Christmas tree

Dark green plastic
Looks nothing like the real thing
The spaces between leaves are too wide
It feels wrong
It doesn’t smell like Christmas
But
He is mesmorised
“Is it Christmas time now Mummy?”
Slowly, he picks up a red bauble. Places it carefully on the tree
“I do the low ones. You do the high ones, ok?”
He picks up a tiny gold star
“We need a big one”
I show him a giant star covered in too much glitter
His eyes widen “Twinkly!” he says, smiling
Returns to the important work
Of dressing the tree
He steps back to admire his work and I turn on the lights
His eyes light up.

Dressing the Christmas tree

 

Writers write, right..?

Source: freedigitalphotos.net

Image source: freedigitalphotos.net

Last month I posted a question over on Facebook, asking fellow writers when/whether they felt comfortable calling themselves writers. The responses were revealing…

My self-confident side says I can call myself a writer as I fulfill the only necessary criteria which is… that I write. However, as I am not paid to write, my insecure side says I shouldn’t REALLY call myself a writer because real writers get paid
Maddy, Writing Bubble

“It wasn’t until I had a book published and gave up the day job to write everyday that I felt like a writer.
Amy Beeson, Wordsby Commuications

I call myself a writer, but only very quietly when people are not really listening.
Judith Kingston, judithkingston.wordpress.com

The reason I asked this is because although on some level I’ve always known I was a writer, I never referred to myself as such until I was getting paid to do so. Bizarrely, I did refer to myself as a poet once I’d had some poems published and was regularly performing at spoken word events… But not a writer. Now that just doesn’t make any sense.

One of the reasons I held back from calling myself a writer for so long was because I kept hearing that “writers write every day.” I have boxes full of notebooks that go back years but I have never written every day. In fact, I’ve often gone long periods when I’ve written very little at all.

I have never written every day

Those who claim the need to write every day explain that the more you write, the more you write and that we need to practise our art. I agree on both counts. However, I don’t believe that taking a break is a bad thing. Everyone is different and for me personally, writing every day becomes a chore. I need those times in between to recharge my creative batteries by doing something else… And often find that this ‘downtime’ fuels my creativity and allows seeds of thought to develop so that I return refreshed and bursting with creative energy and ideas.

Writing is not just (sometimes not even) what I do. It’s who I am

I know I’ve always been a writer. There were times I didn’t allow myself to believe it because I spent too much time listening to other people’s ideas of what that should look like. But I know myself better now and I know that this is who I am. It’s as much a part of me as my brown skin, my curly hair and the birthmark in my eye. I can’t change it and wouldn’t want to. No matter what life throws at me, whether I get paid for it or not and even if I never write another word (highly unlikely!) , I am – and always will be – a writer.

Are you a writer? Is is as much a part of your identity as it is mine? Or is it just something you do…? Please do comment in the box below, or even join the conversation on Facebook. I’d love to hear from you!

Why are we losing our love for languages?

I recently read this article in the Guardian, about language learning in the UK and how 80 per cent of those who studied popular languages (French and German) at school are now unable to understand more than the most basic phrases. The knock on effect of this is that less and less teenagers are opting to study languages at A-Level and beyond.

This article really struck a chord for me. As a child, I was good at languages. I started learning French aged eight (which was almost unheard of in the UK at the time) and went on to achieve French, German, Italian and Russian GCSEs, followed by A-Levels in French and Russian and a BA in French. Not bad, right?

Well, now I can just about say hello, count to ten and ask for directions in German and Italian. I can read the Cyrillic alphabet but often don’t understand the words I’m reading (despite having written an extensive essay on women’s rights – in Russian – for my A-Level exam) and my French is now at conversational level… Why is this? For ten years of my life I studied languages. At school, I was good at learning new languages quickly and proud of my achievements. Certainly there were others who were more skilled than me, learned faster and had flawless grammar but I could be understood, which I think is the main thing.

For me personally, there were two issues at play… A lack of confidence and not enough time spent practising. During my school years of course, oral tests were frequent and although I was often terrified of making a mistake, not practising was not an option. Fast forward to university years where I didn’t make the effort to practice speaking German, Italian or Russian (despite many opportunities) and many of the modules I chose for my French degree were delivered in English. So while  did have conversation classes, the essays I wrote analysing French literature were in English. I took a fascinating linguistics module… that was delivered and tested again, in English and when I moved to France for a year what did I choose to do? I taught English! I did speak French with my peers but also spent a lot of time with my English speaking friends. So, who is to blame for my lack of language skills? Well, me! Had I spent more time in conversation classes, sought out study groups, only taken modules delivered in French and spent more time speaking French while in France, I would be much more proficient than  I am now.

The thing is, I am probably not as bad as I think I am. I’m told by French friends, when I work up the courage to chat in their mother tongue, that I sound Parisian when I speak French and although my grammar isn’t always correct, I am understandable. If I’ve had a drink or two I am fairly fluent. Of course all this means is that I lack confidence. The more I speak, the more I’ll learn, right?  It’s just a fear of getting it wrong that holds me back but what’s the worst that can happen?

So, to hopefully give my son more confidence when it comes to language learning and to remind myself how much fun language learning can be, I’ve started taking him to a French class at a local café. It’s a combination of storytelling, playing games and singing and importantly, he has no idea that he’s learning. For him, memorising vocabulary isn’t hard work, simply because he doesn’t know he’s doing it. I wonder whether this playful approach could work as well with teenagers, who seem to be finding that learning a language is not what they signed up for. They want to speak and be understood, not spend hours writing essays in exam conditions. More of an emphasis on the oral examination could be hugely beneficial when it comes to making language learning more attractive to young people again.

When it comes to the children learning languages now, I do wonder what age those tested were when they started learning, how they were taught and tested and whether their language skills, outside of an assessment situation, might actually be a bit better than they appear… If only they weren’t so afraid of getting it wrong.

Do you speak a language other than your mother tongue? Did you learn at school, or by travelling or some other way? Or did you learn a language at school that you now struggle to even understand?

How do you think we could improve on the way we teach modern languages today? Do share your thoughts in the comments below!

They soared skywards

Today’s short  story is my response to the challenge set by Maddy, over at Writing Bubble, to write a 100 word story following my recent microfiction posts. Here you go Maddy, hope you enjoy!

They soared skywards
Levilia’s wings were starting to burn. It was excruciating, but her attention was on her ashen-faced sister. “Jen…” she soothed, “it’s not the end of the world.”
Perjennimama’s lips tightened. “Well, technically Lev, it is.”
“It doesn’t have to be… Not for everyone.”
“You can’t mean…?” The younger fairy shook her head.  She knew they didn’t really have a choice.
“No. No… We can’t take Lumpy!”
“Don’t call me that, I’m not a baby anymore.” Lumpadina flew towards them. “We don’t have long.” Slowly, she reached for her sisters’ hands. “I’m ready. Really.”
Together, they soared skyward, toward the seven suns.

Image credit: Regina Lee

Image credit: Regina Lee

The mystery of the missing door

This week’s blog post is especially for Miriam Drori, who challenged me to write a 100 word story for her title:

The Mystery of the Missing Door

Deanne woke with a start and sniffed the air. Something had changed. She opened her eyes to find the TV’s stand-by light staring back at her, unblinking. She didn’t remember watching TV yesterday. Pushing the covers aside, she made her way downstairs to pick up her daily package. It wasn’t there but her door had returned. Above it, in the familiar scrawl that had frightened her all those years ago, it now said ‘You are free to leave.’ She stared, reached out for the door handle but shrank back. They had redefined her freedom.

'Door Handle' by phanlop88 at freedigitalphotos.net

Image source: freedigitalphotos.net