Christmas in Our Family

 

My younger sister and brother and I spent some strange Christmases. The earliest off-beat Christmas that I can remember was the one we spent at a holiday in Marangu on the slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro. That was in the days when the snowcap on the mountain was abundant, like the custard covering a Christmas pudding – not as meagre as it is today.

My mother had undergone a major operation and needed a break away from the tropical coastal heat of Mombasa. I think she thought she would feel cooler if she could gaze out at the snow on top of the mountain. The hotel was expensive and fully booked. The four of us were crammed into a tiny room with camp beds for my sister and brother while my mother and I shared the double bed. There was barely room to turn around. Elbows sticking out for hair-combing or teeth-brushing were lethal weapons. We had to have a tree, even so. All Christmas trees were real trees in those days - highly inflammable resin fire-starters. No infuriating modern lights just pretty little wax candles in tiny metal candle-holders which clipped onto the branches.

Our tree was wedged on a rickety cupboard in the corner of the room. Someone knocked against the cupboard, the tree caught fire and flames ran up the curtain and along the hardboard ceiling almost before we realized what was happening. My mother successfully smothered it with the bedspread but the holiday was spoilt by the knowledge that my father would be furious when he received the redecorating bill.

Another year we decided to forego the traditional turkey dinner and have a barbecue on the beach. All was fine until a freak wave came up and swooshed all over us and the fire, drowning our Christmas sausages.

After our parents separated, we were spending Christmas with my mother in Mombasa. She never liked the heat over Christmas and couldn’t face cooking a turkey and Christmas pudding. Christmas lunch was booked at a hotel down on the South coast. We started off on Christmas morning looking forward to a scrumptious lunch and the chance to do some surfing. The main road was set back about two miles from the beach and we had to take a narrow dirt road to reach the hotel.

Midway along flames came pouring out from under the dashboard and into the car. My mother stopped the car and we all jumped out. She scooped up handfuls of sand from the road and poured them over the hood – a crime against engines but it did put the fire out. My brother and I were sent to the hotel on foot to get help. We weren’t met with Christmas goodwill. No one would believe our story. They thought we were mischievous trouble-makers.

Years later, my husband and I and our two sons were living in Saudi Arabia. Christian holidays are not recognized there and I had to work on Christmas Day and so arrived home late. We had bought a large goose for Christmas dinner and I had never cooked one before. To make matters worse I had invited my boss for dinner. He was a bachelor and I thought he would enjoy the company. Poor man! That was one of the most embarrassing nights of my life. The bottled gas for the cooker was at such a low pressure that the goose would not cook. It was still raw at 4 a.m. when we gave up and had tinned tuna sandwiches.

The most peculiar Christmas of all was the one I have made the basis of my story, “Christmas in Mazita,” which is available for free on Amazon Kindle Store for 5 days from 29 December. http://amzn.to/ZFva2k



 

The 80:20 Rule as it applies to Writing

For a beginner in the world of self-publishing the past fortnight has been tough but great fun. Last week was the fun week. I wrote my second short story in the Our Man in Mazita series, "Leopardy Jeopardy". As I am new to writing as opposed to storytelling. I wanted to see if I could knuckle down to the discipline of a target number of words a day and finish a story in a week. The planned length was 10,000 plus words and I set a goal of 2,000 a day for five days.

This I did manage to achieve more or less and did finish the basic story in five days. It was hard to get started each time but once I was back into the story, it was exhilarating. Immersed in the make-believe of life on the island of Mazita, the cold grey rainy days outside the window faded away and I was once again back in the sultry tropics. The characters spoke and went about their lives independently of my presence. As the writer I was merely the conduit for their experience. I didn’t know what was going to happen. It was a strange feeling - quite intoxicating. While I was writing I didn't feel the aches in my shoulders and back I didn't get thirsty or hungry. But I did keep a weather eye on the word counter.

In the story poor old Bob Dukes is ordered to shoot a leopard which has been eating up the neighborhood dogs. Life hasn't prepared him to be a White Hunter and it's not something he's ever wanted to be. I enjoyed accompanying him for the ride to see how he was going to solve the problem.

This week was the tough week. I have been learning about all the mechanics that go on behind the scenes when one self-publishes. First of all there is uploading the book and cover to Kindle at Amazon. I can't remember how many times I had to re-format it and then upload it before I got it right. Then there are all the different places online that one has to post details of the book and its author. Finally, there is this blog itself. I have never written a blog before. As you can see from this page, I am very much a beginner. But I am learning a little more each day. How to put text boxes on the page. How to add links to my stories. How to add a photo. I am getting there but it has been frustrating and, yes I have to admit it, I have been close to tears at times.

My overall conclusion is that writing and then self-publishing follows the 80:20 rule like so much in life. Eighty per cent HARD GRIND and twenty per cent PURE FUN. Am I addicted? I’m afraid so.

Storytelling

 It's wonderful to be here talking to you.

     Thank you for dropping by. Glad you could make it. Quite honestly, I never thought I was going to make it this far myself. There always seemed to be so many things in the way: romance, marriage, work, studying as a mature student with two young children to bring up, professional exams and then the real killers - self-doubt and lack of discipline.

     Storytelling has been an important part of my life since I was a young child. The town where I grew up didn't have any schooling for expatriate children beyond the age of eight. So at eight years old I was packed off to boarding school 330 miles away up country in Nairobi, Kenya. It was tough at first. I didn't know how to make a bed nor how to tie up my mosquito net. I could bath myself but I didn't know how to wash my hair. I was as homesick as only a child of eight can be. I missed my parents and my younger sister and brother. I missed the dogs and the cats. It was strange being away from home for three months at a time.

     What cheered us all up in the dormitory at night after lights out, that lonely time when children away from home miss a goodnight hug and a kiss, was the storytelling. One of us would start to weave the magic with a first chapter. Then she would pass the wand on and round the dorm the story would go, building and bewitching, taking us all to the enchanted world of the imagination.

     My parents were great readers and so there were books aplenty in our house. There wasn't much to do in the evenings in those days; no television, little local radio. It gets dark every evening between six thirty and seven in the tropics so near to the equator. The main entertainment was the BBC World Service radio, reading or stories.

     At supper time my father would tell us stories. Sometimes he made them up. Other times he adapted grown-up scary tales for us, like "The Monkey's Paw" and "The Day of the Triffids".  His original stories are lost to us as he was not a writer but a storyteller. Had he lived in this electronic age the world would be a richer place for children.

     My first story, "Fertile Turtle", went on sale on Amazon yesterday. It is the first of a series, "Our Man in Mazita", which is set in an imaginary landscape round about the turn of the fifties. The stories are funny but ironical rather than comic. I hope you will enjoy them.

     Come along and join me on this journey. I would love to have some company through whatever failures or successes lie ahead.