Rebecca Proctor's Blog

So last night, we got a trip in an ambulance. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t as exciting as I thought it would be.

For the last few days, my 17-month old daughter hasn’t been well. That’s nothing new. She’s in her first winter at nursery, which any parent knows is a stewpot of bugs and colds and ick. She comes down with some sort of snot-related symptom every three to four weeks, and there’s a coin toss on whether my husband and I will get to share the joy. Yay.

She was unwell Sunday through ’til Tuesday, when she seemed to perk up massively in the evening. But on Wednesday she wasn’t herself again. She refused breakfast, didn’t have much to drink, and was a lot more teary than usual. As I was also unwell, having her bug on top of a longer-term infection, we sent her to nursery anyway so I could get come rest, but at lunchtime she got sent home with a raging fever. I gave her calpol and cuddles, and she spent the afternoon in disturbed, sweaty sleep.

At four I decided we needed help. Her eyes were unfocused, she was shivering, her heart was racing. Her temperature was 38 Celsius under the arm, and I found a rash on her torso. It was the rash that did it. What with the news full of the sad story of the boy who died from undiagnosed sepsis, my mind jumped to the worst. I burst into tears, and dialled 111 while cradling my daughter, who by now was very quiet and feeling like a bundle of hot coals.

The operator was a man called John (I have no idea why I remember that). He was very nice, and took me through a series of questions. Remembering the recent reports in the news, I made sure to leave nothing out, even if his questions didn’t cover everything. In the end he said he needed to speak to his colleague, and put me on hold. Those were a long couple of minutes.

John came back on the line and told me an ambulance was on its way. In the meantime I shouldn’t give my daughter anything to eat or drink, or medicine, and keep her sitting upright to help breathing. Don’t let her get cold, but don’t let her overheat. Get a bag together in case we needed to get to hospital.

My husband left work immediately. When he got home we stood as a family, huddled around our baby, who was shivering under her blanket.

Thanks to Southampton’s abysmal layout and traffic systems, the ambulance arrived almost half an hour after the call. Inside were two lovely gentlemen (I realise now that I never got their names, and I feel rather awful about it). They asked several questions and examined my daughter. They gave her calpol and nurofen, and told me we’d be going to hospital. Her temperature was now 40.1, and she was in danger of some kind of seizure. I didn’t really understand.

My husband met us at a&e a short while later, and two hours after that we left the hospital. The rash was due to the fever, and our daughter had improved massively by the time we got to the children’s ward. She was eating, drinking, walking around and smiling; something I hadn’t seen all day. We spoke to the nurses and asked to self-discharge. It seemed silly to waste our time and valuable NHS time when there was no immediate problem anymore. The nurses agreed, and made us promise to take her to the doctors if the fever returned, as it may be due to an infection. We went home and slept.

Here is where the choice comes in. I could be angry. I could be embarrassed at the fuss I caused, and point the finger at John at 111 and his script, for blowing things out of proportion when all we needed was a little over the counter medicine. We wasted an entire evening, brought a ton of unneeded stress, and spent hundreds of pounds of taxpayers money for no reason. We were just silly, overreacting parents.

Or were we? The other choice is this. Our daughter wasn’t herself. We know her better than anyone else. What if she had a seizure due to the heat? What if the rash was something more serious? Better safe than sorry comes to mind, and that’s what every NHS staff member told us. We did what we had to do.

Our attitude to the health system is a choice, like our attitude to anything is a choice. Are there cracks? Mistakes? Improvements to be made? Of course there are. Staff are underpaid, resources are stretched, demand is high. But under that is a backbone of steel and smiles. When we were in the a&e ward, I looked around and realised I loved every single person there. I loved the ambulance crews, transferring patients to beds and asking them if they wanted another pillow. The nurses, running from bed to bed, putting calls out on the phones, doing observations with a smile even though the beds were queuing out the door. The doctors, offering treatment and transferring patients to necessary specialist units. Even the policemen who hovered around at the end of the ward. Had they been at a car accident? Had someone been stabbed? Whatever it was, for whatever reason, they stayed.

At the end of the day, the public service staff are there to work. But how many of them had families at home at that moment, eating dinner? Wouldn’t they rather be there with them? I think the answer is probably yes, but that’s the sacrifice they make.

Be angry with the system. Be angry with the politicians. But never be angry at the staff. You don’t know what’s going on behind that smile. You don’t know how many trivial or serious cases they’ve seen today.

This is the reason I choose the second option. I choose to be grateful for John, who did his job and got a second opinion before giving us advice. I choose to be grateful for the ambulance crew and hospital staff, who used their own knowledge, experience and time to assess the urgency of our need while juggling a dozen others. And I choose it for us, me and my husband, for doing what any loving parents would have done.

When you’re unwell and having to wait days for an appointment, you have a choice. Which will you choose?

I don’t usually write blog posts on political or religious topics (usually because I feel others can put serious things into words much better than I can) but I felt so strongly about this that I feel I have to tell someone – anyone – just so I have a chance of someone being as outraged as I am.

We all know what’s happening in Europe. Refugees are coming over the sea to escape war, famine and persecution. Many have died trying, showing the desperation of the situation. They flee to no particular country, just to any that will accept them and offer them safety. They aren’t coming for riches and big dreams. They’re coming to live. And yet they are told to wait at the door while their admission is debated. In some places they are turned away altogether.

The crisis was a topic of discussion on Radio 4 on Saturday afternoon, and I happened to be in the car on the way to London listening to it. The main question was what Britain should do to help with the crisis, if anything at all. As you’d expect, people of all opinions rang in to give their two cents. ‘The country is full’ was a popular one, and ‘these people are people, and they need help’ was another.

But the opinion that shocked me most was one of a Christian woman from (as my memory serves) Yorkshire. In short, she believed that the UK should open its doors and help the refugees – a sentiment I strongly agree with myself. The radio host asked her who would house and feed the people, and the woman (somewhat proudly) stated that she would be more than willing to host a family herself, and she knew of many others from her church who held the same views. Again, admirable, if she meant it. But then – and this was the part that got me – she stipulated that she would happily have Christians stay with her, and that her church are petitioning to allow Christian refugees in.

… What?!

She said this mid-flow, and (thankfully) the host stopped her to bring her back to the point. ‘So you’re saying that you only want to help Christians?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But what about those of other religions, of Islamic faith?’ The woman’s response was awkward, fragmented. I may be mistaken, but the gist of the message I got was ‘No, because of the terrorists.’

My husband and I looked at each other in shock.

This woman’s comments anger me, of course. But more than that, they sadden me. Not only does it show ignorance and a religious racism which is exactly the issue with most of the terrorism fuelled conflicts in the first place, it damages the view the population has of Christians and Christ’s message. Would Jesus have welcomed only Christians when there were others in need? Of course not!

So if you’re reading this, and you’re not a Christian, please believe me that these comments are NOT representative of those who are. We believe that Jesus taught us to love one another, regardless of race or religion or circumstance. The parable of the Good Samaritan is the best analogy I can give you.

My personal view on the crisis is largely shaped by my belief in Jesus. Let the refugees in. Spread them across nations if we have to, but don’t turn them away. Yes it will mean more strain on resources, hospitals, infrastructure. Yes, it will mean cost. It might even (heaven forbid!) mean some sacrifice or discomfort for us as citizens. But how many lives will it save? How many families will it keep together? Is that not worth a little less GDP, if it comes to that?

Agree or disagree of you want. Call me naive or silly or stupid. Even if it costs millions to see no more pictures of drowned children, I’d say it’s worth every single penny.

And if you ever hear someone saying that they want selectivity on who is allowed in, don’t nod your head and let it go. Challenge them. Show them their own prejudice. Until the world accepts itself, the war will never end, and the refugees will keep on coming.

Dear person from my past,

I haven’t thought about you in a very very long time.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I moved house, and I was going through some boxes. I found a stack of old diaries and couldn’t resist going through them. I don’t think I need to explain how awful they were; full of schoolgirl crushes and wonderings and gossip, and more than the occasional rant of self-loathing. They all went in the bin, but not before I found the worst one of all. It was a notebook from my primary school days, and you were in it.

Before you get defensive, it wasn’t the worst one because you were in it. Well, it sort of was, but it isn’t how you think. The reason this notebook was so bad was because of what I had written about you. It wasn’t long, and it wasn’t detailed, but it was a horrid, blunt message of hate.

You never knew it was written. You probably never will. But I want to say sorry.

My earliest memory of you is from when we were eight years old. One breaktime I went to the bathroom and found, to my horror, that I had forgotten to put on underwear that morning. My embarrassment tripled when I remembered we had PE that afternoon. How was I going to get changed without everyone noticing my mistake?

I went to the teacher and tearfully explained my predicament. She was very kind, but had her hands tied by various rules and regulations about where children were and weren’t allowed to go accompanied, and so she had to ignore my request to change in the bathroom. Instead she suggested I go in the small sub-classroom next door, while everyone else changed in the larger outer classroom. I was so grateful I raced in and started changing right away. Of course, I forgot the windows in the doors.

When I heard the giggles, yours was the first face I saw in the window. You called for the other children to come and look, and soon a dozen faces were squashed up against those windows. Why you all found it so fascinating I have no idea. All I remember is the heat of my face as I struggled to get my shorts on as quickly as possible.

Was my humiliation your fault? No, I don’t think so. If you hadn’t seen me, someone else would. I wasn’t terribly popular by any stretch of the imagination. Besides, if children see something funny, they laugh. I don’t think anybody meant any harm.

I think you blended in with the crowd a bit after that. Like I said, I wasn’t liked much by my classmates, and you would poke fun as much of the rest of them. You were tall and pretty and therefore commanded a certain level of respect in the playground that meant the first and sharpest barbs were yours, opening the way for your pals to continue. Overall it was a group effort, and I don’t blame any of you. I was a know-it-all and very sensitive. Most of what you said may well have been true.

At the time I wrote that poison in my notebook, you had been growing particularly close to a friend of mine. She and I had a strange friendship. I remember referring to her as my ‘out-of-school’ friend. We lived across the road from each other, and would often spend time playing after school. But within the school grounds things were different. She was well-liked, and had lots of friends, and I didn’t. We never communicated at school. I don’t think it was ever officially arranged that way. It was just the way things were.

You, like everyone else at school, didn’t know about this. You and she started spending more time together, which was fine in school, but when you visited her afterwards, I got upset. That was my territory, my time with her. I didn’t have many friends. You had seen to that. Why take away one of the few I did have?

I don’t really think those things, not now. But back then I was young, and hurt. You put yourself in the unlucky position of scapegoat. Your teasing at school was one thing, but now you were friend-stealing too. You were guilty. Your sentence? To be ridiculed in my notebook, and to be hated by me for all eternity.

Even a judge can make mistakes, and when that judge is a hurt, lonely ten year-old girl, they are much more likely. So I’m sorry. You are released – I hate you no longer. I’m sure that means nothing to you, but it means a lot to me. I’ve seen pictures of you via mutual friends on Facebook – you are still tall and beautiful, and you look like you’re having a great time. I hope you are. Your confidence was always something I secretly admired. Now I’m gaining some of my own, I’m learning to let go of these little things in the past – starting with you. So thank you, and bless you in all you do.

Yours,

Becky

Admit it. At some point on your life, you’ve bought something for someone else not because you think they’ll like it, but because you like it. For example, I was once given a bracelet. I won’t give details of its appearance in case the gifter recognises it and is mortally offended, so suffice to say that it was not something that I ever planned to wear. I could only assume that it was in the giver’s taste, and they thought (incorrectly) that I would share their enthusiasm. In this case, I thought it best to apply the old ‘it’s the thought that counts’ philosophy, and say nothing more about it.

Of course sometimes people go one step further. They don’t just buy a gift that they like, but a gift that they themselves plan to use. Take, for instance, my brother. Years ago he discovered Coldplay and decided that he loved them. Fair enough: I myself like their music. But when it came to Dad’s birthday, my dear brother decided to buy Dad the band’s first album. I was skeptical of this choice: Dad had never expressed an interest in Coldplay, and as his musical taste was firmly rooted in seventies rock (Rush, Dire Straits and Steely Dan prominently featured), I doubted he’d like it much.

I needn’t have worried. The day after giving dad his present, my brother ‘borrowed’ the CD, and I don’t think Dad has seen it since (though I remember it being played on the car once, and dad asked if this was his birthday present. My brother said, without any hesitation or shame, that it was, and continued with his air-drumming).

The third category of mis-gift-giving (yeah that’s right. Two hyphens.) is the things you buy for others and then accidentally use, only to find that it’s actually pretty cool. For me, this wasn’t been a huge problem until I got married. When you’re married you share each other’s stuff all the time. We’re always playing each other’s games, listening to each other’s music, spending each others money (though for this last one we have a joint account to save on squabbles!). I hasten to add that we draw the line at clothes, though occasionally our socks do wander to one another’s drawers (and yes, I realise how that sounds). In the case of music and other media, this often leads to interesting discoveries, and as you find things you have shared interest in, the strength of your bond increases.

But the one I didn’t see coming was baby stuff. When you have a baby, and she starts getting properly involved with her toys and different foods, your own world is opened up to a whole new realm of possibility. At dinner time today, I gave my daughter a ‘Farley’s rusk’, which I’d never heard of before – I’d just seen it on the shelf at the shops and thought it might be good for her to try. While she was eating I thought I might try a bit myself.

Man alive. Taste explosion in my mouth. I ate the whole thing.

It’s the same with toys. When anyone sees the toys they used to play with, they immediately get stuck in. ‘Aw man, remember these blocks? I’d play with them for hours.’ ‘Big Big Loader! Brilliant!’ Or the classic: ‘Lego/train set/ Meccano. I MUST BUILD.’

Why do we act this way? Is it simply nostalgia? Is it the pretty colours? Or are we transported back to a simpler time, where you’re actually encouraged to play for hours on end, and imagination reigns supreme?

Who knows. But it’s pretty damn awesome.

Even the toys that aren’t exactly what I’d choose, I find myself fiddling with. My daughter got given a musical dog for Christmas. It has buttons on its paws and tummy which light up and makes it sing songs. The voice is irritating and the eyes are freaky as – features that clearly don’t matter to my daughter, but make me reluctant to play with it myself (apart from the obvious being-decades-out-of-the-target-age-group thing). Anyway, the other day my daughter was playing with it, and it sang a song I hadn’t heard it do before. So what did I do when the baby fell asleep? That’s right. I pushed those buttons until that weirdo sang me the entire playlist. No combination can escape me!

Even clothes have this effect, though not in quite the same way (I’m no genius, but I can tell trying on 6-9 month size leggings would be a serious mistake). I’ve never been a ‘girly girl’, or a big follower of fashion, or even a small one. But still, I love dressing my daughter. It isn’t like she’s a doll, or I’m somehow making up for my years and years of boring jeans-and-t-shirt scruffiness. It’s just nice. Thanks to our generous friends and family, she has loads of lovely new clothes. And I have fun putting her in them. I even have a few ‘favourite outfits’ I like laying out for her. Messy mealtime? No worries, I have a dress in reserve. And when she gets too big? Excitement! A whole new wardrobe awaits.

So here’s a piece of advice. You can’t do much about the clothes or the food (well I suppose you could, but it would be weird), but please, for the good of your future enjoyment, don’t throw out the Lego. Such things are timeless, and in today’s world, we could all do with escaping for a few hours and becoming children once more.

So I did that thing that I said I wouldn’t do, and failed to carry on the blog I started in November. Despite alarms, email reminders and notifications. Swiping across is just too easy.

Discipline is tough. I’m not using this as an excuse – I should know better by now – but simply as a fact. We’re human. We get distracted (Facebook, friends, TV, shiny things), we get lazy and sometimes we get demotivated. But there are some things we can do to change. I’ve chosen to go down the forceful route. I know that I hate to let people down. So what do I do? I make promises to people and follow through on them. This is risky, because of course I could break these promises (I’m a master at flaking out – just ask anyone), but more often than not I like to think ��it has the desired effect.

Ahem. This blog excepted, of course.

So why am I bothering to write this down? Partially because, as it turns out, not writing my thoughts down onto a blog so a bunch of strangers can read about my life creates a backlog of said thoughts. The madness is overflowing. The quirks are multiplying. My fingers are typing so quickly right now I’m not sure which way is up, but I feel good about it (my profuse apologies to those of you who have persevered thus far and are reading this gibberish).

That is part of the reason. The other part is that I want to make a commitment to you, the reader. And hopefully, I’ll admit, to new readers I’ll pick up along the way.

You probably know this, but I’m a writer. Aside from my job, being a wife and mother and general living I write. I enjoy it. It helps with that overflowing madness I was talking about. I have characters inside my head from dreams, visions, imagination, all talking to me and trying to get out, to live in other people’s minds (now that I think about it they’re more viruses than people, but hey). Before you click to another page, this is NOT a plug for my existing works (you can read about them yourself on the relevant page if you like, but I’m not talking about them here). Instead I want to propose something.

What if I wrote a book you could read for free?

What if it was a chapter at a time?

What if you could review it as you went along?

Turns out you can. You may have heard of it, but I hadn’t – there is a site called Wattpad that allows writers to do all of these things at the same time. Readers can get an account, subscribe to authors/genres they like, and receive alerts whenever their chosen authors add a new section. Isn’t that amazing?! I mean, not that amazing I suppose, but still. I was impressed.

So I have this story. The plan is almost finished, but I want to try it on this site. Keep your eyes peeled; I may well put up the first excerpt up here too. Until then, if you’re not reading anything, go to Amazon Kindle and download something by someone you have never heard of before. Go on. Try it. It might be awesome.

Last week my younger brother and sister came to visit. We had a lovely time catching up, joking around, eating junk food and playing with my baby daughter. At one point during the day, my brother made a (rather formal) request of his sisters: Could he take the PlayStation 2 back to his home after Christmas?

A few years ago, this would have sparked outrage in my sister and myself. The PS2 was gifted to all three of us one Christmas many years ago from our parents to replace a broken original PlayStation (may it rest in peace). My brother therefore had no more right to it than we did, which was why it had remained at our parents home to be enjoyed in holiday periods, rather than follow any one of us to university. Since then times have changed. I now live with my husband and daughter, and we have bought our own consoles. My sister isn’t a massive gaming fan, and only used the device to watch DVDs. Therefore, we relinquished our claims and granted our brother the magical black box.

This started us on a discussion of video games in general. In our family, there are two very different views on video games. The first is that video games are a valid and entertaining way to spend ones time. The second is that they are a waste of time that could be better used improving oneself or learning things. My brother is firmly placed in camp A, whereas my sister is resolutely set on the second opinion. What followed was an amiable discussion on why my brother likes to relax after work each day with a couple of hours on the computer: something my sister accepts, but says she will never understand (‘Why can’t you watch TV or read a book? At least you’ll learn something.’).

I am not writing this post to prove either of them right or wrong. How people choose to relax and spend their ‘down time’ is up to them. But it got me thinking about the views on video games in general, and reminded me of several occasions where they have been unfairly blamed for entirely unrelated things. I’ll explain more in a minute.

Before I start, I am absolutely, completely biased. I like games. I think that, in moderation, they can be a harmless escape from the stresses or real life and a way to relax. Therefore you might not think my arguments are completely fair. You’d be right.

So first off: this claim that video games are a waste of time. I could go on about this for ages, but I’ll try to be brief. Is anything we do to relax a waste of time? If we read a book, go for a walk, watch TV, bake a cake? Some activities might appear more obviously productive or beneficial then others (e.g. walking is good for you, and cakes can be eaten later), but ultimately, whichever one you choose, they all serve their primary purpose: they are enjoyable. They fill your spare time. You feel entertained and relaxed afterwards. If a video game fills this need, then that is no waste of time. Not to you, at least.

My sister’s argument that you don’t learn anything from games is also null (in my wholly biased opinion). The claim that you CAN learn something from watching TV or reading books may stand… If you’re watching Planet Earth or reading textbooks. But, in an age where younger children owning iPads is becoming increasingly common, there is a matching trend in educational gaming. I remember getting free CD-ROMs in cereal packets where a friendly skeleton named Seymour Skinless (huh huh) taught us about different parts of the human body. We also had a Disney game which taught you how to type. For older users, games can teach strategy and teamwork; valuable skills in any workplace. There will be some people who will point out that lessons in morality that are not-so-cleverly concealed in various other media are lacking in games, but what with the increasing popularity for video game backstories, I’d say that this is covered.

Learning is one thing, and productivity another. Playing video games reaps no material reward or benefit when you’re done. True. But there are other types of reward. Many video games have achievements, medals or task lists that you have to complete in order to win in-game bonuses. Yes, you can’t use these bonuses in real life, but often this does nothing to diminish the very real sense of satisfaction you get.

Video games are also good value for money. Say you’re making a movie. Your job is to keep an Audie XE entertained for around two hours. You hire a bunch of people, scout out locations, reserve sets, buy equipment and costumes and get to work. Great. Making a video game is much more difficult. You have to create days of gameplay to keep a player entertained. What’s more, you need to keep them interested enough that they come back to continue playing after a break. You need everything a movie needs: a story, characters, music. You also need to animate the entire thing to (these days) an extremely high quality. You need nonlinear game progression, mechanics, possible strategies, the correct difficulty and options for social play. A two hour movie costs around ��10 to see. A ��40 game will give you around thirty hours of entertainment. And often you can play it all over again, as a different character, with a friend, or with a completely new strategy. I’d say video games therefore are excellent value for money.

Now the twenty year-old stereotype of the video game nerd (VGN). The VGN stereotype is a gawky, pale, spotty-faced teen with glasses and a not-quite-cracked voice who has very few social skills thanks to spending every daylight hour in front of a screen playing video games (usually of the role playing variety). Let me tell you now that this does exist. Sometimes people truly do prefer to spend literally all of their time on games, often sacrificing other pastimes such as socialising. But like I said before: if you enjoy it, why not? So long as you don’t moan about why you don’t have any friends that is. But anyway. Most of the gaming population are nothing like this stereotype at all. They enjoy gaming ‘as part of a healthy balanced lifestyle’. Me for instance. I like gaming and, pre-baby, I used to spend an evening or two a week playing various video games. I also do cooking, walking, reading, writing, watching TV and movies and go out with friends. Video games have not taken over my life, they enhance it. And I reckon that is true for 99% of gamers. In addition to this, the gaming industry is worth more money worldwide than the music and movie industries combined. So perhaps gaming isn’t as geeky as we thought?

There are of course, the odd exception who take gaming so seriously that they become professional gamers. This is still a relatively new concept to me, and in general: gaming has only been a viable profession for a few years, and still meets with much skepticism. But it’s true. Through sponsorships and advertising, gaming tournaments with real money prizes happen all over the world. People from all over practise all year round to compete for the winnings, which in some tournaments can be seven figures. Competitors tend to be in their late teens and early twenties due to the need for high concentration and fast reaction times. If you think about it, it’s like a sport. Many will disagree with me here, but I think it’s as valid a sport as any other. You need various honed skills and compete against other individuals or teams for prize money. Like snooker, bowls, and chess, professional gaming requires strategy, focus and forward thinking. In some cases, such as the very popular Dota 2, teamwork is also involved, and a massive knowledge base. Dota 2 includes over a hundred characters, all with their own stats, abilities and powers, to choose from. Some characters complement others well, and others are foils. On top of this, there are almost as many unique items to buy during the game, and again these all have different effects. Also, each character has unique items. Professional players know every single piece of info on every single character and every single item. You might call it stupid, but that’s some serious memory skill. So what if they apply it to a game rather than, for example, becoming a doctor? They enjoy it, they’re good at it and the best of them are richer than we’ll ever be. Good for them.

On the flip side, there are those few who make a very bad name for gaming. Whereas most people use gaming as am escape from the stresses of real life, some people get sucked in to the virtual world so much that they believe it to be reality. Needless to say, the people in this category usually have a preexisting mental illness which confuses their perceptions of what is real and what isn’t. Before video games, television had the same effect. It isn’t the games fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault. But this combination can be dangerous. The Sandy Hook school shootings were committed by a young man supposedly obsessed with Call of Duty, and used a similar automatic weapon to those used in-game. Many say that video games are now so realistic that they risk tipping the mentally ill over the edge. Maybe so. But it isn’t the fault of the game. Mentally ill people need help. I can’t speak for America, but certainly in Britain mental illness is all too often a taboo subject that many people are either too afraid to talk openly about, or too ignorant of. This is getting off topic, and there are people much more qualified to discuss it, but I believe that more education and openness and support around mental illness will make incidents like Sandy Hook less likely (that and the US restricting gun use, but again that is another topic for another time). All too often, fingers are pointed at video games and other media as the primary source for violent behaviour. For example, I recently watched a documentary that investigated the May 2014 shootings in California by Elliott Rodgers, a young man who claimed there would be ‘retribution’ because no woman would sleep with him. Rodgers wrote a 140 page manifesto about why and what he was going to do (break into the ‘hottest sorority’ and kill as many women as he could). He posted YouTube videos describing how he felt and others where he followed happy couples and muttered about how they’d pay. On the day he killed six people, he put up a final video proclaiming his intentions. In the documentary we watched, there was a comment about how video games were found in Rodgers’ home and that they could have contributed to his decision to kill. What the documentary didn’t mention (I found this out later) was that Rodgers had been seeing several therapists due to various problems. I reacted to this with dismay. If Rodgers had an underlying psychological problem and left a trail of evidence preceding the crime, it was not the fault of video games that six people died. I find such a conclusion absolutely absurd.

Quite a serious note to end on, but nevertheless important. In my opinion, gaming is fine. Now if my daughter would only just go to sleep, I might finally get my Sim promoted to Rocket Scientist. It’s only been ten Sim years coming.

Babies are weird, when you think about it. There’s a lot that they do that we don’t understand. Of course when you really think about it, they’re experiencing so many new things every day and have little ways of communicating with us, so most of their behaviour is completely rational.

Still. They’re weird.

This is something I’ve realised over the last three months, since I joined the Mum Club. Before, babies were just cute. My daughter certainly is cute, in my completely biased opinion, but she’s also extremely possessive of the weird trait. Here is why, in no particular order.

1. She gets distracted by everything.

Seriously. She’ll be mid-scream and suddenly stop to stare at a wall. Then she remembers she was upset about something and continues from where she left off. Weird.

2. She finds boring stuff really interesting.

See above about staring at walls. Other favourite activities include giggling at ceilings, watching the sky and observing the pattern on our living room furniture.

3. She sleeps… And then she doesn’t.

This evening, she fell asleep while feeding. It was early, so I didn’t believe it. So, I tested it. I shifted her weight. I rolled her over. I even turned her slightly sort of upside down. Nothing. So I decided to take advantage, and get an early night myself. Five minutes after tucking her in, she wakes up. Gah.

4. She LOVES nappy changes.

Yes, I wrote that right. She kicks, she squeals, she waves her arms in the air, cause she just don’t care. Or rather, she does care, and she likes it. If only she liked putting her clothes back ON as much.

5. She likes to eat her hand.

Makes sense. Hungry, so put most convenient object in mouth. But when I try to actually feed her, she shoves her fists in her mouth even harder. Do her hands provide better milk than my boobs? I think not.

6. When she’s hungry, she does gymnastics.

My husband will be holding her vertically one moment, and the next she’s worked her way to be horizontal. No doubt an effort to find the breast and latch on, but nevertheless, it’s an odd skill.

7. She farts. A lot.

I don’t know if all babies do this, or if it’s my diet or what, but sometimes I feel nothing less than a two octave scale of vibration. And they’re not silent either. Or odourless. Far from it. I wonder if we should be worried, or take advantage and charge people to hear our baby parp the national anthem. I wouldn’t pay to see that, but some people would. There are some real weirdos out there. Like my daughter. And so, we come full circle.

8. She holds her own hands.

She clasps them together in front of her, as though she’s politely waiting for someone to speak. A lot of the time she fidgets too, sort of wringing them together. One friend pointed out that she was ‘plotting against me’, which I thought was a very good point. I’ve been paranoid that she’s actually an evil genius ever since.

9. You think she’s clever. Then you don’t.

This is my husband’s favourite story. Our daughter will seem like she’s really getting somewhere. She’ll successfully wriggle her way out from under a blanket, or push herself off from you using her legs, or kick when we take her swimming. And then she pokes herself in the eye. Clever girl? Not so much.

10. She has a bendy back.

When you pick her up when she’s sleeping, like after a car journey, she’ll arch her back better than I’ve ever been able to. It’s impressive, but also makes it quite difficult to hold her without a) risking dropping her and b) folding her into a pretzel baby.

See?

So as I’ve mentioned before, I’m a writer. My main project at the moment is a fantasy trilogy which I’ve been working on for about ten years (yes I agree, it’s time I got a move on). As annoying as it is that the writing process takes so long, it offers benefits too. My style has changed as I’ve matured, and since joining numerous writing groups I have come up with new ideas, plot devices and ways to use words descriptively.

Of course, this means that whenever I go back and look over my early work, I often wish I could change this bit, or tweak that, or simply rewrite that whole section. This is easy to do for the most part, except for the first part of my main trilogy, which has already been published. Oops.

So here is a list of things I would do differently, should I start again. Maybe it’ll be helpful to other budding writers out there too.

1. Plan

Some people plan their entire novel out before they start, whereas others don’t plan at all and let the plot take them where it wills. I used to be a stout member of the second group, but for my second book I’ve set up camp in the grey area: have a flexible, rough outline of where the story will go. It’s a simple bullet list of the main events that need to happen and from whose perspective the narration will work best, and it’s damn useful. It’s also easy to edit, reference and switch things around if the story goes in a slightly different direction.

2. Draw maps

About a week ago I realised that a two week boat journey and a three day swim covered the same amount of distance in my novel. Apart from being physically impossible, it won’t do to have readers notice it. Draw maps of your world as you invent it. If you include them in your final work it’ll be a useful tool for your readers as well, particularly if your world is extensive.

3. Write character lists

If your book contains many characters, it is worth putting together a quick glossary for your own reference. I know this would have sped up my writing quite a lot with my series. Also, as with maps, you can include them for the reader too (I for one would have struggled with Game of Thrones without the character glossaries at the back).

4. Write name lists

You’ve done it for places and people: why not for things as well? Writing fantasy means lots of made up words for foods, sports, clothing, weaponry and other objects. Make a glossary: you won’t regret it. Also when naming things, write a list of words instead of using the first one you think of. Then you can pick out the word which sounds most like e.g. a fruit.

5. Have consistent characters

When planning, have an rough idea of who your characters are, and keep them that way. Don’t have a cowardly, quiet person suddenly do something that makes them the centre of attention. Don’t have a mild-mannered person get angry regularly. When a person acts out of character, it should be a) for a reason significant to the plot and b) noticed by other characters.

6. Describe new settings

Description is a great aid to imagination, but too much of it risks boring the reader. There are no hard and fast rules, and it really depends on the style of the writer, but I do this: When introducing a new setting, think of the three most important things about it, and use those to build a description a few lines long. If you’ve written a whole page describing a desert, you need to cut it down. Don’t forget, you can continue to describe setting through actions your character takes e.g. The sand felt coarse under his toes as he walked, and each grain seared his skin like hot coals.

7. Be consistent in narration

This links back to my point about planning. Narration should remain as consistent as possible; changing the point of view from one character to another abruptly can make writing seem disjointed, and the story won’t flow. Narration can change in breaks in the text e.g. at the end of chapters. Personally, I refer to my plan so that I know who needs to be where and when, and therefore who is best to narrate the story.

8. Spelling and grammar

Everyone rants about it, but there’s a good reason; it’s true! I read and re-read my first book so many times and yet I still missed some typos that were only pointed out to me after I’d published it. Get a pal to read it for you, if you don’t want to do it yourself.

9. Pace

Something else to plan. My books are primarily aimed at young adults, so I need a fairly brisk pace to keep up interest. If your book is aimed at more mature audiences, the pace can be slower. Think about who your writing is for, and plan the main events in your story accordingly. In my plan for my next book, I decided that I want one plot-significant event to happen in each chapter.

10. Set targets

Writing isn’t easy. I started my first book while I was at school, continued slowly through university and finished it while holding down a full time job. What helped me to finally knuckle down was friends and family who asked me every day if I’d written anything. Eventually I started writing regularly because it was embarrassing telling them I hadn’t done anything! If I could do it again, I’d set myself a small word target per week, say around 2000 words. Little and often is better than writing in infrequent chunks, as it helps you keep on track in terms of style and story.

Well, that’s what I would have done. Whether this has been useful to you or not, it has to me. One last thing: don’t give up. The planning and editing and time may not always seem worth it, but when you see your name in print, you’ll know that it was.

‘Why are you reading that rubbish?’

A commonly heard phrase in our household while I was growing up. It was the start of the American sitcom boom, with all the British shows that came with it. It was also the time when we got our first games console, a Sony PlayStation, and proceeded to waste hours, no, days of our lives playing Gran Turismo and Spyro the Dragon. Dad would get fed up with his kids wasting their time with such frivolous activities and so encouraged us to try other things to fill our time. I needed little encouragement: my brother was an expert at hogging the PlayStation all to himself (the fruits of his labour included a sparkling racing record and the honour of being the only family member able to do that really difficult caveman level) and my sister liked watching Teletubbies (for those unfamiliar with Teletubbies, they were four colourful humanoid creatures that spoke in baby language, lived under a hill not dissimilar to a more modern hobbit-hole and had small televisions on their bellies. They were weird.). Therefore, I gladly retreated to the world of literature.

But this still wasn’t good enough for my Dad. He seemed to disapprove of my new pasttime. Maybe it was because I became no less engrossed in my books than my siblings did with TV and gaming, so that I was always the last to turn up for dinner because I just ‘had to finish the chapter’. Maybe it was because I got through books so quickly that I was always having to buy new ones, which Mum usually did for me (she encouraged reading in all its forms and thought it unfair that I spend my pocket money on books). Or maybe (and this was probably it) it was because I chose to read books that Dad didn’t consider particularly wholesome.

Before you jump to conclusions, it wasn’t like I was reading erotica at age eight. I’m not really sure what Dad expected me to be reading exactly. Chaucer? Orwell? Dickens? I mean, they’re great now, but at the time I was much too young to appreciate classic work such as theirs. Instead I read Enid Blyton, Dick King-Smith and Roald Dahl. The last one in particular Dad thought ridiculous, I guess because great glass elevators and dream giants simply don’t exist in real life and so are silly things to put into a child’s mind (in case you hadn’t guessed, my dad came from a fairly traditional, fundamentalist background). But he understood that I was only a child after all, so he would keep his shows of disapproval to the occasional eye-roll.

As I grew, I became more interested in young adult fiction. My favourites were Jacqueline Wilson, Louise Rennison and Meg Cabot. Now these were over the line, in Dad’s opinion. I mean, they included kissing. His little girl couldn’t possibly be interested in such rubbish. But I was.

I read other stuff too. Pride and Prejudice tool a couple of attempts, but I got through it. I also started to branch out into the fantasy genre, which inspired me to start writing myself. But before bed, or after a difficult day at school, I wanted nothing more than to empty my head and read something easy and lighthearted, with a guaranteed happy ending.

Dad didn’t seem to understand this, particularly when I graduated to Nora Roberts. But I paid him little heed. I now own over thirty of her novels, and I reread them regularly when I need to unwind.

My point is this. Life is too short. We have enough stresses and strains in our lives without having to worry about how we spend our down time too. Who cares if you watch The Only Way Is Essex instead of British Bake Off? Whose business is it whether you choose to see a chick flick or the next Oscar-worthy war epic? Why shouldn’t you read Danielle Steele over Sebastien Faulks? Ignore what my Dad would say. His trash is my treasure.

So why the title of the blog? Several reasons.

1. ‘Write by night’ was taken. As was ‘Write way’, ‘Write is right’ and ‘Author in training’.

2. I have a two month old daughter, so it literally is ‘write while she sleeps’.

3. Many of my stories start while I’m asleep. I don’t think you’d be hard pushed to find other authors who draw inspiration from their dreams. Dreams are amazing. In them you can be quite literally anyone, regardless of sex, ethnicity, even species. You can be anywhere: places you’ve been before, places you haven’t, places that you are fairly sure don’t exist. I remember dreaming of a world made entirely of sweets when I was a kid (you can imagine my excitement when I watched ‘Wreck it Ralph’ for the first time). Anything goes.

When I started writing at twelve years of age, everything I wrote was based on my dreams. As a nerdy, awkward adolescent, I tended to lose myself in young adult fantasy books by day, and dream about whichever poor boy I happened to be crushing on at the time at night. Usually these dreams were cheesy and romantic: walks on the beach or through the woods, eyes meeting across a dancefloor, hands brushing while passing books in class. Generally my dreams were fairly lucid, and I usually managed to direct them to a kiss before the dream ended. Pretty standard nauseating stuff.

But it got me thinking. What if I was having these dreams, but information was missing? I won’t go into details here, but this gave me the idea for my first book.

Thirteen years later, that book is still unfinished. I’ve looked back at it several times and it’s painfully obvious that the thing needs to be started again, as it bears all the hallmarks of an overexcited twelve year-old who doesn’t really know what she’s doing (don’t get me wrong; I know children have written and released books before and they’ve been impressive but trust me, this wasn’t one of those). But as plot-holey and nonsensical as it is, it was my first idea and my first attempt at novel writing, so I’m proud of it. And I have my overactive imagination and dreams to thank.

Since then I have begun no less than eighteen new novels. Some of them have fizzled out into nothing (including a superhero story written from the point-of-view of the love interest character. It didn’t work. Turns out she had a pretty boring life and I couldn’t make her have more contact with the superhero without turning her into Lois Lane), and most of the rest have potential but lie unfinished somewhere in my computer.

But the dreams continue (although they have evolved slightly from the romantic clich��s of my youth) and they still inspire me. Dreams are when the imagination runs wild, without limits of physics, culture or conscious thought. If we can’t get any inspiration from that, then where can we?

Whatever inspires you, cling to it. New ideas make life so much more interesting. Be inspired. Make that invention. Bake that gourmet meal. Film that movie.

As for me, I’m going to write that book. If my daughter will let me.