Set your alarm for tomorrow at least half an hour earlier than usual, go straight to your writing desk and begin.
Before you go to sleep, choose one word from the following: garden, child, library, love, car, winter holiday. When you wake, start to write about your chosen word. If you prefer, think of your own word. Write long-hand or on a computer, whichever feels best.
5:53am I could have done with at least an extra few minutes in bed, but in the interests of this task I heaved myself up as soon as the Benny Hill theme tune alarm blared from my mobile.
I am currently yawning exhaustedly and smearing the consequent tears across my face. I have not washed or flicked the kettle on for my first coffee, I am in my dressing gown (and long johns and socks, as I can’t concentrate when I’m freezing) and have, as directed, merely ‘gone straight to my writing desk (or in my case kitchen table) and begun.’
I selected ‘winter holiday’ from the list, because it sounded the most interesting option, and went to bed with this on my mind. The dream I had, in a roundabout way, reflected this theme. I dreamed we were invited to Devon next week with our friends, to celebrate one of the gang, Tony’s birthday. This is odd, as Tony’s birthday is not until the end of December and in fact it is another friend, his sister-in-law Sarah, whose birthday is next week. We were given very short notice to book annual leave, and my boss in fact refused my request for the appropriate day(s) off.
Now I have no specific story in mind on this theme, I intend to start writing in a stream of consciousness fashion and see where I head.
I’ll start by saying that when I traditionally think of ‘winter holidays’ I think of skiing, a pastime my husband Nathan loves and I detest. He and his family are accomplished skiers. He made a vain attempt to convert me to the ‘delights’ of the sport when we first got together ten years ago. I, in that eager-to-impress way of new girlfriends, gave into his persuasion and booked a course of lessons at the Snowdome in Tamworth.
You could say I didn’t exactly take to it.
Skiing had hitherto been one of those pursuits I had kind of accepted I would never partake in, rather like bungee jumping or tightrope walking, or listening to Simply Red, or attending church. In my mind it was the sport of hooray Henrys and Fergie types. Neither my husband nor his family fall into any such category. I’d truly had no idea skiing was so accessible to ‘people like us.’ Such was my naivety back in 1998.
My first lesson was dire. I was tutored in a group of about six supposedly fellow beginners – although I bafflingly overheard a plum-voiced woman say “I’ve skied for a number of years and just want to brush up my skills!”
I was all feet. Every descent I made culminated in my skis forking themselves into an ‘X’ shape and me being deposited on my face at the foot of the little incline on which we were assembled.
The others looked remarkably proficient next to me, and their sniggers at my slapstick tumbles took me straight back to PE lessons, when the school bullies jeered my lack of sporty prowess. Hmm, I don’t wish to labour the point but I thought we were all beginners together!
Our instructor was an arrogant swine too, a barking, biting clone of my evil former PE teacher. He unkindly informed me at one point that my stance on approaching the bottom of the slope reminded him of someone squatting on the toilet.
With practice, I did become more controlled and steadier on my skis. In my final lesson, I skied all the way from the hill’s summit, which involved negotiating a fairly severe bend. I had never been mad about heights, and I almost took fright when I clocked the view from the top. But I forced myself to remain calm, and approximately two-thirds of the way down it suddenly hit me that I was actually going to make it without tumbling over. For once, instead of feeling exasperated by my efforts, I was exhilarated.
That was about the only occasion skiing did exhilarate me. These lessons were in preparation of a family holiday to my now brother-in-law’s house in Pennsylvania the following January.
We had three slope-bound days altogether (which were more than enough for me): one at Roundtop, a resort close to where Nathan’s brother lived, plus a weekend at Elk Mountain, a three-hour ride away.
At Roundtop, I enjoyed the luxury of a one-to-one lesson with a lovely gentleman by the name of Bill, who sported an Uncle Albert beard that perfectly matched the snow on which he made his living. Bill amused me straight away by enquiring whether I was Australian! He obviously mistook my Black Country brogue for the long-vowelled Aussie whine. There are similarities – especially to the untrained ear – and most of the Americans I have met seem to expect more Keira Knightley-ish tones to emanate from the mouths of young English ladies.
On Elk Mountain, I was on my own. Literally at times, which was not particularly fun. I admit I harboured a chip on my shoulder that Nathan and his clan were babysitting me when they took turns to accompany me downhill. They wanted to be off doing all the flash turns, but my presence was holding them back, which made me feel awful.
They all looked so at home in their swish ski jackets and salapets, effortlessly gliding down what looked to me like vertical mountainsides, while I felt I resembled one of the padded-up fatties in the French and Saunders sketch.
I have not attempted to ski since. I accepted right there on Elk Mountain, Scranton, PA, that it was one of those activities never destined to be my forte. Nathan still adores it and has been on ski holidays with his family since. While he’s hurling himself down mountains I quite happily stay at home, or take a spa break with my mum – to my mind a far more enjoyable way to boost my health and fitness.
After the aforementioned ten years with Nath – sixteen months of which we have now been married – that zealousness to impress the new boyfriend has been replaced, not by indifference of course but a much more comfortable feeling, the ease to be myself and an acceptance that even within the most loving relationship we do not have to share exactly the same hobbies and interests.
I started off here by saying I had no story to share. Clearly I did after all! This is the beauty of exercises such as this. They encourage you to start writing, to just write anything, to free up the unconscious, to not wait to be inspired. What I have just committed to my computer screen may not be Jane Austen, but I feel a healthy sense of ‘getting it all out.’
LM, 31st October 2008
