Well today there I was all set to blog Sex, Lies and Secrets, or maybe it was Sex, Lies and Rules, I honestly hadn’t decided which title was best…I was kind of veering towards rules…(oops just making sure that is three little dots there not four in case my poor ed is reading this ). And not having decided I even thought maybe a blog for fellow writer Noelle Clark on Scots and Aussie screen hunks… There’s actually quite a few you know……
But two things happened this week, so knowing how much you’d rather hear about it, I decided to blog my granny instead and keep these posts for next week.
Okay Nanny…she would rise from the grave and clobber me with a monumental urn for calling her Granny..did she die, I’m doing a post on her? Well, obviously since I just mentioned grave. But since that was yoinks ago, you can hold the condolences.
No, at this moment, this week Lady Fury sits at number 3 on the Goodreads Best New March releases chart. My gob is smacked since the other nine of the actual top ten are best selling authors. When I say someone else asked me where I learned to write,
well, ok, maybe I sit here blahhing and pontificating and ladling out tips write, left and centre, I have a confession to make. I never did, though I do think that tip in the box there, end there with a smile, is good.
I grew up in a housing estate. One, that to paraphrase the line from Fury about cicadas and church bells, was at the mercy of domestics and moon lighties. A place where the next door neighbour died and instead of a hearse drawing up, his wife arrived in a van and took away all the furniture, leaving who we all thought was his wife sitting on bare floorboards. With her two little girls.
A place where on day one, primary one, the teacher tied the boy sitting next to me’s ankles to his chair with his shoe laces. I don’t know about learning to write but it certainly taught those round about to sit the hell down and STF up. Although it is an action one would surely get the jail for now. Not the shutting up. No. The sitting down either.
Note the strategically placed hand on the hubby’s shoulder. In a town bereft of men because of WW1 losses- he never went to the front because a leg break had crippled him – she pinched him off someone else, making sure of it in the time honoured way. Then she decided he would be having his own bedroom. Nanny had a boyfriend during the Depression, Fatty Allan. Fatty had money and my grandfather was on welfare benefits. Okay? Nanny was a great believer in not having a dog and barking herself. Work? How about no.
She also had police at the door for taking a poker off her sister’s head, and, in another dispute with a neighbour, a teapot. I will always remember Mum coming home in a terrible state aged 50, because Nanny aged 70, and on a zimmer frame having just had a stroke, attacked her with a rolled up copy of the Evening Telegraph. The birthday present – a black satin slip– was the wrong size apparently.
I realize I am painting an unsympathetic picture of Nanny. I loved her to bits. Because all four foot ten of her was such a character and when she sashayed off the number 33 Fintry bus, wearing high-heels, gloves and a little hat on a Tuesday afternoon, or ran along the road, to catch a bus, leaving my grandfather standing on his one leg…never crippled by the way…. so she could get a quick drink at the pub, not much like anyone else’s granny either. She swore. She smoked. She should have died when she was two hours old.
No. I ‘ve never studied the writing craft. Growing up, I was surrounded by minefields of inspiration. I just seam them.
But I do credit my primary school, doing a difficult job in a difficult area, for teaching rock solid basics on composition. As for Nanny, looking at Fury there at number three….. I salute her.