If You Really Want To

This week, my sister Sophie turned thirteen. Amongst all the excitement about it being her birthday and about the fact that she is now a teenager, one of the things that she excited her most was the fact that she was now old enough to have her own Youtube channel. Sophie wants to be a vlogger as well as a blogger. With all the practice she’s had a making other videos (such as her ‘Show and Tell’ feature on her blog), she’s got all the skills to make the videos. But to me, who’s so camera shy that I won’t even listen to my own recorded voice, this idea sounds crazy. Who would willingly sit in front of a camera and talk to the world? It’s far easier to hide behind the written word.

But Sophie really wants to be a vlogger, and the fact that she has to sit in front of a camera and talk doesn’t seem to worry her. Nothing is going to stop her from having that shiny new Youtube channel she’s been dreaming about for weeks. I can understand that. For a long time I wanted to start a writing blog and talk about characters and plots and writers block and share the things I learnt about the craft of writing. But, for a long time, I held myself back, because after all, who would want to listen to me? It’s not like I’m the most experienced writer in the world and there are so many other writing blogs out there. Who would notice one more?

I’m sure there are a lot of vloggers out there too. Youtube is filled with so many different kinds of channels, from musicians, to Youtube shows, vloggers and those who make videos for businesses. Sophie could easily have said, ‘what’s the point of making that Youtube channel I want when there are so many others out there?’ But she didn’t. She went ahead and started her channel because she really wants it. And after all, what’s to stop her? The only thing that would stop her is herself, just like I was the only thing stopping myself from having a writing blog.

If you really want to do something, then the fact that there are lots of others doing the exact same thing shouldn’t stop you. Sophie has her Youtube channel now, despite the fact that there are other vloggers, and I finally made that writing blog I wanted, even though lots of other people have them. If there’s one thing I’m learning, it’s that, if you really want to do something, then you’ll find a way to do it, no matter what. No one can really stop you, except yourself.

Do you have a vlog channel? Have you ever wanted to start one? Or are you camera shy like me? What’s one thing you’ve always wanted to do? 

Camp NaNoWriMo, a Blog, and a Dog

I don’t know about you, but to me, April means Camp NaNoWriMo. I’m never one to let a NaNoWriMo event pass me by. Come April 1st and I was in my virtual Camp Cabin, chatting with my fellow writers and frantically typing away. Camp NaNoWriMo is always a month filled with frenzied writing, bursts of inspiration and unexpected challenges and this April was no exception.

My first challenge came in the form of RSI (Repetitive Stress Injury) in one of my hands, which reduced me to typing with one hand. Of course, being the stubborn writer I am, I refused to admit defeat and strapped my hand up in a wrist brace, bought an ergonomic keyboard, and soldiered on. While it made writing tough for a while, I wasn’t about to let it bring my Camp to an end early.

The next distraction came in the form of a brand new blog, this time about writing. For a long time I’ve wanted to start a blog about writing, but it wasn’t until this April that I actually got around to starting one. And so, Gossiping with Dragons was born. Of course, I started it in one of the busiest months of the whole year, but after all, that is what Camp NaNoWriMo is all about, the challenge.

Finally, we adopted a puppy from the animal shelter. A dog is another thing I've always wanted. So, just after Easter, right at the end of Camp when I needed to be catching up with the word count I got behind on during Easter, I was playing with a six month old puppy with a big nose and masses of curiosity. Nora is a bitzer, a bit of this and a bit of that, all combined to make a puppy that is a bundle of energy and endearingly friendly.

At the end of April, after all the challenges and distractions, what have I got? I have a Camp NaNoWriMo win, a brand new novel (in the form of a terrible first draft), a dog, and a new writing blog. To me, that equals a successful month.

How was your April? Like to come and visit my new blog? Did you take part in Camp NaNoWriMo? Anyone else got a dog with a nose like a vacuum cleaner? Any tips for avoiding RSI?

Building Fences with Brothers

With four sisters and two brothers, I usually spend a lot of time with my sisters rather than with my brothers. There are just so many more opportunities to do things with my sisters, from watching Jane Austen movies together to dedicating whole days to art projects. Spending time with my brothers is far rarer, usually confined to watching a superhero movie together in the evening, or taking the occasional trip to the beach on a warm day.

Sometimes however, I get the chance to do something unusual with my brothers. My older brother Callum has been building a fence. It involves big sheets of metal, steel posts, large amounts of concrete, power tools and no little amount of fun. I very much wanted to help, but sadly assumed that no self-respecting fence builder would want a younger sister hanging round attempting to help...

Read the rest of the post here: Building Fences with Brothers

In Fear of Interviews and Interviewing

This week I interviewed one of my friends for an article I’m writing. I love writing articles, putting the words together in the right order and polishing it until it flows perfectly. But I’m terrified of interviewing people. The very thought of asking someone a bunch of nosy questions fills me with fear and dread. What if I do it wrong? What if I forget to bring my notebook? What if I can’t use any of the material in my article? Or worse, what if I have to redo the whole interview? Going through all that again would be a nightmare!

For a whole week before the interview I write and rewrite all the questions, right up to the very day. Should I write the bare questions? Or should I try to write them in such a way that I can read them straight into the conversation? I decide to record the interview with my phone so that I can listen to it later. But then I worry about whether it has enough memory to record a whole interview and whether it’s going to pick up the voices well enough. This preparing for the interview is hard work.

The day arrives. I’ve got the name of the café where I’m meeting my friend. I check my bag about fifty million times. Am I sure my pen’s going to work? I’ve got ten of them, just to be sure. Phone? Check. Notebook? Check. I make sure I leave the house extra early. What if I’m not able to find the cafe and end up being late? That would be terrible! Instead I turn up at the café a whole quarter of an hour early and have to sit in the hot sun outside, waiting. Well, better safe than sorry, isn’t that right?

In my head I rehearse how to start the interview. It needs to be just right. My friend arrives just as I get it worked out. We go into the café together. I don’t think I’ll have coffee. I’ve got enough to think about without trying to have a drink at the same time. What if I spill it all over my phone or notebook and mess everything up? It’s time to begin the interview, time to pull out that perfect start I prepared. Help! I’ve forgotten it completely. I stutter the first question out. What a great way to begin.

A street performer plays the guitar right outside the café. Cars drive past every few minutes or so. What if they block out the sound of our voices on the recording? Every few minutes or so I inch the phone closer and closer to my friend, hoping she doesn’t notice. My sweaty hands slip on the pen and dampen my notebook pages.  And then, finally, it’s all over. I sit back, turn the phone off and take deep breaths of relief. I’ve done it! I can stop worrying. Until the next interview at any rate…

Interviews and Unschooling

Image by popturfdotcom here

Yesterday, Mum and I made a movie together. We settled down in the living room and set up out tripod, a dining room chair with a pile of out-of-date encyclopedias sitting on. I sat in one of the big armchairs. Mum set up the camera on the 'tripod'. Today Mum would be interviewing me about being unschooled and about studying at university.

I glanced at the list of questions I had sitting in my lap. We discussed what I was going to say. Was this a good idea? It felt a lot like public speaking, which scares me. I'd much rather sing to a crowd than speak to them. Taking a deep breath, I waited for Mum to start filming. The little red light appeared on the camera. I smiled at my non-existent audience and began to speak.

Once I got going, it wasn't too scary after all. Every so often we stopped the camera, discussed what I was going to say in the next segment. Mum took a rest from holding onto the camera.And then we carried on. I talked for what seemed to be ages before we finally got through all the questions and finished filming.

Then Mum took the video to her room, downloaded it onto her computer and started editing it into something acceptable for other people to see. As I passed her room occasionally, I caught snatches of my own voice, babbling on about one thing or another, and winced. There is nothing so humbling as hearing your own voice. It didn't take long for Mum to have the movie finished though.

"Do you want to see it?" Mum asked me.

I shook my head at once. "No thanks. I don't like listening to myself talk."

But even though I didn't watch it, other family members told me that it was good. It seemed that me sitting in front of a camera and attempting to talk about my experiences unschooling and now studying at university had ended up with a fairly good video. Already we're thinking about the next movie. Now that I've been interviewed once, I wouldn't mind too much doing it again. My brothers and sisters might have a turn too. Who knows what we might come up with next?

If you're interested in hearing what it was like to be unschooled, and what it's like to study university over the internet, then please check out my interview. You can find it here: Imogen Talks about Unschooling and University

Family, Fun, and a Bush Run

My family loves to run. During the winter we take turns pounding out a few kilometers on the treadmill every morning. During the spring and summer we get up early and go for a run along the bush track before breakfast. We also love to spend time together as a family. So what would be better than to go out on a run together as a family outing?

Shoes tied and water bottles in hand we headed out to try one of the local bush tracks. Together we walked from the car to the path. Together we set off. And together we hit the first hill. My muscles were already burning as we scrambled to the top and plunged down the other side. At the bottom we hit another steep hill. Up and down. Up and down. And up and down again. I puffed and panted, sweat rolling down my face as I worked hard not to fall behind. Somehow I kept up almost all the way to the end of the track.

At the end of the track it was time for triumphant photos, inspection of wounds where various family members had fallen over on the loose rocks, and a quick rest to catch our breaths. But then, we had to run all the way back. The track had led us deep into the bush, and our water bottles and picnic were 2.5km away, back at the car. I looked at the hills. I'd never make it all that way. 2.5km back, all up and down those hills again.

We split into two groups as we headed back. There was the slow but steady group, led by me, the tired, out of practice runner. And then there was the fast group, rapidly disappearing into the green of the bush way ahead of us. I looked round at my little group. 2.5km. We could do that together. I'd make sure of it. We set off after the quicker group, our tired feet carrying us steadily up and down the steep hills, heading ever closer towards the car, our drinks, and lunch.

"You can do it."

"Just a little bit further."

"You can make it to the top of the next rise."

"Careful, it's a bit slippery here. I'll help you."

My little team and I pushed each other up the hills, encouraging each other. I was tired, and my feet and legs hurt. But this was actually really fun. I had my team, and we were doing well. I looked around at my little group and had to grin. Even us really tired people were working hard and still going. No one said that they couldn't possibly run another step. And there was the end of the bush track and the concrete path back to the car. Why, we were almost there already.

"Ready?"

My team and I looked at each other. We grinned and nodded, then picked up the pace, sprinting past little old ladies, dogs, and children on bikes. Feet pounding, arms pumping, we flew towards the car, pulling up, puffing and panting. We collapsed on the grass, red faced, but triumphant. It might have been a long run, it might have been hard. I might have been a little out of practice. But we'd made it the whole way. I'd made it the whole way. And it was picnic time.

Looking around the picnic table not long after, I was very thankful. I had my family. I was fairly fit. And I'd had a whole day of fun. It might have been a tough run for me. But it was worth it to spend time with my family like this. Yes, I was very thankful indeed.

Critiquing Fear

It’s the first day of a new study period for university. I click eagerly through the university website, glancing through the course outline. For my introduction, I have to introduce myself as a character. Well, that’s  different. And then…

I have to critique someone else’s introduction.

At once the panic starts to rise. Help! Critique someone’s work? But I’m not very good at writing myself. I don’t know how to give a good critique. I don’t want the other students to hate me for pointing out faults in their work. I’m having a panic attack and I haven’t so much as clicked the mouse yet.

It’s a funny thing, but no one seems to like giving critiques. My course is a creative writing course, and yet everyone is saying ‘Oh your work is wonderful. I love such-and-such about it’, and nothing else. Which is all very nice to hear. I can’t help smiling and feeling just a little bit clever. But at the same time, comments like these aren’t going to make me into a better writer. They’re just going to give me a big head.

So, if I realise that this is not the way to help people, why do I feel bad when I post a critique that both praises and criticizes a piece of writing? I might not have a piece of paper that tells me I’m qualified to help other people with their writing, but I can tell them what didn’t work for me. It’s an opinion, nothing more.

I think that this fear of critiquing someone’s writing comes from fear that I’m going to hurt the other person’s feelings. Even when I’ve spent an hour writing and rewriting the same hundred and fifty words over and over trying to phrase the critique in a way that I hope won’t offend, I’m still worried that I’m going to be making them feel like their work is terrible. I’ve had enough bad days of my own where I think that my writing is terrible to want to give anyone else a day like that.

But saying that everything is perfect, that’s not the way to help anyone improve. If we were all perfect already, why would we be taking this course? So I write and rewrite that critique over and over again, trying to word it just right, trying to gently show the other people where they might improve their writing and make it stronger. Not to say that I’m any good at this. It’s true, I’ve never done this before. But if I truly want to help the other person, I need to show them the good and the bad, in the nicest way possible. Critiques, they don’t seem to be easy things to write, but they are necessary if we're to grow as writers.

Zippers and Homemade, Hand-Me-Down Skirts

It was beautiful fabric. Thick, blue denim, with a pink pattern on it. I could just see it as my newest skirt. Oh, I could't wait for Mum to make it for me, to work her magic with the sewing machine and turn it into a skirt. It would swish around my ankles, long and elegant. It would be amazing.

The sewing machine whirred and hummed. I stood outside the door, listening to the buzzing of the machine, and the puff of the steam iron as Mum worked to turn that fabric into my skirt. Not long now.

"It's all done. Why don't you try it on?"

I flew to my room, skirt clutched to my chest. Done at last! Now I would ear it. I slid it on, and reached for the zipper. And then stopped. Where was the zipper tab for me to pull it up by? I groped around. Where was it? The zipper was there, but the tab wasn't

No, wait. There it was. On the inside of the skirt! The zipper was inside out. It was a perfect zipper, the best zipper in a homemade skirt I'd ever had, but it was inside out. Whoops!

Not that it mattered to me. I didn't mind sliding my fingers down the inside of my skirt to undo the zip. It was one of my favourite skirts, and I loved wearing it, inside out zipper and all. It was a sad day when I handed it down the line to the next sister to wear.

A few weeks ago, the time came to sort out the winter clothes. Large storage boxes sat in the hallway and clothing strewed the house. And then, out of the piles of clothes, came the skirt with the inside out zipper.

My second youngest sister, Sophie, pounced on it with a cry of delight. "I remember this skirt. Do you think I'd fit it this year?" Much to her delight, it did fit. She put it on, and danced around the room in her new, hand-me-down skirt with the inside out zipper. It didn't matter to her about the mistake. She just loved the skirt.

So really, it doesn't matter about little mistakes like those. Because a skirt with an inside zipper can be just as well loved as any other skirt, especially when it's made by your mother with love.

X-Rays, Thumbs, and Writer’s Wrist

About two years ago, I dislocated my left thumb. It was really silly actually. Just a friendly game of soccer where the ball hit me on the base of the thumb and popped it out of joint. Admittedly, the recovery wasn’t very fun, and it was more than a month later when I finally had full use of my hand again. The doctor who x-rayed my hand to make sure I hadn’t broken anything thought I was pretty silly to have done that, and probably I was.

But it healed, and that was the end of it. Or so I thought.

Almost a year later, I took part in my first ever NaNoWriMo. Halfway through the month, my left wrist suddenly became a little painful. It’s nothing too bad. Nothing I can’t handle. And it goes away pretty quickly too.

But it comes back. Over and over again it comes back, normally right when I need a good wrist the most. Which is generally around the time I’m working on a novel. It’s annoying, and painful, but, until a certain point, not too bad.

And then NaNoWriMo last year came around and silly me wrote too much too fast. Hundreds of thousands of words later and my wrist hurt like I redislocated the thumb. Though I knew I haven’t done that at least.

A doctors trip later, and I head for an x-ray again, as well as an ultrasound. The x-ray is easy. Move my hand around into three painful positions and that’s it. Done. However the ultrasound took forever. The doctor watched the images on a screen, making notes and taking pictures. I stared up at them, anxious. Was there something badly wrong? What was she looking at? If only I knew how to translate the black and white pictures.

“You have writer’s wrist,” one doctor told me. “Lots of typing brings it one, though having it in the left hand is unusual for a right handed person. A shot of steroids will fix you up though.”

Writer’s wrist. I never heard of that one before. Does getting writer’s wrist make you into a proper writer? Does getting a steroid shot in your wrist make it big and strong and muscular? I wonder.

Well, the steroid shot didn’t give me a massively muscular wrist. But it did fix it. No longer plagued by writer’s wrist, I’m back to typing, just a little more carefully than before. Maybe writing so much in a month isn’t the best thing for me. So for all your writers, be careful. Or you might end up with writer’s wrist like me!

University and Following the Right Dream

At the beginning of this year, I started my dream university course. I’d love to be able to say that it was what I had always wanted to study for, but sadly, no. You see, I used to have this mistaken idea that I wanted to be a doctor.

For years and years I kept up the idea that I was going to be a doctor. Ok, so I couldn’t name you a single thing about being a doctor that really drew me in, and I couldn’t think of a single area that I would work in, but that was a small matter really. Obviously I was meant to be a doctor.

Until I got to thinking. Did I really want to be a doctor? I spent my last school years studying chemistry (which I was very bad at), biology (that was ok), and advanced maths (which I found boring sadly, though I did ok). And I was pretty sure that I was ready to jump into this doctor’s degree.

Only, I suddenly realised that that wasn’t the right thing to do. Did I really want to be a doctor? I couldn’t be a surgeon. Even thinking about cutting people up made me feel sick. And looking after a person for more than a day was never my thing either. No, I was pretty sure that I didn’t want to be a doctor after all.

And that’s when I realised, if I didn’t have to be a doctor, I could be something else. Something exciting. Like, a writer, or an editor. Yes, for someone like me, who’s always working on some piece of writing, that sounded just perfect. Imogen Elvis, author and editor. That sounded pretty good to me.

So now I’m studying writing and publishing. I might not enjoy the sociology side of things, but I know that somewhere in the future, the writing lurks. And I’m working towards the degree that I want. And what could be better than working towards the right dream?

Tricycles, Four Girls, and a Steep Hill

We used to live in a house which had a steep hill down one side. The hill swooped down, down, down, before curving round the back of the house, and round a tree. It was a perfect hill for a billy-cart, or other sort of cart.

Not that we had a billy-cart. But what we did have was a tricycle. It was yellow and green and had two seats. And it was the perfect vehicle for flying down the hill on. Two girls would sit on the seats, the smallest girls of course, because they were the safest. And we two older girls hung one on each side.

Up to the top of that very steep hill we pushed that tricycle. At the very top we’d stop, and arrange ourselves. Then, ‘One. Two. Three!’ We pushed ourselves off the top of the hill and went flying down the side.

Faster and faster the tricycle went. Faster and faster, and all the time we shrieked and shouted with glee. And faster and faster the tree at the bottom of the hill came closer. Would we make it this time? Would we get round the curve without spilling over, or hitting the tree? Most often not. But sometimes, just sometimes, we’d go swooping round that corner and sail on down the garden.

Finally we’d coast to a stop, unclench white knuckled fingers, and push the tricycle back up to the top. Over and over again we flew down that hill. Until at last, one day, four girls was just too many, and the front half parted ways with the back half, ending our fun on the hill. 

'R' Words and Rotten Sisters

I sat down to write my post today. What ‘R’ word would I write about today? There were sure to be lots of ‘R’ words that would make great blog posts.

“You could write about Wabbits,” my sister Charlotte said with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Or Winos, or Widiculous Sisters.”

“Or I could Wite about how you’re a Wotter,” I said. “I can’t think straight any more.

“Well I Wouldn’t Worry about that,” Charlotte said. “I’ve lots more ideas for you. Wice Pudding. Or Weading. Or even the Wotten Womans. How about Wunning Away?”

I shook my head. “None of those will do. I’ll have to come up with an idea of my own.”

Only, I can’t. My Wotten sister has filled my head with Wabbits and Wunning, and I can’t come up with anything sensible to say. So I’m afraid this has become a post of ‘W’ words. Whoops. I Weally am a Wubbish Witer tonight. I'll get back to you with the 'R' words when I've Wun away from this Widiculous speech impediment I'm afflicted with.

This really should have been my W post I'm sure. But my ridiculous sister interfered, so R has become W. My apologies. Charlotte is still unwepentant.

Perishing Pigeons

I knelt in church. The Blessed Sacrament stood on the altar, enclosed in the golden monstrance. All around me people knelt, their heads bowed in prayer. One hour of silent adoration of Our Lord. Everything was peaceful. Outside it was noisy, busy, and hot. But in here it was cool, silent and restful.

Maybe that’s what brought the pigeon inside the church, the coolness. Or maybe it wanted to come and see Our Lord too. At any rate, there it was, swooping through the church, heading towards the front. It shot upwards suddenly, and landed on one of the exposed crossbeams of the roof. Hardly anyone noticed the bird anyway.

Everything stayed nice and peaceful, just right for pray and adoration. I forgot about the pigeon in the room. Until it fell out of the air and landed on its back on the floor, near the altar, stone dead.

What made the pigeon die like that? Why did fly into a church, sit there, and then just perish? I still haven’t managed to work that bit out yet. Maybe it was overcome by the presence of God as it sat there in the roof. Or maybe it was something else. But, whatever the reason for its death, it couldn’t have chosen a better time, or a better place to die, in a church, before Our Lord exposed.

Outside, Inside, and Playing as a Kid

Even though I’m only eighteen, I always feel old when I think back to when I was a child, in those days before double figures. In those days, there were four of us, all running round, playing our imaginative games together. In those days, we all had fun together.

When I was younger, I led all the games, mainly because I was the eldest, and so, in my sister’s eyes, must obviously be able to think up the best games. So my games involved civil wars, pirates (there were some lovely trees on our driveway, just right for sailing the high seas on), American Indians, sword fighting, and travelling the prairies in covered wagons. Sometimes we rowed ourselves around the garden in a baby bath…er, rowboat. Every day was outside, playing with leaves, sticks, and lashing of imagination.

But one couldn’t play outside all the time. So we had our games inside too. My dad used to bring home lots of paper from work. It was printed on one side, but the other was blank and white. Just right for drawing on. But I wasn’t ever content just to draw. No, my pictures told a story, and always, for some reason, involved bunk beds stacked six beds high. Maybe they were just easy to draw.

Then there were libraries, with catalogues written in my sprawling handwriting and tape covered library cards. Or massive games with Barbie dolls that lasted weeks at a time. It was a convenient excuse not to clean my room. We simply couldn’t, or we’d mess up the game.

I compare what we did then with how things are now. Now there is only one little girl running around, imagining she's a pirate. Now there's only one little girl sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of toys and having a wonderful game. We've grown up and left her behind to play on her own. It's such a pity. Maybe I might forget that I'm so old and join on the floor with her toys and games and pretend I'm only nine again too.

Krypton, Kryptonite, and Chemistry Lessons

My sister Charlotte loves chemistry. She reads books about the elements, watches chemistry videos involving crème Easter eggs, and has a random, but interesting fact about most, if not all of the elements.

In contrast, I was never very good at chemistry, despite once wanting to be a doctor. I liked the videos, but the theory was very much beyond me. It was as much as I could do to remember the names of the first six elements on the periodic table. Biology was fun. Chemistry…not so much.

One Christmas, Charlotte received a puzzle as one of her gifts. And, being the chemist of the family, it was a full colour puzzle of the periodic table of elements, complete with illustrations. One thousand pieces big, it was the perfect puzzle for a brainy girl like herself.

I wasn’t the brainy chemist, but I was the puzzle champion. Who else had the patience to put together a one thousand piece puzzle consisting of nearly identical sweets? So the moment the chemistry puzzle came out, I was there to help. True, I didn’t know the first thing about most of those elements, but I was good at puzzles. And that had to count for something, right?

“Which is this element?” I asked Charlotte, holding up a puzzle piece. It was a silver coloured element, not that that helped. Over half of them seemed to be silver.

She squinted at it and then said with complete certainty, “Tungsten.”

“But the symbol is W,” I protested. Tungsten didn’t begin with that letter. Even I knew that much.

“It’s the first letter of its name in German,” she said, before placing the piece in the right area of the periodic table.

Finding the right place on the periodic table was a problem for me too. Ok, so I knew where some of the elements went, like Carbon and Helium, but where did Gallium go? Or Manganese? With unfailing patience, Charlotte directed me to the right places. Doing this puzzle was harder than I thought it would be. But at least I was learning something. Working on the puzzle with Charlotte was like having a chemistry lesson, only better.

Hang on, here was an element I knew. I pulled the piece out and cried, “Hey, I found Kryptonite.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Silly. Kryptonite isn’t an element. It’s made up. That’s Krypton and it’s a noble gas. Goes on the right side of the periodic table.”

Oops. Silly me. I should have known that Superman's greatest weakness wasn't a real element. I guess I still have a lot to learn about chemistry.

Jars of Failed Jam

A friend of ours gave us a huge bag of crabapples one day. These were little fruits, the size of a cherry, but much tarter, and not so nice to eat raw. It was very nice of her to give these to us, but the question was, what were we to do with them?

There appeared, after long and careful thought, to be only one thing to do with these crabapples, and that was to turn them into crabapple jelly, which is basically jam. No matter that we hadn’t made jam before in our lives. Armed with a recipe off the internet, a bag full of crabapples and one of sugar, we set out on our big jam making adventure.

We boiled the crabapples and added copious amount of sugar. We stirred, and tried not to burn anything. We burnt ourselves, strained things, melted plastic jar lids by mistake, and generally turned the kitchen into a big, sticky mess. But, at the end of our labours, four jars of crabapple jelly sat cooling on our countertop. And we were quite proud of that. Very soon they were be cool and would have jelled and we would have crabapple jelly to eat. Mmm. We licked our lips in anticipation.

Obviously not my jam. But it does make me wonder, what is frog jam? It sounds suspicious...

Only, they didn’t jell. No matter how long they cooled, no matter how anxiously we tested those jars of jam, they wouldn’t turn into that beautiful jelly we had imagined. Still, we could always use it as ice cream topping or something of that sort. With a sigh, we pushed the jars into the back of the fridge. And there they stayed. Nasty, oversweet, yet somehow still slightly bitter, they were everything that jam should not be. For a long time they sat there until at last we threw those four jars away, hardly touched, and soon to be thankfully forgotten.

It seems that jam making is quite an art. Maybe it needs special skills. Or maybe it’s a thing that only certain people have the good fortune to be able to make. I don’t know. But if there’s one thing that I learnt from this it’s that jam making is hard work. Maybe I’ll just stick to buying my jam rather than making it. At least then it is certain to be jam and not a sticky, gloopy mess.

Infant Incident

When I was a baby, I was abandoned soon after birth. Oh, not out on the streets, or on the doorstep of some nameless orphanage somewhere in the slums. Nothing quite so fairy tale as all that. No, I was abandoned in a hospital.

In my hospital, the nurses took babies away to have their photos taken. Mine hangs in pride of place on the wall, with my little squished baby face peering into the camera, a blanket wrapped tightly around me and my tiny hands pinned near my face by the blanket. My nurse took me away to have this photo take while my mum stayed in bed. The nurse promised to bring me back later.

Time passed. I didn’t come back. Mum got worried. Where was the nurse with her baby? Like all good mothers do, she hopped out of bed and went in search of her little lost baby, hunting through the hospital. What had the nurse done with me?

A terrible quality photo of me. the very same taken on that fateful day

After an anxious hunt, there I was, lying in my hospital baby bed, abandoned by the nurse. I don’t know where in the hospital I was. I don’t know where the nurse went after my photo was taken. Maybe she left me somewhere safe. Maybe she needed to run off and do something before she brought me back. Maybe she simply forgot that I needed to be taken back. But, whatever the reason, I was the little abandoned baby in the hospital, who mother came to find her.

Looking at my sisters, my mother and I, you can tell we’re related. We’re far too much alike to be anything else. There’s no chance that we’re not from the same family. But sometimes, with a mischievous grin, I tell people, “I was abandoned as a baby,” and tell my tale.

How Homeschooling Helped Prepare Me for University

I was a homeschooler. Every day of my school life, right from day one, I was taught at home with my brothers and sisters. We read Shakespeare’s plays together for fun, we read books and we studied paintings together. And honestly, I wouldn’t have gone to school if you’d given me the choice. Homeschooling was amazing fun. I couldn’t imagine anything better.

But as I got close to the end of my high school homeschooling days I started to wonder, was I going to be ready for university? Did I have the skills that I would need when I started formal learning with a set curriculum? My form of homeschooling didn’t involve textbooks and writing essays on every imaginable, boring subject under the sun. How was I going to cope? Would I be better prepared if I’d been to school?

Well, I don’t know if I’d have been better prepared if I’d been to school, but I was certainly prepared enough through homeschooling. The course I wanted to do is all online, which meant no travelling to tutorials, sitting in long lectures, and travelling on the train every day, which in my mind was great. And because it is a university course, there is no one looking over my shoulder and telling me what to do each day for my work, like a teacher would in a lesson at school.

Homeschooling is so flexible that it allows you the space to learn a lot of skills, both formal and informal. There’s time to work on writing, which is good preparation for essays, even if you’re not writing essays for your school work. For my very first NaNoWriMo I spent most of my school time just writing, because I could. I was homeschooled.

And homeschooling allowed me the space to learn how to work on my own. With so many people of different abilities, you have to go and work on your own at some point while Mum’s attention is with another sibling. And you had to work with people of different ages for some things, just like in university.

Of course, there were difficult things, like submitting assignments to a due date. In our homeschooling there had never been a need for that. And maybe I’d have been more used to that if I went to school. But, thanks to being able to work on my own, I adjusted quickly, and didn’t miss anything. And maybe not being used to submitting on a date was good for me because it meant that I knew I had to be careful not to miss the date and made me work hard so that I hit it early.

I don’t know if I’d have been better prepared for university had I gone to school, but I do know that homeschooling definitely gave me a good start. And when you’re working towards a degree you really want, like I’m working towards a degree in writing and publishing, then you’re willing to work hard to get there.

Facebook: How Do I Use It?

A few years ago I set up a Facebook account. I faithfully filled in the ‘About Me’ section, and even took a special (but terrible) photo of myself for a profile picture. I requested my friends and my family to be my Facebook friends.

And then I got stuck.

What did one do with Facebook? Did one just post strange but cryptic things on their walls that might have a small chance of sparking an interesting conversation? Or was it about liking things and reposting pictures? Maybe it was about number. Maybe I needed to have the most friends. Or maybe it was about playing all those games that I saw in my news feed.

In the end I did nothing, and ignored Facebook for months.

And then I went away for a couple of weeks and made a heap of new friends. But the only problem was that none of them lived anywhere near me. How to keep in contact? The answer appeared to be Facebook. And so, I signed into my account, found my friends, and decided to give Facebook another try.

But I still don’t have it. I like reading about what happens with my friends. I like some of the pictures they post or share. But what am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to say? I’m still very much learning how to use Facebook properly. So tell me, what am I supposed to do?

And to all those lovely people who have come and commented and who comment on this post, I will answer your comments and visit your blogs. I just haven't had time this week, thanks to a uni assignment. And, in a random note, this is my 200 blog post. Go me!

Big Brother

My big brother Callum and I go shopping together. We’re going to buy a birthday present for his girlfriend. She wants a ring, not an engagement ring, but a pretty silver ring with little diamonds on it. We go into the shop together to pick it up. The assistant asks, “Is this for your girlfriend?” as she hands it to Callum. He nods.

We leave the shop together. I can’t help giggling at what the shop assistant must have thought. “I bet she thought that I was your girlfriend.” As I’m carrying the ring now, it’s very possible. We laugh together at the thought.

“Come and have a look at what I’ve done to my ute,” Callum calls. I drop everything and hurry out to see what he’s done the battered old ute he’s slowly restoring. It’s not my idea of a dream car, but somewhere inside the rusty, dented, broken-down vehicle, he sees something worth fixing it for. “Look, I’ve worked out how to get the steering wheel off. Do you want to help?” And for the next half hour we heat the steering wheel with a lethal looking heat gun until finally it give up and pops off.

Callum sticks his head round my bedroom door. “Hey Imogen, I’m going to the beach with my girlfriend. Do you want to come with us?” Do I want to come? I haven’t been to the beach in ages. I grin and race to get ready to go. He doesn’t mind me tagging along with him sometimes.

Most big brothers might not bother to take me shopping, or to include me in what they’re doing, or to take me somewhere fun when they’re already taking their girlfriend. Most brothers are not my brother. My brother is special.