say-it-well-blog

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PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER BENDER: The Woman In The Window & Small Spaces

I've been on a bit of a psychological thriller bender. This is evidenced by the totally glamorous dirty bags under my eyes which are ode entirely to the nocturnal reading sessions that haven't been wrapping up until 2, 3 or even 4am. I kept telling myself, "Just one more chapter" and that was never the case. But really, isn't reading the best type of addiction to have? I generally look like I haven't seen daylight (think of the vampires in the Twilight series sans the sparkle. I’m not very sparkly ✨) so heavy duty suitcases swinging from my eyeballs hardly look out of place on me.

Have you ever seen Alfred Hitchcock's movie Rear Window? If you have then A.J. Finn's thriller THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW is essentially a modern day remake wherein James Stewart's character is switched out for the agoraphobic psychologist, Dr Anna Fox, who dwindles away her days tracking the movements of residents in her neighboring brownstones in Harlem, New York.

Don't misunderstand, my comparison to Rear Window is in no way meant to be taken as a criticism. I freaking love that movie! It takes me right back to year 12 media studies. If anything, this book might give a classic film a fresh surge of popularity as it appeals to a new younger audience. There are no original ideas, as they say, just new ways of telling them. You're talking to the girl who has been saying she wants to write a current day version of HAMLET for years so I'm hardly going to judge anyone for giving something that's become a little dated and dilapidated a face lift. Like the film, #thewomaninthewindow placed the reader in the delicious position of being a sneaky voyeur to the private lives of total strangers with the additional thrill of a classic "who done it". Similar books that have recently been prominent on the bestsellers lists are GONE GIRL and THE GIRL ON THE TRAIN and, like his fellow thriller writers, @ajfinnbooks produces a book that is an easy read while incredibly engaging. Did I guess the plot twist? Yes. I confess that I did. If you read or watch enough of this genre, you can’t help but to predict the beats before they arrive. Highly suspicious characters are expertly planted red herrings. Clues are deeply buried in scenes designed to divert attention. It’s far from a reflection of the quality of writing but, rather, an indication of how meticulously planned the genre is. Did my guessing of the plot twist bother me? No. The story in itself had enough intriguing layers that I was keen to keep turning the pages to see how all the loose ends would be tied together.

Rose Rate-O-Meter: ⭐️⭐️⭐️ 1/2

SMALL SPACES snagged my attention when it appeared on the shortlist for the Readings Young Adult Book Prize. I'm generally not a consumer of much YA and yet I found myself asking for a copy in The Younger Sun just before closing time the very next day. The girl behind the counter beamed and she pulled out a copy from behind the counter as though she had been expecting me. "I hope you don't have anything on over the next few days," she warned. "You're not going to want to put it down." Yes, yes. I'd heard it all before about oh so many books and these promises tended to fall flat. Not this time, my friends. Not this time.

The debut novel my Melbourne author, Sarah Epstein, (yes, girl!) tells the story of Tash Carmody who witnesses her childhood imaginary friend, Sparrow, snatch 6 year old Mallory Fisher from a country carnival. An account that is discarded by the adults surrounding her. At seventeen years old, Tash is now preparing to escape her small coastal hometown to attend university when Mallory Fisher, mute since her abduction, returns to town with her family, bringing disturbing memories and unanswered questions with her. @sarahepsteinbooks lured me in to her beautifully crafted page turner, so creepy at times that I caught my line of sight sliding to the darker corners of my bedroom...just to be sure no one was lingering. My opinion as to whether or not Sparrow was real continuously shifted and I relished the way that the expertly weaved story confused my brain as it grappled to put the pieces together.

Rose Rate-O-Meter: ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Okay, I think that's enough now. Psychological thrillers tend to render me a tightly wound coil. I'm off to have a bath, eat some chocolate and watch something absurdly fluffy that I would most likely be considered to be too old to watch.

P.S. Unfortunately John Marsden commandeered my plan and beat me to a HAMLET rewrite (*whispers behind a cupped hand* and it wasn't very good)

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Magic Curses

I love this kid. I mean, I LOVE him! He's my go to for all expressions of mood when I'm liaising over email. A perfect example is the infamous meme where "How I feel when I leave work after doing nothing all day" is stamped across his face. Today, this charming lad took me back down memory lane to an occasion that I had completely forgotten. Rewind about 19 years to when I was nearing the end of my primary school sentence and, perhaps, the end of my tether. My "best friend" at school was a bully. I'm not talking your low key teasing and name calling* but physical and psychological abuse. I didn't realize she was a bully though because she concealed it with after school play dates and friendship bracelets. I hadn't quite figured out that publicly dacking me or tying me to a pole on the basketball court wasn't cancelled out by proclaiming "but you're my best friend". Yes, master! I didn't come by friends easily so I was in no position to pass up a BEST one! I wised up eventually. I started chatting with another little girl, a year younger, who was genuinely nice and kind. No strings attached. No insults shoved up my nose. But how to remove myself from the vindictive relationship I was in? The solution came to me one day when, while seated in the backseat of my parents car, I heard a gentleman let rip a slew of colourful language out of his window at another vehicle that had cut him off. Once upon a time my best friend and I had been two thirds of a trio. The third party had once used the F-bomb and my intensely religious BF had been profoundly offended. She blanked out our pal and announced that her filth wasn't welcome around "nice girls" (I know, ironic right?). And so, as Timon said, "Our trio was down to two". It was simple. My escape was planned. I just needed to find the right time. I assured my new friend that the day was coming when we would be able to freely play together during lunch time rather than just on the days that my bestie was at home sick. A few weeks went by. I was frustrated. She wasn't offering me any bait to let rip! At last, she unleashed a dramatic spiel about how she knew a boy in our class liked her but he was, like, ignoring her and the notes she left in his desk. Now was my moment to shine..."well, you should just fuck him right off then," I said placidly. To this day, I don't know where this filth came from. My parents and older siblings minded their P's and Q's. It's the type of thing that I would say now without thinking twice. In fact, I think I've used that exact stinger twice today. But back then, I'm not sure how those words fell into place. She blinked. Went beetroot red. Got up and walked off. She never spoke to me again. And me? Well, in the movie account of my life (because I'm THAT interesting), I walk over to my real friend with my face replicating that of my mysterious meme friend. They slow down my pace of course. And 'Fader' by The Temper Trap is playing in the background. And my runners are Converse high tops rather than Big W back to school specials. Oh, and there isn't a stain on my windcheater. As a side note, that same girl wrote to me while we were in year 7. She was having difficulties making friends and had decided to forgive me so I could be friends with her again. I never replied. *I in no way mean to imply that one sort of bullying is worse than another. Bullying is bullying. Name calling hurts and does damage. #zerotolerance #memorylane #ashortbuttruewritingexercise #melbournewriter

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Lyrics To Prose

My projects were incredibly neglected over July. Partly due to my partner being unwell and partly being due to my own mental health taking a beating. Yes, I know, writing is my happy place and I therefore should have been increasing my productivity. Like sex and chocolate, getting down some words can get the endorphins pumping. On the flip side though, writers block can be like bad sex. When the narrative is forced, it can be depressing and crippling (and you can start questioning whether your relationship has a future?). So, when I heard about the August challenge, I jumped on board. One page a day is completely doable. In fact, a one page minimum usually increases momentum and that page rolls on to being two, three or even four pages. That’s what happened to me one night last week. I had been at work all day and that had been followed up by an appointment with the accountant. Given the schedule, I had assumed it would just be a one page kind of day. But on my way hope, I got held hostage by inspiration for a scene. A scene for my novel no less, which has been put aside for the last couple of months while my attention has been focused on my chapter book project. What got the creative juices flowing? Music, of course. Specifically, The Danish Girl (from the film soundtrack of the same title) by Alexandre Desplat. The melody vividly conjured two of my main characters. They took the lead and their dialogue and movements played out entirely on their own. As a result, 4 pages were typed out that evening. Music - the right type of music - is a huge influence on my creativity. Similarly to how some people can’t stand any noise at all while they work, the wrong soundtrack can leave me feeling agitated and distracted. Tracks for my novel include traditional Celtic, pub style bands and contemporary classical. When I write my chapter book though, my Pandora app is set to playlists of 1920s burlesque style tunes (no nipple tassels feature in the book I assure you) and classic crooners like Frank Sinatra. I’m always on the look out for recommendations though and would love to hear from anyone with any suggestions.

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EXCERPT: The Story of Us

By Rose Grahame

“How much longer are you going to be?”      Lizi hooked an earring into place and reached out for the bottle of perfume that sat on the bathroom windowsill.

     “Just give me five more minutes,” she called out.

     She smeared some toothpaste onto her brush and, jamming it into her mouth, bustled around the bedroom looking for her favourite black ankle boots, her hand manoeuvring the bristles around her mouth automatically.

     “I’m pretty sure five minutes was up seven minutes ago.”

     She responded with incoherent babbling, white spittle shooting out from between her lips.

     “I’ve finished my third beer! If you’re not out in two minutes then I’ll open another one. And it will be your own fault if I’m drunk before we even get to dinner.”

     Spitting into the sink, she ran the head of the toothbrush under the tap before squeezing her own head beneath it and letting the water slip into her open mouth. With her cheeks full and puffy, she tossed her toothbrush into her bag before sliding her forearm across the windowsill, scooping her moisturiser, a half finished tube of eye cream, her favourite nail polish in ‘Ladylike’ shade, rogue lipsticks – that she purchased but never wore – and the perfume that she’d just sprayed into its waiting, eager mouth.

     “Okay, I’m ready.”

     She moved her way through the familiar room and down the long hallway, flicking off light switches as she passed, plunging the area behind her into darkness, one section at a time. Oliver was sitting on the couch with a coffee coloured beer in one hand and a bottle opener in the other, poised just above the bronze cap. A grin spread across his face; easy and cheeky.

     “Right on time,” he said.

     “Always.”

     Oliver got up and took his beer back to the kitchen.

     “Have you fed Bob?” she asked.

     Oliver appeared back in the doorway, “Nope.”

     She rolled her eyes and his smile stretched even broader. He disappeared back into the kitchen and the clanging of dry kibble being dumped into a metal bowl drifted out to her as she stood by the front door, rummaging around in her too-large and too-cluttered handbag.

     At the tell-tale sound of food, Bob’s shiny, wet nose appeared from under the couch.

     “C’mon, Bob! Time for noms!”

     Bob, the silky haired Golden Retriever, dragged himself out, scooting along on his belly until the base of his tale was clear and he could stand up. Stretched to his full height, he shook – his name and council registration tags clinking together like pendants on a necklace – and padded across to his bowl, one leg sliding out from beneath him in clumsy excitement. Oliver gave the top of his head a casual pat and headed towards the door.

     “We ready to go?” he asked.

     Finally fishing her keys out of the bottom of her bag, she nodded and dumped them on the small table by the door. She wouldn’t be needing them. She nodded at him and Oliver pulled the door open to step out in front of her. Chivalry was a long forgotten memory when you had been in a relationship that spanned for as long as theirs had. She crossed the threshold into the corridor and, as she reached back to pull the door closed behind her, she felt it…a wet dab on the back of her knee. Bob gazed up at her. His eyes were eager and crumbs of chewed kibble clung to the short whiskers on his muzzle. Before Lizi could say anything, Bob sat in the doorway, neatly tucking his bottom under and curling his tail around his thigh. The wisps of his feathery tail fanned out on the carpet. Lizi knelt down in front of him and cupped the dogs sweet face between her hands, feeling the trusting weight behind it in her palms.

     “You be a good boy,” she said, planting a kiss on her favourite spot between Bob’s ears. “No barking.” Kiss. “No chewing the table legs.” Kiss. “And no humping the cushions on the couch.” Kiss

     Bob sighed as though his plans for his evening alone had been destroyed entirely. Bob stretched out his neck and gave Lizi’s cheek a lap.

     “Bye, sweetie.” She kissed him again before standing up and slowly pulling the door closed, edging it closer to Bob until he backed away, his gentle features looking defeated.

     “Say ‘goodbye’ to daddy,” she said, right before Bob disappeared from view.

     “Goodbye to daddy,” Oliver responded.

     Click.

     Lizi rolled her eyes. He smiled, catching her neck in the crook of his elbow and drawing her into his chest. He buried his lips into her hair.

     “Come on, comedian,” she said. She pecking his lips with hers – lightly and with a familiarity that comes with habit. It was something they had done at least a couple of times every day for years. It was something that every couple assumed they would do for many years to come. “You’re buying me dinner.”

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Corsets, Satin Gloves & The Countess

“The Countess stopped, and twirled around dramatically, her spinning train momentarily hiding her from view like a magical cloak. She placed her hands on her hips and surveyed her prey…slowly…her eyes lingering on every face, her mouth twisted up into a half smile. No movement. No sound. Suddenly, she threw her head back and laughed a deep, husky laugh before cutting herself off and lifting one arm above her head theatrically, her chin raised, her performance ready to reach its peak.” ‘La Comtesse du Meurtre’ loosely translates to ‘The Countess of Murder’. It doesn’t sound even remotely as haunting or alluring in English does it? The Countess will always hold a special place in my heart because, you see, she was the first short story that I ever wrote. Don’t get me wrong, I had played around with characters and scenes many times before but they had remained sitting in scattered Word.doc formats on my computer and were never weaved into anything that included a beginning, middle and an end. The first draft of The Countess was dreadful. I didn’t realise that at the time of course. But I should really start further back than that. The Countess first appeared to me while I was wandering the cobblestoned alleyways of Old Montreal in April, 2009. I’ve always had a thing for the baroque and borderline gothic. I could spend days sifting through long forgotten black and white snapshots of creepy women with cinched waists and porcelain skinned children who look stunned and, often, without irises. I’ve also had an unrelenting passion for circuses, burlesque, black lace and firey lips. All of my favourite things have come to life in the form of my darling Countess; a woman with a thirst for money, domination and being lusted over. A month earlier, I’d stepped onto a United Airlines plane for my first overseas trip, solo, to be the Maid of Honour in my best friends wedding. For those whose minds have automatically drifted to the Julia Roberts and Rupert Everett movie, yes, I did manage to sneak ‘I’ll Say A Little Prayer For You’ onto the song list at the reception. In fact, I choreographed an entire dance for the bride and her bridesmaids to do to it. When our moment came during the festivities though, I forgot the dance and spent the duration of the song simply stepping and clicking (or “snapping” as the Canadians would say). A post-wedding girls trip lead me to Old Montreal. As we rolled into town, I already knew I was in love. As Anne of Green Gables (just to continue the Canadian theme) would say, there was “so much scope for the imagination.” I was disappointed to learn on my arrival, that we had missed the current Cirque du Soleil show by about 24 hours. I had dreamt of seeing a live Cirque performance since their Allegria show had been televised on local television. I had the soundtrack at home and would listen to it, in my disc man, during my train commute to work, and imagine using my ballerina skills to do something amazing under their big top. To learn that I’d missed them, and by such a small margin, was a real blow. Poutine, crème brulee and oh so many sour apple martinis ensued and I started to feel a little better. And through my drunken haze, The Countess started to take shape. How she appears to the reader in my story mimics exactly how she made her grand entrance to me. A slender, black gloved hand, curled her fingers around the half open flap of the big top entrance, and pulled it back. The next day, as we trudged up the slanted main strip of town, I took note of how the heels of my boots clacked against the stones of the path. I suspect alcohol was still in my blood stream because there is no other explanation as to how I could have otherwise managed to walk on a cobblestoned street in stiletto boots! I loved the way that the sound bounced around the street. It was dominating and powerful. Intimidating in some ways. And I just knew, right then, that The Countess was a powerful, potentially malicious, woman. Not just sexy and voluptuous, but a beast. Fast forward two years. I had decided that I wanted to give the creative writing thing a go. Learn the craft and write the stories that I so badly wanted to read. I’d always been told that I was an excellent writer and the time had come to see if I really was. The snag in the plan was that I had to write a complete piece to submit with my application. As referenced earlier in this post, I had snippets of stories and grabs of dialogue but nothing was finished. And so,m The Countess (the image of her still as vivid in my imagination as it had been on the other side of the world years earlier), came to life. And now, I’ll ask you to kindly skip forward another two and a half years. Are you dizzy yet? At this point in my life, I was deciding what I was going to self publish for my final assignment in my Professional Writing & Editing course. My novel was (and remains to be) unfinished. But I had some short stories that I was happy with…just not enough of them. So I started sifting through loose papers and odd documents saved in my lap top to see if there was something that might be usable content. The Countess reappeared to me. As always, she was right on cue. With the critical eyes of someone who was now actually armed with the tools and knowledge needed to write and edit, the story made me shudder and cringe. But the concept was still there, as well as the basic story elements. So I set about the task of putting her on the page once again. This time, for a wider audience to see.

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A very dear family friend (I consider him to be my fifth grandparent) has moved on. The curse that is cancer is no longer riddling his body. 
It hurts. I have regrets. I feel grief gnawing at me. All of those things that I have come to expect whenever a death occurs. This isn’t my anecdote to tell. But I’m going to tell it anyway. I’m going to keep it waffle free because, well, I think it will do it more justice without me flowering it with my normal prose. My parents had been at the hospital with him since Saturday. They would go home and the doctor would phone my mum and tell her to come back. That he wasn’t good. It was coming. On Monday afternoon, my mum sat in his room with a close friend of his. All day, he had struggled breathing. It was shallow and, at times, would pause briefly before taking up again. In the afternoon, the sunlight took up a strange but beautiful formation over his bed. Both my mum and the friend looked up and noticed it at the same time. It was most unusual and they set about trying to determine the cause. They bustled around the room looking for anything that might be reflecting the light, bouncing it around at odd angles. They found themselves at the window and decided that the light was snaking through the blinds, filtered through buildings, tree branches and other inner city obstacles. While they were standing there, enjoying the scene outside the glass, the friend said, “It’s quiet.” He was gone. Just while their backs were turned away to look outside, he’d taken his leave to depart. Rest in peace my friend. Thank you for the hours of banter. We will meet again.

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I don’t watch anything that terrifies me. Gory and senseless visual murders (especially those depicted as being merely acts of fun) leave me a whimpering mess under the cinema seats. I do however, enjoy a mystery. And equally as much, I enjoy the hairs at the back of my neck pricking up and tingling a little. I’m not talking Paranormal Activity movies 1 through to 5012 or whatever number sequel they are up to. I’m saying a good, ol’ fashioned ghost story. Think The Others (an older flick when Nicole Kidman’s face still moved). Or, if you’re a reader like me, Miss Peregrine’s Home For Peculiar Children or Leaving Time. With that being said, I do not consider myself a spiritual person. I’ve read Allison DuBois’ books and I like the idea of it. But I certainly don’t feel the presence of those I have lost circling around me. I’ve tried speaking to my greatly loved grandfather but the response has been silence. I am a true believer however. My best friend is very spiritual and I believe that’s why she’s so truly empathic and wears her heart on her sleeve. I’ve had a trauma in my past though and I think that contributes to me unconsciously blocking out anything that could potentially go bump in the night. Even if those sounds are coming from a person greatly loved and missed, my body completely rejected the initial increase in heart rate. And so my first hand experience was completely nil for 28 years. And then I visited Dublin…

I was sitting on a tour bus that was returning to Dublin after 3 days traveling around. The tour guide, Gillian, was reeling off things to do around Dublin. You know, besides getting drunk and pick pocketed. “Rose,” she said, “You like P.S. I Love You don’t you?” Seconds earlier, I’d been half asleep but now I was wide eyed and alert because, yes! Yes I absolutely did love myself some Hilary Swank, Gerard Butler and Harry Connick Junior happy-sad love tears. Swoon! Her question particular piqued my interest because I had only recently found out that the film had been shot predominantly in a County Wicklow…nowhere near where I was traveling and with no spare time to get my butt there. Gillian instructed me to go to Whelan’s Pub. Whelan’s is known to P.S. fantastic as the pub where the introductions between the main characters occur and where the live music happens. In Dublin, it’s just where the live music happens. In fact, Gillian stamped into me that under no circumstances should I mention the movie because it seemed that the pub wasn’t overly keen on that being the cause of its fame. What sweet irony is was when we found our way there and the promotional movie poster was hanging just above the doorway. Whatever attracts business right? Anyway, I should move on because my story has nothing to do with receiving letters from beyond the grave. Pubs are one of my favorite haunts. Laid back, good food (these days especially since they have had to up their game to compete with fine dining), live music and jeans are completely acceptable attire. Whelans ticked an extra box because it stocked one of my favorite Aussie beers, Little Creatures.

The décor at Whelan’s consisted of typical outdated posters of upcoming events and performers, their edges torn and the colours fading on some. Framed photographs of musicians, and their performance dates, also hang haphazardly on the walls. And so I wandered my way down the wide stairs, taking in the black and white snaps of people like Kate Nash, Jeff Buckley and the Arctic Monkeys, to the basement toilets. Halfway down, at the flat landing, was where I first felt it. The drop in temperature didn’t perturb me at all. Afterall, it was Dublin and a basement. I had only had 2 beers so that equation was still a simple one. But the back of my neck had started to tickle. And a twitter in the pit of my stomach made me pause. I shoved it aside though and forced myself to move on, swinging myself through the door and squeaking my converse runners across the red concrete floor. That’s where my movements stopped. As I started to fumble around with the button of my jeans (which were a slightly tighter fit than when I’d departed from Australian thanks to the food that the English, Scots and Irish have to offer a traveller), I felt something slick across my skin. Fear. Icy cold fear. I stumbled backwards so that my back was pressed against the wall. My breath quickened and I was acutely aware that heart was beating so fast and with such force that, had I not been only able to hear my pulse in my ears, I was certain my ribs would rattle. I’ve had panic attacks before. Not on a regular basis but enough times to be able to diagnose them when they rear their ugly head. This was absolutely not a panic attack. At that moment, I felt as though I was being watched. Not in an inquisitive way. Not like when you were in grade 3 and you would stand on the lid of the toilet, on your tip toes, and giggle at your friend who was sitting on the loo in the cubicle beside you. This was an intrusive voyeur. Menacingly strong. Look above you. Look above you. Goddamn it, just look up. I glanced up through my lashes, too afraid to make eye contact with “the thing” but there was nothing there. And yet the paralysis continued. It felt as though someone was sitting right on my chest. It seemed like a good 30 minutes or so but it couldn’t have been because my husband would have worried. Or perhaps it really was a half hour and he’s just become accustomed to waiting for his wife while she queues to relieve herself. Regardless, it felt like an excruciatingly long time before I summoned the courage to twist the lock on the door and RUN. I bolted back down the length of the bathroom floor and grabbed onto the door handle, pulling it open and noting the crash that it made against the wall. I was grateful for the crash. After the eerie silence, it was a welcome noise. I scurried back up the stairs like I used to when I used to turn off my bedroom light and then run across the floor and launch myself onto the safety of my bed. Had anyone been trodding in the opposite direction, I swear I would have shoved them aside to clear my path as though I was running away from a bomb due to explode. I got to the top of the stairs, walked with my head down back to our table and sat down. I took a mouthful of beer from the warm bottle that was in front of me, swallowed and smiled at my husband. We returned to Whelan’s a night or so later. It’s just so hard to find beer in Ireland, hey? I wanted to dip my toe in again. Perhaps jetlag had taken a curious turn for the worse in its symptoms. I forced myself back down those steps. One step, two steps, three steps etc. I told myself to walk slowly to the exact same cubicle that I had been in that previous time. As I say with my jeans around my ankles…I waited. I looked up at the air above me, completely relaxed. Nothing. Absolutely no physiological or psychological arousal. Since returning home, I’ve spent intervals of time using Google to try and find out whether Whelan’s has ever been known for ghost stories or even anything remotely obscure.

To date, the only thing I have found is that HAIM headlined once.

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No tarot cards please

How often do you wish you had a crystal ball? I’m on the fence with fortune telling. I can tip either side depending on my mood. Most days, I think the concept of knowing exactly what’s in store for you is a total bore. No surprises? How bollocking boring! But, on the rare occasion, I wouldn’t say no to having a bit of insight about when my question will be answered or my goal reached. Will I ever be a published author, for example. Knowing the answer to that one would be freaking awesome because, if it ain’t gonna happen, I’ll stop bothering with the late night writing schedule and spend my evenings on the couch catching up on Nashville. The truth is though, that I'm a firm believer in timing. Things will happen if and when they are ready to. I met my now husband (and while we are on the topic, I’m all for marriage equality and, if I could have my moment again, I’d wait until everyone has the same privilege and legal right as me before saying “I do”) the very weekend after I broke up with my first boyfriend/first love. From memory, my boyfriend, Daniel (there are about a gazillion of them in the world so who cares if I name him, right?), broke up with me on the Monday night and I met my husband on the Saturday. I was drunk and blubbering my broken heart sentiments into a bottle of Brown Bros Zibibo while I tried to woo my ex into taking me back with relentless text messages filled with emotional blackmail. My husband was dark and broody and playing the guitar. He also gave me the last left over sausage from the bbq dinner we had both attended. No, that is not a metaphor for dirty deeds. It was quite literally a sausage in bread. Our story as a duo didn’t start for a long time. I loved him very early on. As the bitterness and hurt from my split with D dissipated, I felt more and more drawn to him. I now know that my husband is regularly poker faced. It’s difficult to gauge his emotions at the best of times. So while I was dizzyingly (I know this is not a word but it’s too perfect not to be right at this moment) caught up in him while he remained completely straight faced. We were friends. We were flirty friends and cuddly friends but the key word was “friends”. So other men came into my life and, ultimately, left when their shine dissipated and the ache of my seemingly unrequited love started to make its presence known. While my man was completely stoic and classy, I was a jealous, raging lunatic. I recall one evening when we were out at a bar together and I saw him speaking with another girl. I stopped and literally gaped at him. In my memory, I also gave him a killer, “you stone cold asshole” scowl. He saw me, I stormed off, he pursued me and then had to cease and desist when I flung myself through the door of the ladies bathroom, hurled myself into a cubicle and sobbed drunk, gulping tears. How dare this guy who had never made any type of romantic move on me speak to another woman? His actions were clearly beyond cruel. I take this opportunity to say that I am an irrational emotional female. I proudly wear that crown! As always, he maintained a classy stance (this remains his role out of the pair of us) and politely told me that we couldn’t be together and that we would be okay just as we were. There wasn’t even a flicker of judgement in his eyes.

Now, it all turned out that his decision to keep me at arms length was all due to some subsection of The Bro Code. His loyalty to his “bro” in question is one of the many things that I love about him. Especially since that “bro” ended up absolutely not extending my husband quite as much of a loyal friendship in return (let it go, Girl. Let it go!). And obviously we are married, we have a dog (the dog loves hubby more than he loves me…again I will remind myself to let it go), we have travelled together, we eat and drink far too much together and we are happy. It may surprise you to know though that this little part of our history is a bit of a sore point for my husband.

He says that he doesn’t like to be reminded of how much he hurt me during those years when the love was seemingly unrequited. I’m sure I have harped on about it far too much but the reason for that is simple…I love that slice of our relationship pie.

You see, at the time it was incredibly painful. I remember driving to work and telling myself that the following weekend I would absolutely, definitely, 100% commit to severing ties with him. I needed to move on. He was unknowingly holding me back. However, no matter how hard I tried, he would reappear. He was just…there.

And in one very defeated moment, as I sat on a plane on route to Ottawa, Canada, I decided that there surely must be reason why he was still featuring in my life. It might not be to to love me or even offer a long term friendship. I was aware at that moment that the lesson could even be a brutal one. About being hurt. About letting someone go and just seeing what happens. I just had to sit back and see how my story panned out and what his role would be.

What I learnt was that the old saying “timing is everything” is absolutely true. Me and my man got together when we were ready too. Things were a mess when we first met. I was unwell mentally and physically. I didn’t know how to appreciate my quirks and individuality myself yet, let alone expect someone else to. He had his own demons to contend with to. When our stories finally intercepted, we were both ready. Hiccups that could potentially have been deal breakers only a year or two earlier, were dealt with head on. Hurdles (and there were plenty of them) were overcome and we are ready to deal with whatever else life wants to throw at us going forwards. I thank fate or my grandpa or whatever force it was who kept us in abeyance until we were ready.

Our story isn’t one that I’m ashamed of. It’s a borderline movie plot for crying out loud! Paramount Pictures should be beating down our door for the movie rights (I of course will be played by Emily Blunt and Ryan Reynolds or Robert Downey Jr will portray Husband). So I find it interesting that while I love recounting it to people and watching them swoon and the whimsy of it all, husband prefers to shut it out. It’s OUR story. Memories are there for a reason. Regardless of whether they are happy or sad or jumbled, they teach us something. They remind us of a time that we can’t ever redo again. With the exception being anything traumatizing, isn’t there a silver lining to every memory that we have? Doesn’t each memory form a tiny stitch in the fabric that makes us us?

[say-it-well-blog]

Loneliness. It is surely one of the biggest fears that us humans suffer from. Even those of us who are introverts and therefore yearn for time to be our own company. It’s a theme that is felt deeply in my novel. One of my main characters knows only fear and solitude from a young age until she finds companionship in her grandfather. The happiness and security that she finds from being one half of a duo is short lived, and when her grandfather, “Pa”, passes away she finds herself alone once again. But it’s worse this time for her m, because when she was little, she didn’t actually know what she had been missing.

What’s the worst sort of loneliness you have encountered? Being in a room full of people and yet no one even looking at you? Having a partner who won’t engage with you or, even worse, doesn’t understand you? No friends? No family?

[say-it-well-blog]

I Never Loved You Anyway

I love The Corrs.

Whoah! You must be thinking, Why would you do that? Why would you just put that out there? I can never un-see that.

It’s like when you catch your favourite sandwich artist* picking their nose. It’s there, burned into your retinas and there can never be another lettuce and boiled egg sandwiche for you from that particular café. I have made this monstrous admission and I cannot taken back. It is forever tangled up in the interwebs for me to be judged by the cyber bullies and Corrs haters. To those soulless haters, I refer you to the song title used as the name of this particular post. Those words are true, my friend. I flip you the proverbial bird.

Okay, okay, lets me honest. No one really took note of my opening comment. Except, of course, for the other members of the The Corrs fanbase. To you 4 people, I send you a virtual thumbs up and take this opportunity to remind you that we, all 5 of us, are totally epic! One day, we will sit around together swaying as we sing ‘Runaway’ in unison with only a single acoustic guitar to accompany us. We will sound phenomenal. They will base a movie on our intense passion for the Irish family band and our vocal talent. And they will name it ‘Pitch Perfect 4: Use Your Corr”

I admit that I am rubbing my eyes intently in disgust. I have never pretended to be particularly talented when it comes to creative titles. I would love to be on the marketing team that brainstorms the names of new scents. Just today, I was in the bathroom at work and noticed that our air freshener supposedly smells like ‘Angel Whispers’. Seriously? What the actual eff? What do angels even smell like? Let alone their breath when they whisper sweet nothings in your ear? Apparently it smells like cheap toilet spray that is manufactured by Glade. No, I simply lack the creativity to be part of a team like that. I have a nail polish with the colour called ‘Bikini So Teeny’ though - genius! But I could never come up with anything like that. I am, however, creative in other ways.

I am a writer. A fiction writer. Short stories and my novel (which I have poured both love and hatred into for far too many years now) are my “thing”. But I am a unfortunately a creative person who pays the bills by working in a corporate environment. And this sucks the absolute life out of me. Every Monday to Friday, from 9am to 5.30pm, I sit at my desk with ideas swirling around my head. Colourful prose in the league of Belinda Alexandra and Kate Morton beg to be put down on paper.

Just wait. Just hold on until I get home!

But when I sit down at my desk, the colours have drained of their life and are completely dull. The words just won’t come and, when they do, they sound stagnant and lifeless…and I hate them. Sometimes I don’t think that it is possible for me to hate anything or anyone as much as the words that I staring at me from my computer screen.

This is where That Time When… comes into play. The original concept of the blog was to document my thoughts and lessons (self taught of course) as I approached the 30th year milestone. But, to be entirely honest, I can’t commit to just that theme. Don’t worry, there will absolutely be posts that encompass this topic. I can already feel a “do I or don’t I want to have children” stream of consciousness brewing. Without a doubt, there will also be rants about how gender is entirely pointless and just shouldn’t exist, and how anyone who abuses an animal is the lowest scum on the face of the planet. Those types of posts are unavoidable when you’re engaged in conversation with me. And I am 100% okay with those posts happening. As long as I’m writing. As long as my fingers are tap, tap, tapping away on my keyboard my thoughts will be getting the time that they need to evolve from “Dear Sir or Madam, I refer to our recent discussions and reiterate my advice…” to something magical. Something so beautiful that the words on the page make you want to dive in and live amongst it all. As though they were real. And so here it is. My blog sewn of scraps of miscellaneous thoughts (not necessarily of the actual thought provoking kind) that could only be introduced by something as equally random as my confession of my favourite band.

Welcome. I hope to see you again.

*The job title "sandwich artist" is a legitimate thing. I did not make it up. I’m not good at creating titles remember?