play them - it was a very effective way of keeping one's friends close and one's enemies closer. Obviously we did not tell the guy in question that Danny DV was to play him... But by and large our casting was either very apt or very flattering because it really captured the imagination of the office for a few weeks back in the summer of '96. Indeed, some of the staff emailed me asking who was cast as them - I was put on the spot more than once. It all seemed real and magical, at the same time. As if somehow, by saying it, we could create a fantasy land where the silver screen could come alive all around us. Where tedious concerns like proof checking and remembering to bring cakes to Friday morning tea were put aside for more urgent and glamorous calls on our time.
A year or two ago I posed the question at my then workplace - open plan professional services - quite a different kettle of fish, really, from my first real job at OPC. My neighbour - a 28 year old, bright and upcoming structured tax financier - told me without a moment's hesitation that Matthew McConnaughey might manage to play him. A range of dashing, well toned and tanned, albeit somewhat empty headed, leading men were proposed by the rest of the "bay" (area of desks) to play them. It was inspiring just how well the Gen Y chaps thought of themselves.
Now, in another world again - self-employed author, blogger, chair of the PTA, coach and often-home-alone-with-husband-abroad-mother-of-three - the story is more gripping than the cast. It is a story that we all know and relate to, after all.
This is not to say that the cast is superlative. No, the mother would be played by someone like Cate Blanchett (capable of looking like death warmed up but also gorgeous when need be). The father would be someone we all like - he would not be in much of the film so it is not that important - maybe Hugh Jackman, maybe Denzel Washington...
But the really important thing is the story itself. It will be told in the mocumentary style. It will seem real but it will in fact be actors playing the parts of these ordinary and simple folk in west London in summer.
The plot is not extraordinary. The tale of a mundane and humdrum urban life as seen through the eyes of the mother. Voice over, naturally.
The backdrop of London is always a seat filler - think Four Weddings, Notting Hill, Love Actually, myriad crime dramas, Spooks. Against this backdrop we then have the interplay of social comedy and high emotion. As a summer tale - London is half empty as all of the school children and their families have cleared out for warm and sunny climes - it is a sure-fire box office hit.
The story will revolve around the joy and pathos of family life in the city. The antics of the little family as they embark on "summer at home". The action packed scenarios of holidaying in the city. Boarding the buses with overflowing gym, grocery, craft and lunch bags. The missed calls on the mobile, promising an elusive play-date, client meeting or call-back from the builder. The romps in the park. The bickering over the last brioche, last bath and later bedtime.
There is plenty of humour and drama.
And tension. Imagine the camera panning down the aisles at Waitrose - will she buy Frosties or Rice Crispies? Full-fat or semi-skimmed milk? White bread or wholemeal? Which washing detergent? Come on Mum, it's holiday time. Give the kids a treat, we urge. Yes, Frosties win!
Will Mum get the sleep-in she begs for? Will Grandad muddle the time difference and call before dawn on a Sunday - again? Will the reduced price Pinot Grigio taste like reduced price Pinot Grigio? Which priest will say mass? Will it rain all day? Will the children enjoy making faux stained glass windows at the museum and if they do, will Mum meet anyone interesting there? Will there be any leather school shoes in the sale? Will the littlest one be able to sit through a 90 minute session at the cinema? Will the strange lady who lives on the communal garden become more friendly? Would the living room seem bigger if the sofa was by the other wall? Will the children be persuaded that pasta with pesto is still their favourite meal? Is take away dinner really worth it? Can people really live without a tv?
Then there is the bit where the family is due to meet for a longed-for play-date with old friends soon to embark on their summer vacation. Suddenly, at the last moment as the family steps out the door to journey to the park for the picnic, the phone rings. The other mother is calling to check on the weather across town. Lo and behold, she hears the sounds of a sniffle, a blocked nose, in the voice and inflection of Mum/Cate. Without warning, the date is cancelled.Why? "We do not play with germs". Fearing the worst sort of infectious disease to ruin their trip away, the friends beg off. "We shall catch up another time." The family is left alone and bereft in the street. Nothing to do, no one to see. Friendless and feckless.
And so the audience is exposed, fleetingly, to the vagaries of women, socialising and germs, topics so immense and serious as to be beyond the scope of this trite little play. Themes not lightly touched upon in an unambitious comedy of errors such as this. And yet, the story takes a turn. The great themes of love and friendship, loyalty and self-preservation seep in. The background music becomes melancholy. Cate is faced with bigger issues now. Who can she turn to in her loneliness? Facebook? Twitter? Marie Claire? Netmums? Is it wrong that she feels so let down?
Dammit, they kept the whole day free!
And here come the twist!
Confronted with 6 spare hours they had not expected to have, Cate and the children make hay! Their creative juices fired up with the indignation of being cast aside so coldly - they begin writing and painting and drawing, baking and cleaning and sorting.
What a blessing it is to have a long lazy summer at home with no one to see, nothing to do, nowhere to be and no one to have to spend any of it with!
The freedom, the scope for uninhibited self-expression, the unstructured joy of a day left empty and unplanned...
......
So anyhoo. Where was I? Oh yes, the casting couch.
No - before that.
Yes, Tess, and the timeless quest for a kindred spirit with whom to share the lazy, relaxing, joyful and sunsoaked (or cloudy, as the case may be) freedom, of summer time.
Her story really does resonate.
I hope that Tess' other adventures will also find their way into an e-book shop near you before too long.
And perhaps a range for grown up readers:
Tess and the longest night.
Tess and the running away from home.
Tess and the ripped wallpaper.
Tess and the horrible sink blockage.
Tess and the strange man.
Tess and the big fat person's shirt.
Tess and how she ceased to be invisible at the gym (when other ladies kept taking the equipment she was using).
Sunday, 1 August 2010
Living the Lie
I have recently become hooked on "Mad Men". If you have not watched this, make time to do so. It is fabulous drama; sexy, complex, intriguing and honest. The story revolves around a 1960's Madison Avenue advertising agency and the work and lives of its key personnel. I will not be giving too much away for those who have yet to become hooked if I write about the irony rich plot that surrounds the key character Don Draper - ad executive, husband, father and philanderer.
As the story unfolds, Don, we discover has changed his name, disavowed his past and reinvented himself. I am only part way through the first season so I cannot reveal whether he is found out or exposed and the ramifications if so. However, in one of the early episodes he is challenged by some Greenwich Village pot-smoking arty types about his career as an ad man - propagating lies to the public. Don is defensive. People want to be told what to do, he rails, and what choices to make. He barely responds to the accusation that he is selling lies. He has previously described advertising as the promotion of happiness and the good life. Don is a cynic. He is lost and he is unhappy. Yet, outwardly he is handsome, exciting, mysterious and brilliant. Gorgeous wife and kids, awards for his work, an entourage of young execs who hang on his every word, even a boss who seems on the one hand desperate to impress him and slightly in awe of him while on the other, eager to compete with him and defeat him.
Don is a great character. I am not sure I like him. He is fundamentally flawed and scarred. I am not sure he is capable of loving anyone - apart from his children (he vows never to lie to his son!) - but he goes through the motions.
The complexity of Don is symbolic of the complexity of the time. McCarthyism just behind them, Vietnam just ahead. Kennedy yet to be elected. Contraception and pyschotherapy, divorce and career women becoming less taboo. There is plenty of misogyny, anti-Semitism and amorality confronting the viewer. It gets under the skin. I find myself thinking about it a lot.
Despite its subject matter and its context and setting it is easy to relate to some of the themes and emotions in Mad Men. Perhaps this is the secret of its popularity and appeal.
The housewives, told to be happy with all their material needs met - frozen food for goodness sake! - lost in their bedroom suburbs of New York State.
The executives and account managers vying for success, a seat at the table, promotions, glamour, pay rises. Eaten up with jealousy at the success of one of their number in publishing a short story. Conducting affairs with - well - anyone, really.
It is modern and shocking and at the same time - of another, far away time - and shocking. And ironically, given the lies its characters live and believe, it is brutally honest and devastatingly subtle and intelligent too.
I won't give you chapter and verse on all the scenarios - it will spoil it for all of you. Suffice to say, there are lies and duplicity everywhere.
At its heart it is a timeless tale of the quest for material wellbeing. Yet the foundations of the characters and their lives are built not on bedrock, not on the backbone of America, or even the "American dream", so propagandised in those post Second World War years, but on the shifting sands of lies and pretence.
If you had the chance to take on a new identity and transform your life, what would you do? Become anyone you want? Laugh? Be paralysed by fear or choice? Would you do anything? How bad would things need to be in order to leave it all behind and start afresh? How good would the "new" life have to be to warrant it?
It's not something one often considers. An occasional night out with the girls or a good (tv) story usually suffices, no?
Clearly, we all find and utilise the lies and delusions we need in order to get through the hard times, or perhaps to achieve the "good" times. We tell ourselves that we didn't really want x, y or z, anyway. We convince ourselves and others that we actually do like a, b or c; a, b or c being something we seem to have in abundance (e.g. bad skin, grey hair, enemies at the school gate). These falsehoods often serve us well. They are good for us. They let us go on. They make us human and keep us grounded in reality.
But sometimes our lies are like tumours, eating us up from the inside out. Or they amount to layers of straw behind which we cower, ever fearful of discovery.
When I trained to become an executive coach I underwent several hours of coaching. I should not say "underwent" - as one might refer to root canal or a colonoscopy. Rather, I benefited from several hours of coaching at the hands of my trainers and peers. The idea being that we all practised on one another. The learning was amazing - practical and experiential - the best kind. First, I discovered that I am a fantastic client (delightfully open, highly communicative and exceedingly willing to talk about myself). But second, and even more importantly, I discovered that when I was honest and clear about my hopes and aspirations it was virtually impossible to shut down the creative energy and flow that followed.
And I had thought I was honest and clear before that!
Perhaps it was the fact I was articulating my ideas to a dispassionate and unconnected person, or the fact that I had committed to taking a journey of sorts or the fact that the course was costing so much that I would have been crazy not to have made some sort of transformation. But whether you call it "finding your voice" or "taking off the blinkers" or accepting oneself, the personal truths were given time and space to become my reality.
Similarly, people tell me how the day they realise they are living their own life and not that of their father or mother - and often it is not something that happens "one day" but over many, many difficult and sometimes painful days and years, they start to live authentically and honestly.
As the story unfolds, Don, we discover has changed his name, disavowed his past and reinvented himself. I am only part way through the first season so I cannot reveal whether he is found out or exposed and the ramifications if so. However, in one of the early episodes he is challenged by some Greenwich Village pot-smoking arty types about his career as an ad man - propagating lies to the public. Don is defensive. People want to be told what to do, he rails, and what choices to make. He barely responds to the accusation that he is selling lies. He has previously described advertising as the promotion of happiness and the good life. Don is a cynic. He is lost and he is unhappy. Yet, outwardly he is handsome, exciting, mysterious and brilliant. Gorgeous wife and kids, awards for his work, an entourage of young execs who hang on his every word, even a boss who seems on the one hand desperate to impress him and slightly in awe of him while on the other, eager to compete with him and defeat him.
Don is a great character. I am not sure I like him. He is fundamentally flawed and scarred. I am not sure he is capable of loving anyone - apart from his children (he vows never to lie to his son!) - but he goes through the motions.
The complexity of Don is symbolic of the complexity of the time. McCarthyism just behind them, Vietnam just ahead. Kennedy yet to be elected. Contraception and pyschotherapy, divorce and career women becoming less taboo. There is plenty of misogyny, anti-Semitism and amorality confronting the viewer. It gets under the skin. I find myself thinking about it a lot.
Despite its subject matter and its context and setting it is easy to relate to some of the themes and emotions in Mad Men. Perhaps this is the secret of its popularity and appeal.
The housewives, told to be happy with all their material needs met - frozen food for goodness sake! - lost in their bedroom suburbs of New York State.
The executives and account managers vying for success, a seat at the table, promotions, glamour, pay rises. Eaten up with jealousy at the success of one of their number in publishing a short story. Conducting affairs with - well - anyone, really.
It is modern and shocking and at the same time - of another, far away time - and shocking. And ironically, given the lies its characters live and believe, it is brutally honest and devastatingly subtle and intelligent too.
I won't give you chapter and verse on all the scenarios - it will spoil it for all of you. Suffice to say, there are lies and duplicity everywhere.
At its heart it is a timeless tale of the quest for material wellbeing. Yet the foundations of the characters and their lives are built not on bedrock, not on the backbone of America, or even the "American dream", so propagandised in those post Second World War years, but on the shifting sands of lies and pretence.
If you had the chance to take on a new identity and transform your life, what would you do? Become anyone you want? Laugh? Be paralysed by fear or choice? Would you do anything? How bad would things need to be in order to leave it all behind and start afresh? How good would the "new" life have to be to warrant it?
It's not something one often considers. An occasional night out with the girls or a good (tv) story usually suffices, no?
Clearly, we all find and utilise the lies and delusions we need in order to get through the hard times, or perhaps to achieve the "good" times. We tell ourselves that we didn't really want x, y or z, anyway. We convince ourselves and others that we actually do like a, b or c; a, b or c being something we seem to have in abundance (e.g. bad skin, grey hair, enemies at the school gate). These falsehoods often serve us well. They are good for us. They let us go on. They make us human and keep us grounded in reality.
But sometimes our lies are like tumours, eating us up from the inside out. Or they amount to layers of straw behind which we cower, ever fearful of discovery.
When I trained to become an executive coach I underwent several hours of coaching. I should not say "underwent" - as one might refer to root canal or a colonoscopy. Rather, I benefited from several hours of coaching at the hands of my trainers and peers. The idea being that we all practised on one another. The learning was amazing - practical and experiential - the best kind. First, I discovered that I am a fantastic client (delightfully open, highly communicative and exceedingly willing to talk about myself). But second, and even more importantly, I discovered that when I was honest and clear about my hopes and aspirations it was virtually impossible to shut down the creative energy and flow that followed.
And I had thought I was honest and clear before that!
Perhaps it was the fact I was articulating my ideas to a dispassionate and unconnected person, or the fact that I had committed to taking a journey of sorts or the fact that the course was costing so much that I would have been crazy not to have made some sort of transformation. But whether you call it "finding your voice" or "taking off the blinkers" or accepting oneself, the personal truths were given time and space to become my reality.
Similarly, people tell me how the day they realise they are living their own life and not that of their father or mother - and often it is not something that happens "one day" but over many, many difficult and sometimes painful days and years, they start to live authentically and honestly.
And so Don Draper and people of his ilk, with their lies and obfuscation, constructs and stories fascinate me. These are not little white lies, but massive breaches of trust and confidence. How does one deal in duplicity, day in and day out, on a large scale? What makes it necessary in the first place? I doubt that the authenticity I refer to would be much use to Don - at least not in the first season of the show.
Yet, the hardest thing is not being authentic - that is easy. The hardest part is deciding to be. The challenge is letting go of the past, the expectations we and others place on us and ceasing to play the same old part in the same old drama. The hardest part is working out which lies are intrinsically useful or valuable and which are self-destructive or self-limiting.
I used to joke with friends about my ill-gotten time as a tax lawyer - how my heart was not in it - how I was "livin' a lie". Thankfully it did not permeate the rest of my life. Thankfully I could see it and laugh at it and eventually deal with it.
Woe is she that lives the lie and believes it.
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Perception and authenticity - who to believe
A few weeks ago I met a friend of a friend who said: "We never met then, but I remember you from uni. You used to wear big hats."
I had a vague recollection of wearing hats - being always watchful of suntanning, melanomas and unwanted freckles and a little bit fashion conscious in my younger days. I did not recall wearing them to lectures, but after she said this I did conjure an image of myself striding purposefully into LA307 - Land Law (?) under a broad and capacious brim.
It was not an unpleasant image. A happy and care-free time? Somehow hats seem to speak of poise and confidence and a certain devil may care approach to things. Alas, no snaps to share.
The remark came only days before another friend (let's call her Ethel), asked me what she should do about someone who advised her not to be too friendly with me.
At first I thought it was merely a theoretical or hypothetical conundrum - along the lines of: "what does one do if a friend is out of favour with another friend?" In my role as coach/blogger/agony aunt I get these rather a lot. But it transpired that I was indeed the subject of unsolicited, whispered advice along the lines of "steer clear of Springgirl. She will only bring you trouble. She will twist your words against you." After I stopped laughing at the rather tragic comic image of myself in wide brimmed hat playing hateful and conniving Scarlett O'Hara meets Lady Macbeth, I was flabbergasted. The person who was recommending that Ethel think twice before being friendly with me (let's call her Mildred) has exchanged perhaps 23 words with me in my life - I know her vaguely as a mother at the off-Springs' school, and have met her over coffee with not less than 6 and possible as many as 11 other women. I recall nothing but school related chatter about curriculum, holidays and the parents' association. Oh and I plugged my book - but that was after she said I was bad news, though I did not then know anything about it.
Knowing what she thinks of me certainly explains why she has avoided my glances and smiles for several months. I had just put it down to a European thing. Being Australian and fairly democratic in my disposition I only recently realised there is an entire subtext that underpins intra-European relationships; class and ancestry being just one factor. Regional affinities is another. There was I blithely assuming that we were all happy expats mucking in together. Lo and behold, I discovered that I am oblivious to myriad European nuances of acquaintance, friendship and familiarity, not to mention cold war, enmity and dislike. I guess that several centuries of close proximity with potential foes can result in greater national allegiances, this of course exacerbated by football, not so long ended wars, generally not very good weather and economic problems. We Aussies are like little kids hanging around outside the fence of the big kids' playground...
Still, even allowing for subtleties and jingoistic concerns, I want to think well of everyone unless there is clear reason not to. I have not really found a reason to think ill of a lady dropping her child at school, engaging in mild chitchat at the gate, smiling benignly at other parents and children. Having said that, even after 5 years as a school mum - in London and Australia, note - I have not managed to work out just how this making friends with other women at school thing works.
But as I said, I tend to be mildly (by no means aggressively or loudly) friendly to everyone. Though I am rethinking my approach now. Clearly what I though was pleasant, wry and self self-effacingly funny has been interpreted as something else entirely - mean, untrustworthy and sinister? I am prepared to accept that my humour may be the cause of the perception Mildred has that I am "trouble". It took a while for the whole thing to settle in my mind. You see, there are many things I will put my hand up to - self-promoting, a bit gossipy and gym obsessed, I would accept. I would not be taken aback if accused of parenting as if it were 1975, defensive (when confronted by wide eyes and shrieks of "three boys? how do you manage?" - I am never sure whether to be offended on behalf of my sons or on account of myself, you see), or old-fashioned. I would even be reconciled with being labelled holier than thou or prone to talking the moral high ground (from time to time). But two-faced or untrustworthy? Not typically among my repertoire of shortcomings. Indeed, they seem to describe another person altogether.
So what? I know you are thinking, "let it go already. Who cares what some bored housewife thinks of you." Indeed, I could let Mildred and her views go. I fairly easily dismissed the entire episode drawing on my three pronged 2 minute analysis process which goes something like this:-
1. That's so odd! Assuming this story is true then who or what is to blame? (Blame first, ask questions later!)
2. Attribute the perception to ignorance, mismatched sense of humour and temperament. A misunderstanding repeated too often? The wonderfully unifying human trait of gossiping about a common enemy perhaps gotten out of hand?
3. Pause to wonder just why Ethel felt it necessary to share Mildred's views with me.
You see, while I am at heart an earthy pragmatist, there is within me a somewhat sentimental girl. She operates very happily in Springland where no one has a tv, children go to bed on time and everyone loves reading and bracing country walks. In this place, coffee is prized, as is dark chocolate, ideas and laughter. Gossip is idle, not malicious. We are happy to proven wrong and talk is intended to elucidate, amuse and foster understanding. In this place Springgirl wears big hats and is generally liked and respected. It is a convivial place. It smells of lavender and sea air. The day time maximum is never higher than 24 degrees celcius. Books are free and cool breezes blow in new ways of seeing and perceiving.
Springland abuts central London though. And the neighbours can get fractious and wilful and capable of nasty thoughts. Some even host noisy parties til the small hours and lurk outside windows swearing drunken obscenities. In London strangers touch your children and have no idea how to share the pavement.
And in central London, as in many parts of the world, indeed anywhere where communities "flourish" cheek by jowl, there is the capacity for ill-informed judgement, intolerance and ill-will.
So no, Mildred and her views are not important; they are inconsequential. But they do raise at least two interesting issues for me. And one or two less interesting ones, admittedly (like, just how many people was she poisoning against me? - think not Macbeth but Hamlet, if you will).
The first interesting issue is that one can see how misunderstanding or gossip can create suspicion, enmity and even hatred. People sometimes say that wars could be avoided if women ran the world. I actually don't agree. Sure, the wars would be waged differently (you can ponder that!) but there would not be greater harmony or accord.
The second issue is more personal. It has several parts. First, is Mildred justified in her view? Second, are Mildred's views merely the tip of the iceberg? Is Ethel in fact doing me a favour, by gently trying to raise my awareness that I am in fact the object of fear, loathing and derision? Is Ethel the self- or indeed, officially - nominated spokesperson for the "real world"? Flowing form this then, am I truly delusional; more at home in Springland than the "real world"?
I had a vague recollection of wearing hats - being always watchful of suntanning, melanomas and unwanted freckles and a little bit fashion conscious in my younger days. I did not recall wearing them to lectures, but after she said this I did conjure an image of myself striding purposefully into LA307 - Land Law (?) under a broad and capacious brim.
It was not an unpleasant image. A happy and care-free time? Somehow hats seem to speak of poise and confidence and a certain devil may care approach to things. Alas, no snaps to share.
The remark came only days before another friend (let's call her Ethel), asked me what she should do about someone who advised her not to be too friendly with me.
At first I thought it was merely a theoretical or hypothetical conundrum - along the lines of: "what does one do if a friend is out of favour with another friend?" In my role as coach/blogger/agony aunt I get these rather a lot. But it transpired that I was indeed the subject of unsolicited, whispered advice along the lines of "steer clear of Springgirl. She will only bring you trouble. She will twist your words against you." After I stopped laughing at the rather tragic comic image of myself in wide brimmed hat playing hateful and conniving Scarlett O'Hara meets Lady Macbeth, I was flabbergasted. The person who was recommending that Ethel think twice before being friendly with me (let's call her Mildred) has exchanged perhaps 23 words with me in my life - I know her vaguely as a mother at the off-Springs' school, and have met her over coffee with not less than 6 and possible as many as 11 other women. I recall nothing but school related chatter about curriculum, holidays and the parents' association. Oh and I plugged my book - but that was after she said I was bad news, though I did not then know anything about it.
Knowing what she thinks of me certainly explains why she has avoided my glances and smiles for several months. I had just put it down to a European thing. Being Australian and fairly democratic in my disposition I only recently realised there is an entire subtext that underpins intra-European relationships; class and ancestry being just one factor. Regional affinities is another. There was I blithely assuming that we were all happy expats mucking in together. Lo and behold, I discovered that I am oblivious to myriad European nuances of acquaintance, friendship and familiarity, not to mention cold war, enmity and dislike. I guess that several centuries of close proximity with potential foes can result in greater national allegiances, this of course exacerbated by football, not so long ended wars, generally not very good weather and economic problems. We Aussies are like little kids hanging around outside the fence of the big kids' playground...
Still, even allowing for subtleties and jingoistic concerns, I want to think well of everyone unless there is clear reason not to. I have not really found a reason to think ill of a lady dropping her child at school, engaging in mild chitchat at the gate, smiling benignly at other parents and children. Having said that, even after 5 years as a school mum - in London and Australia, note - I have not managed to work out just how this making friends with other women at school thing works.
But as I said, I tend to be mildly (by no means aggressively or loudly) friendly to everyone. Though I am rethinking my approach now. Clearly what I though was pleasant, wry and self self-effacingly funny has been interpreted as something else entirely - mean, untrustworthy and sinister? I am prepared to accept that my humour may be the cause of the perception Mildred has that I am "trouble". It took a while for the whole thing to settle in my mind. You see, there are many things I will put my hand up to - self-promoting, a bit gossipy and gym obsessed, I would accept. I would not be taken aback if accused of parenting as if it were 1975, defensive (when confronted by wide eyes and shrieks of "three boys? how do you manage?" - I am never sure whether to be offended on behalf of my sons or on account of myself, you see), or old-fashioned. I would even be reconciled with being labelled holier than thou or prone to talking the moral high ground (from time to time). But two-faced or untrustworthy? Not typically among my repertoire of shortcomings. Indeed, they seem to describe another person altogether.
So what? I know you are thinking, "let it go already. Who cares what some bored housewife thinks of you." Indeed, I could let Mildred and her views go. I fairly easily dismissed the entire episode drawing on my three pronged 2 minute analysis process which goes something like this:-
1. That's so odd! Assuming this story is true then who or what is to blame? (Blame first, ask questions later!)
2. Attribute the perception to ignorance, mismatched sense of humour and temperament. A misunderstanding repeated too often? The wonderfully unifying human trait of gossiping about a common enemy perhaps gotten out of hand?
3. Pause to wonder just why Ethel felt it necessary to share Mildred's views with me.
You see, while I am at heart an earthy pragmatist, there is within me a somewhat sentimental girl. She operates very happily in Springland where no one has a tv, children go to bed on time and everyone loves reading and bracing country walks. In this place, coffee is prized, as is dark chocolate, ideas and laughter. Gossip is idle, not malicious. We are happy to proven wrong and talk is intended to elucidate, amuse and foster understanding. In this place Springgirl wears big hats and is generally liked and respected. It is a convivial place. It smells of lavender and sea air. The day time maximum is never higher than 24 degrees celcius. Books are free and cool breezes blow in new ways of seeing and perceiving.
Springland abuts central London though. And the neighbours can get fractious and wilful and capable of nasty thoughts. Some even host noisy parties til the small hours and lurk outside windows swearing drunken obscenities. In London strangers touch your children and have no idea how to share the pavement.
And in central London, as in many parts of the world, indeed anywhere where communities "flourish" cheek by jowl, there is the capacity for ill-informed judgement, intolerance and ill-will.
So no, Mildred and her views are not important; they are inconsequential. But they do raise at least two interesting issues for me. And one or two less interesting ones, admittedly (like, just how many people was she poisoning against me? - think not Macbeth but Hamlet, if you will).
The first interesting issue is that one can see how misunderstanding or gossip can create suspicion, enmity and even hatred. People sometimes say that wars could be avoided if women ran the world. I actually don't agree. Sure, the wars would be waged differently (you can ponder that!) but there would not be greater harmony or accord.
The second issue is more personal. It has several parts. First, is Mildred justified in her view? Second, are Mildred's views merely the tip of the iceberg? Is Ethel in fact doing me a favour, by gently trying to raise my awareness that I am in fact the object of fear, loathing and derision? Is Ethel the self- or indeed, officially - nominated spokesperson for the "real world"? Flowing form this then, am I truly delusional; more at home in Springland than the "real world"?
How do we reconcile our real and authentic selves with the image we project? Because, if one thing is clear it is that we cannot do much about the perception of others. We cannot control the audience or their reactions. We can but put it out there. We do not often find out whether we are recognised and seen as we truly intended to be? Assuming we have any intent at all, of course.
It seems that in a world in which brand, labels, trappings of success and status can hold more sway and have more influence than connections with others, true human relatedness and even trust, all we can hope for is to stay true to ourselves.
This means first finding the self and then holding on to it, preserving it or its essence amidst all of that noise: the chatter and gossip, the advertising and name dropping, the "hot lists" and the wish lists, the must haves and the must dos...
I am not espousing that we get clear about who we are and what we value, and rigidly hold to that. No, for there are no walls or bolted gates around Springland. There is always room for a little self doubt and uncertainty, for new ways of seeing and interpeting ourselves and our world. Nothing is cast in stone, not least us.
So, whether we relate best to Shakespeare or Pixar, the key is to find our own truth.
At the end of the day I suppose actions do speak louder than words. Mildred can have her words. While I have sympathy with the sentiment of Robert Burton in The Anatomy of Melancholy (1621) Part I, Section II, Member IV, Subsection IV:
It is an old saying, "A blow with a word strikes deeper than a blow with a sword:" and many men are as much galled with a calumny, a scurrilous and bitter jest, a libel, a pasquil, satire, apologue, epigram, stage-play or the like, as with any misfortune whatsoever.
I am sure now that you cannot be remembered as the wearer of big hats and not be misunderstood by someone.
Afterthought:
I am indebted to Robert Burton for his writing on Melancholy and promise to share more of his wisdom in the future:
The Anatomy of Melancholy (Full title: The Anatomy of Melancholy, What it is: With all the Kinds, Causes, Symptomes, Prognostickes, and Several Cures of it. In Three Maine Partitions with their several Sections, Members, and Subsections. Philosophically, Medicinally, Historically, Opened and Cut Up).
Tuesday, 20 July 2010
Summer time malaise? Time for black out curtains and a kind word.
I have been a bit remiss with my blog posts this past few weeks. Blame it on the summer!
The Off-Spring are awake later and later every night. As my avid readers would have gathered by now, I am a strict believer in bedtime. 8.15pm is about my limit, and that is a 30 minute extension to the winter time cut-off. By 8.30 I want the three boys well on their way to the land of nod, lavender on the pillows to soothe them on their journey, story told or read and teeth brushed and polished. Yet, most nights now I am just settling into "my work" at 9pm when a little voice chimes out or a little face appears. Number 3 seems to be having a growth spurt and seeks more food after lights out and the last kiss is blown (and the last threat delivered). Number 2 then slinks up the stairs to my pseudo office space (one end of the living room sofa) to inform me that sleep eludes him. This can be up to 30-40 minutes after the third and final "be quiet and go to sleep or you will not be able to wake up in the morning and do good work and play well!". When finally silence is assured and no one needs attention, any creative urge, juice or energy I may have been about to summon an hour previously, is now evaporating like a tiny shred of vapour into the outer limits of the stratosphere and I find myself once more resorting to The West Wing reruns for company.
In itself this is not a bad way to spend my time.
But I had wanted to blog twice a week, so I feel disconnected with the process and worst of all - my thoughts - which for me was the truly amazing and delightful part of the whole blogging thing. Admittedly not much has happened lately so finding a topic is something of a challenge. Though, having said that, I do have a long list of potential topics stored in a draft blog somewhere behind the scenes here, so I suspect it a question of motivation and energy, plus squeezed time, rather than a lack of inspiration that is to blame for the parlous lack of output of late.
So what have I been doing with my time? As most of you know - time is elastic after all and we tend to make use of what we have somehow.
A Stocktake of why I am not delivering to Springgirl's timetable:
1. PTA chairmanship involves a lot of talking even before the role is assumed. I have been focussed on fund raising ideas for the Off-Spring's school for the next academic year. This involves political manoeuvres to quell discontent, build good will and engender support, while fact finding and information gathering.
2. Job hunting and attendant interviewing is a distraction. Needing to earn some cash (books and coaching do not a fortune make, alas) I am offering my services to law firms. I had thought that I should try them first since I am a lawyer. Who better to train, coach and teach lawyers than the only people they tend to respect - other lawyers. I am hopeful. Thankfully, living in London, exposes one to a huge market should none of the lawyers want me. My passion for engaging talent and developing leadership and potential will surely find a good home?
3. Attempting to create an e-book out of Tess and the Seaside Girl - a picture book I wrote last year and illustrated over Easter - languishing on my laptop for three months, is very time consuming for a non-Gen Y/ non-computer trained/non-geek. Tess is a lovely story and deserves to be told. Indeed, Tess has many more stories yet to tell. But if the seemingly insurmountable technical issues surrounding uploading, downloading, embedding fonts and finding a way to read a book online are allowed to get the better of me - the whole thing will have been in vain. Hence the need for a job. With a steady income I can pay someone more savvy and efficient than I, to do it for me!
4. But getting to know the character, Tess, was not in vain. Indeed, Time and Blog-motivation Depletion Factor 4 is the fact that she has been speaking to me a lot. No I am not bonkers, hearing voices and such. Rather I have been inspired to create a new website oriented towards women, the young at heart and anyone interested in wellbeing and enhancing their quality of life (all of us!) full of Tessisms and tips and hints for living a more Tessish way. Who is Tess, you ask? I will tell you soon, but not yet.
5. The West Wing - 14 episodes of Season 2 - stand between me and my last good blog post. The programme is the epitome of class and intelligent tv writing and is frankly, addictive. Why have I let it get the better of me now? I have watched it at least 4 times over - Love Film has me on their preferred and frequent borrower lists - and yet it never gets old. With the seasons of Good Wife and Brother and Sisters coming to a close, what was I to do?
6. A strange incapacity to blog during the day. I think this is partly due to creative energy being greatest when one is feeling the most relaxed and partly due to the day being filled with such lovely things that I hate to forego. I am free every day from 9 to 3 when the Off-Spring are at school and yet I manage to fill those 6 hours with chores and grocery shopping, gym and fitness, socialising and keeping in touch with/abreast of the world. It has to be said that Virgin Active have some amazing instructors and excellent classes and like The West Wing, it is hard to stop at just one some days. Indeed, pilates and aqua aerobics in deep water are incredibly therapeutic while toning and strengthening without causing perspiration. The fact they appeal to the older female members may also have something to do with it.
7. A sense of hiatus. Last week I was struck by a huge sense of grief concerning my mother's death 14 months ago. The reality that she is not just on a cruise or in intensive care (two handy delusions; I recommend them highly) has been hitting home. I still cannot comprehend it and the sense of loss is perhaps even greater now than it has ever been. I shall divert some time to the stages of grief (again) and see what might be lurking around the corner. The fact that I seem to have done denial for so long is a bit of a worry... But while a sense of loss or grief seems to come from nowhere it is not in fact a freak storm that no one could see on the horizon. One chooses to ignore the warning signs of course. One keeps the hatches battened down against the little breezes of sadness or malaise that blow through. Then suddenly in the middle of the gym floor while leg pressing some 50 kgs one is completely overcome with sorrow. Folk are funny.
8. Feedback. I have been chewing over some feedback on my book, "Spring to Mind" - or more accurately lack of feedback from certain quarters. I can attest that some of the comments made have humbled me and moved me immeasurably. One acquaintance told me she had to stop reading it on the tube due to the tears it was occasioning her. Another described the goosebumps she felt in certain bits. Another says it is her book of the year. The laughter and amusement it brought to my oldest friend buoys me still, as does her kind reviews and support. Nevertheless, and despite all the positives, I was grappling for several weeks with a deafening silence from a few close friends. Funny how one lets those little niggles get in one's way. And yet...
Writing, like art, is an expression of the self. An interpretation of experience and the world and the human condition. Whether a comic book or a Christmas card, the manifestation of the thoughts or ideas of the author are valuable. We may not agree with everything or indeed, anything, said, but we can at least accept that something has been said. Can't we?
Accordingly, I have struggled with the silence or non-engagement. Are they trying to be tactful, to spare me? Are they just too busy or just no interested? And if the latter, why should they be? So this lack of engagement opened up for me an internal dialogue about "feedback". The challenge has been to interpret the silence in a helpful way. When I trained to become a coach, the course involved some focus on giving and receiving personal messages. Not - "love your shoes" (although I did hear that quite often), but things like "I appreciate x, y or z about you", or "it was helpful when you did or said such-and-such". Anyway, at the time a relatively high proportion of the attendees declined to hear the feedback about themselves. I was startled - being an attention seeker from way back I was revelling in a moment of spotlight. Not only that, but we had been told to only give positive feedback - I was champing at the bit to both give and take - but several colleagues were overcome with embarrassment, dread and fear at the very thought. This was a great learning experience for me. Maybe all those years of debating, fighting my corner in a big family and becoming a lawyer did me some good after all. Because it would appear that many people really struggle with giving and receiving feedback.
So, in the face of that, the silence, left me pondering. Would they ignore news of a new job, new partner, new baby, a holiday just taken? Surely something one is excited about tends to be a suitable topic for discussion with friends?
Was I being too precious?
A new friend who I met through writing advised me that writers need to be impervious to all feedback. She said this includes disinterest.
Finally I made my peace with it. Not consciously as is so often the case with life's imponderables - but through sheer effluxion of time (and boredom). I disagree with the idea that one should be impervious to feedback. Good feedback is rich and valuable and meaningful. And by good I do not mean "favourable". An absence of interest is also those things too. Confronting and disappointing, but informative and enriching too.
And that of course begs the question - am I too, guilty of this lack of interest or care? Have I delivered or failed to deliver feedback thoughtfully or respectfully? When is silence the best response?
......
The papers report that July is our grumpiest month due to high humidity and resulting lack of sleep. Perhaps that accounts for my procrastination. I do long for some chilly days. And these long twilights can be too much. Once Wimbledon is over I am pretty well done with summer.I think we should skip August entirely and have two Septembers 8.30pm is late enough for the sun/son to be up and about. And those horrid little flying ants that appear from nowhere on hot still days - euugrh. That is one creature I am happy to walk on.
So where does that leave me. Shall I sum up?
Stocktaking is a very useful way to clear out the detritus of old thinking and living.
Hiatus and loss come in many forms. It is enabling and energising to find ways to accept those experiences and put them to positive uses.
During times of lethargy The West Wing is balm for the soul.
One should never overlook the kindness of strangers or those with a word of support or a smile of encouragement.
Blackout curtains that allow for decent air through-flow are a must for all, especially mothers. (Note to self to buy, make or invent.)
Feedback welcome!
The Off-Spring are awake later and later every night. As my avid readers would have gathered by now, I am a strict believer in bedtime. 8.15pm is about my limit, and that is a 30 minute extension to the winter time cut-off. By 8.30 I want the three boys well on their way to the land of nod, lavender on the pillows to soothe them on their journey, story told or read and teeth brushed and polished. Yet, most nights now I am just settling into "my work" at 9pm when a little voice chimes out or a little face appears. Number 3 seems to be having a growth spurt and seeks more food after lights out and the last kiss is blown (and the last threat delivered). Number 2 then slinks up the stairs to my pseudo office space (one end of the living room sofa) to inform me that sleep eludes him. This can be up to 30-40 minutes after the third and final "be quiet and go to sleep or you will not be able to wake up in the morning and do good work and play well!". When finally silence is assured and no one needs attention, any creative urge, juice or energy I may have been about to summon an hour previously, is now evaporating like a tiny shred of vapour into the outer limits of the stratosphere and I find myself once more resorting to The West Wing reruns for company.
In itself this is not a bad way to spend my time.
But I had wanted to blog twice a week, so I feel disconnected with the process and worst of all - my thoughts - which for me was the truly amazing and delightful part of the whole blogging thing. Admittedly not much has happened lately so finding a topic is something of a challenge. Though, having said that, I do have a long list of potential topics stored in a draft blog somewhere behind the scenes here, so I suspect it a question of motivation and energy, plus squeezed time, rather than a lack of inspiration that is to blame for the parlous lack of output of late.
So what have I been doing with my time? As most of you know - time is elastic after all and we tend to make use of what we have somehow.
A Stocktake of why I am not delivering to Springgirl's timetable:
1. PTA chairmanship involves a lot of talking even before the role is assumed. I have been focussed on fund raising ideas for the Off-Spring's school for the next academic year. This involves political manoeuvres to quell discontent, build good will and engender support, while fact finding and information gathering.
2. Job hunting and attendant interviewing is a distraction. Needing to earn some cash (books and coaching do not a fortune make, alas) I am offering my services to law firms. I had thought that I should try them first since I am a lawyer. Who better to train, coach and teach lawyers than the only people they tend to respect - other lawyers. I am hopeful. Thankfully, living in London, exposes one to a huge market should none of the lawyers want me. My passion for engaging talent and developing leadership and potential will surely find a good home?
3. Attempting to create an e-book out of Tess and the Seaside Girl - a picture book I wrote last year and illustrated over Easter - languishing on my laptop for three months, is very time consuming for a non-Gen Y/ non-computer trained/non-geek. Tess is a lovely story and deserves to be told. Indeed, Tess has many more stories yet to tell. But if the seemingly insurmountable technical issues surrounding uploading, downloading, embedding fonts and finding a way to read a book online are allowed to get the better of me - the whole thing will have been in vain. Hence the need for a job. With a steady income I can pay someone more savvy and efficient than I, to do it for me!
4. But getting to know the character, Tess, was not in vain. Indeed, Time and Blog-motivation Depletion Factor 4 is the fact that she has been speaking to me a lot. No I am not bonkers, hearing voices and such. Rather I have been inspired to create a new website oriented towards women, the young at heart and anyone interested in wellbeing and enhancing their quality of life (all of us!) full of Tessisms and tips and hints for living a more Tessish way. Who is Tess, you ask? I will tell you soon, but not yet.
5. The West Wing - 14 episodes of Season 2 - stand between me and my last good blog post. The programme is the epitome of class and intelligent tv writing and is frankly, addictive. Why have I let it get the better of me now? I have watched it at least 4 times over - Love Film has me on their preferred and frequent borrower lists - and yet it never gets old. With the seasons of Good Wife and Brother and Sisters coming to a close, what was I to do?
6. A strange incapacity to blog during the day. I think this is partly due to creative energy being greatest when one is feeling the most relaxed and partly due to the day being filled with such lovely things that I hate to forego. I am free every day from 9 to 3 when the Off-Spring are at school and yet I manage to fill those 6 hours with chores and grocery shopping, gym and fitness, socialising and keeping in touch with/abreast of the world. It has to be said that Virgin Active have some amazing instructors and excellent classes and like The West Wing, it is hard to stop at just one some days. Indeed, pilates and aqua aerobics in deep water are incredibly therapeutic while toning and strengthening without causing perspiration. The fact they appeal to the older female members may also have something to do with it.
7. A sense of hiatus. Last week I was struck by a huge sense of grief concerning my mother's death 14 months ago. The reality that she is not just on a cruise or in intensive care (two handy delusions; I recommend them highly) has been hitting home. I still cannot comprehend it and the sense of loss is perhaps even greater now than it has ever been. I shall divert some time to the stages of grief (again) and see what might be lurking around the corner. The fact that I seem to have done denial for so long is a bit of a worry... But while a sense of loss or grief seems to come from nowhere it is not in fact a freak storm that no one could see on the horizon. One chooses to ignore the warning signs of course. One keeps the hatches battened down against the little breezes of sadness or malaise that blow through. Then suddenly in the middle of the gym floor while leg pressing some 50 kgs one is completely overcome with sorrow. Folk are funny.
8. Feedback. I have been chewing over some feedback on my book, "Spring to Mind" - or more accurately lack of feedback from certain quarters. I can attest that some of the comments made have humbled me and moved me immeasurably. One acquaintance told me she had to stop reading it on the tube due to the tears it was occasioning her. Another described the goosebumps she felt in certain bits. Another says it is her book of the year. The laughter and amusement it brought to my oldest friend buoys me still, as does her kind reviews and support. Nevertheless, and despite all the positives, I was grappling for several weeks with a deafening silence from a few close friends. Funny how one lets those little niggles get in one's way. And yet...
Writing, like art, is an expression of the self. An interpretation of experience and the world and the human condition. Whether a comic book or a Christmas card, the manifestation of the thoughts or ideas of the author are valuable. We may not agree with everything or indeed, anything, said, but we can at least accept that something has been said. Can't we?
Accordingly, I have struggled with the silence or non-engagement. Are they trying to be tactful, to spare me? Are they just too busy or just no interested? And if the latter, why should they be? So this lack of engagement opened up for me an internal dialogue about "feedback". The challenge has been to interpret the silence in a helpful way. When I trained to become a coach, the course involved some focus on giving and receiving personal messages. Not - "love your shoes" (although I did hear that quite often), but things like "I appreciate x, y or z about you", or "it was helpful when you did or said such-and-such". Anyway, at the time a relatively high proportion of the attendees declined to hear the feedback about themselves. I was startled - being an attention seeker from way back I was revelling in a moment of spotlight. Not only that, but we had been told to only give positive feedback - I was champing at the bit to both give and take - but several colleagues were overcome with embarrassment, dread and fear at the very thought. This was a great learning experience for me. Maybe all those years of debating, fighting my corner in a big family and becoming a lawyer did me some good after all. Because it would appear that many people really struggle with giving and receiving feedback.
So, in the face of that, the silence, left me pondering. Would they ignore news of a new job, new partner, new baby, a holiday just taken? Surely something one is excited about tends to be a suitable topic for discussion with friends?
Was I being too precious?
A new friend who I met through writing advised me that writers need to be impervious to all feedback. She said this includes disinterest.
Finally I made my peace with it. Not consciously as is so often the case with life's imponderables - but through sheer effluxion of time (and boredom). I disagree with the idea that one should be impervious to feedback. Good feedback is rich and valuable and meaningful. And by good I do not mean "favourable". An absence of interest is also those things too. Confronting and disappointing, but informative and enriching too.
And that of course begs the question - am I too, guilty of this lack of interest or care? Have I delivered or failed to deliver feedback thoughtfully or respectfully? When is silence the best response?
......
The papers report that July is our grumpiest month due to high humidity and resulting lack of sleep. Perhaps that accounts for my procrastination. I do long for some chilly days. And these long twilights can be too much. Once Wimbledon is over I am pretty well done with summer.I think we should skip August entirely and have two Septembers 8.30pm is late enough for the sun/son to be up and about. And those horrid little flying ants that appear from nowhere on hot still days - euugrh. That is one creature I am happy to walk on.
So where does that leave me. Shall I sum up?
Stocktaking is a very useful way to clear out the detritus of old thinking and living.
Hiatus and loss come in many forms. It is enabling and energising to find ways to accept those experiences and put them to positive uses.
During times of lethargy The West Wing is balm for the soul.
One should never overlook the kindness of strangers or those with a word of support or a smile of encouragement.
Blackout curtains that allow for decent air through-flow are a must for all, especially mothers. (Note to self to buy, make or invent.)
Feedback welcome!
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